The structure had been raised, and was kept aloft, by elven magic. A series of spires curved out like horns from a floating dragon’s head to shelter huge open spaces beneath. Diaphanous fabrics hung from those spires, shimmering in the morning sun, to make the vast walls of the pavilion. The air smelled of warm summer earth. Butterflies, whose season had not yet come beyond this place, fluttered to and fro on soft breezes. From ahead came the soft, liquid chords of a lute played with more skill than the Obarskyr heir had ever heard before. As he shook off Baerauble’s hands and strode forward, a singer’s voice rose to join the music-an almost sobbing voice of velvet, clearer and higher than that of any human woman.
Faerlthann had no time or patience for the wonders of the elves, he was too busy charging forward. The dratted wizard and these damnably imperious elves hadn’t even given him a chance to change! He still wore mourning white, the tabard and hood covering most of the rest of his garb. At his hip swung Mondar’s heavy-halted sword, now his own, which had gained a name in the past decade: Ansrivarr, the elvish word for “memory.” The smoke of the pyre still clung to him, and Faerlthann saw several delicate elf women hold sleeves to their nostrils as he passed. That small slight fed his fury even more.
He burst into the main chamber unannounced, the wizard doing nothing to impede his progress. Faerlthann catapulted into the place beneath the highest spire, a space larger than any human church on this side of the Sea of Fallen Stars.
The voice and the lute stopped immediately, and a there was a soft, sibilant drawing of breath from a hundred elven throats. Clusters of courtiers in Faerlthann’s way parted as if split by a blade, clearing a path for the young Obarskyr. The last to get clear of his route was the elven troubadour herself, who paused only to give a small bow as she ceded the floor to the newcomer.
A tripartite throne stood on the far side of the pavilion. It did not look crafted so much as grown there, for it seemed rooted firmly in the earth itself, the high seats reached by a set of low, broad crystalline steps that glistened like pools of melted ice. The right-hand seat was occupied by a stern-looking elf in full armor, the fine links of his silver mail flowing to match his lean body. In the left-hand seat was an elven woman, her flowing gown the same shade of green as Baerauble’s robes.
In the center sat the tallest and eldest of the elves. He was a wan, thin creature, to Faerlthann’s eyes as ancient as the forest itself… or more. This elf’s eyes gleamed like bright gems at the bottom of great, sunken pits, and his skin possessed a sallow luminescence, strengthened by the light filtering through the fabric of the pavilion. The ancient elf was not unmarked, down one side of his face ran a single great scar. On his brow, the elf wore a circlet of gold, its three tall spires set with purple amethysts.
“Greetings, Faerlthann Obarskyr, son of Ondeth,” said the eldest elf calmly, his voice a rich symphony of pleasantry. “I bring you the greetings of Iliphar Nelnueve, Lord of the Scepters, and all the elven peoples. Our condolences on the passing of your father.”
“You did not summon me from my father’s funeral for mere condolences, elf lord,” said Faerlthann flatly. “What is so important that I could not finish honoring my father’s memory?”
The stern armored elf on the right stiffened, and Faerlthann saw him grip the arms of his seat firmly. The female on the left-hand seat, on the other hand, merely raised her eyebrows and gave young Faerlthann a small smile.
If the centermost elf was stung by the human’s words, he did not show it. “It is your father we need to discuss with you. More importantly, the legacy of your father, to you and to the humans who remain in Cormyr.”
Baerauble came forward and placed himself to one side, between Faerlthann and the elven triumvirate. He was choosing his side in this fight, Faerlthann thought. In the middle. Faerlthann felt abandoned and alone, but did not let his worry cloud his face or his judgment.
The elf continued, ignoring the human mage. “There have been humans who came into the wolf woods before Ondeth’s people. Some passed through. Some sought to despoil our lands. The former we allowed to pass. The latter… we destroyed. Your father, and those he brought with him, did not pass through. Nor did they despoil our hunting grounds. They kept to their first glade and rarely harmed the land beyond it. Ondeth’s people served as adequate caretakers of the land under your father’s leadership.”
“My father was not…” began Faerlthann, but Baerauble raised a warning hand. Interrupting a lord among the elves simply was not done.
“Your father was the leader of your people, regardless of his own denials. When those of Suzail needed direction, they turned to him. When they needed strength, to him. When they needed wisdom, to him. He may not have carried the title of king or prince or duke, but he was your people’s leader, and now he is no more. And he left no one ready to take his place. Typically shortsighted. Typically human.”
Faerlthann started to growl another protest, but Baerauble raised his hand once more, this time adding a sharp glare. Let the elf speak, he seemed to say, and listen. Faerlthann nodded and held his tongue.
“So now we have a town full of humans, not the few dozen he told us of a mere twenty years back. A town almost in our midst, full of humans without a leader, without a master, without written law. Held together for the shortest period by one honest human. And now that human is no more.” He raised a hand in what might almost have been a salute-or a gesture of resignation.
“We few of the elven court have become divided, even as your kind multiply,” the elf lord continued, the smallest of smiles flickering across his face. He motioned to the armored elf on his right. “Othorion Keove, here, believes that with Ondeth’s passing, our agreement is null and void, and Ondeth’s people should be driven into the sea.”
He motioned to his left. “Alea Dahast, who once hunted men in this forest, now believes you should be allowed to remain, but confined to your current warren. Were you to spread farther or increase your numbers beyond reasonable bounds, you would have to be destroyed, or else we would be destroyed.”
Faerlthann put his rage aside and started to listen to the elf-not just to the words, heavy with foreboding, but to the tone. Iliphar sounded old and tired, like Faerlthann’s father after an evening of arguing with his mother.
Others have pressured him into this, Faerlthann thought. Probably the chain-clad one on the right. That one had a hungry hunter’s look to him. He appeared to be looking for any excuse to put Suzail to the torch.
Yet the choices they spoke of were abhorrent. Even if Faerlthann had wanted to, he could not abandon Suzail, nor could he prevent it from growing. More people were arriving each month. Now there were tales of plague and lurking sea monsters in Marsember, and boats were passing that city by, to moor at smaller but cleaner Suzail. Deciding not to grow might be an elven solution, but it could not be a human one.
“There is another possibility,” announced Baerauble. “You could recognize the sovereignty of Lord Iliphar in all things and allow appointment of a minister to oversee your community. You could therefore remain in the Land of the Purple Dragon.”
Baerauble turned his head briefly to the trifold throne. The woman on the left favored him with a radiant smile. Faerlthann saw what was going on here. Baerauble would be that minister and would run things as the elves saw the world and as these forest folk desired. No Suzailan townsman would stand for that.
Faerlthann was about to speak when there was a disturbance behind him, outside the pavilion. Ondeth’s son considered the time it would take for a band of men to organize and ride out to the elven pavilion. He almost let a grim smile creep onto his face. Even the densest Suzailan would be able to figure out where Baerauble Elf-friend had disappeared to with Ondeth’s only son and heir.