They charged into the main area, men in leathers with swords already drawn. The elven nobles fell back without argument or threat. Faerlthann saw some of them smiling indulgently at the humans, as a man might smile at the antics of a yapping puppy.
The humans came in a tight group, Arphoind in the lead, he was flanked by the two elder Silvers, each with his oldest boy, and several Turcassans and Merendils brought up the rear. These latter were recent arrivals from the south, where folk held low opinions of both elves and wizards.
Upon seeing Faerlthann, Arphoind raised a shout, echoed by the others. The young Obarskyr held up both hands for silence. The group quieted and slowly sheathed their blades. None retied the peace bonds that would prevent their swords from being swiftly drawn again.
Turning back to the throne, Faerlthann saw that the warrior-elf was on his feet with his sword drawn. As he glared over it at the intruding humans, the elven blade shimmered with its own light, and small arcs of lightning sizzled along its blade. Iliphar put a hand on Othorion’s shoulder, and the armored elf slowly sheathed his weapon and sank back into his seat. The fury in his sky-blue eyes remained.
“Gentlemen,” said Baerauble, “we were discussing the fate of this land, called by some Cormyr, by others the Wolf Woods, and by still others the Land of the Purple Dragon. So far the following suggestions have been put forth: a purge of all humans, a containment of all humans, or a recognition of elvish sovereignty under a minister.”
The gathered humans started shouting at once, primarily to reject all the offered options. Faerlthann held up a hand, and once more they grew quiet. “I have heard two options from elves and one from an elf-friend. What of a human solution? Did not Ondeth agree to care for this land placed in his trust?”
“He did so,” admitted Baerauble, speaking for the elves.
“And how long have we been in this land?”
“Twenty summers,” said the mage.
“My father saw sixty ere he died,” said Faerlthann, “so he spent a third of his life here, farming and helping other farmers. True?”
Baerauble made an exaggerated nod.
“Lord Iliphar,” Faerlthann asked calmly, “may I ask your age?”
The elf lord permitted himself the briefest of smiles. “I see your point. No, this land is not as it was a third of thy lifetime ago. In many ways it is tamer, with many of the more dangerous beasts hunted out, never to return. The forest buffalo were diminished before you even arrived, and Ondeth himself proved his mettle against one of the last giant owlbears. Even the dragons are not what they were, the greatest sleep their lives away far from contact with any of us. And we, too, grow fewer, as more elves travel north to rejoin our cousins of Cormanthor. The wolves survive, of course, and the deer and the great cats, but, no, the land is not as it was. It would be folly to deny that.”
“So we have been suitable caretakers of the small patch of land entrusted to us?”
“Ondeth was, but Ondeth is no more.”
“Ondeth lives on in me,” said Faerlthann firmly. “And I am prepared to take on his responsibilities.”
“We offered a crown to your father, human,” spat the warrior-elf Othorion. “He threw it back in our faces.”
There was muttering behind Faerlthann. The young Obarskyr knew of the offer, as did the Silvers, but they had kept much of what had occurred that day quiet. “He rejected an offer of the elves to be the keeper of humans. He did not want to be a puppet dancing to an elven tune. Did I quote him correctly, mage?”
“Sufficiently closely,” the lean wizard agreed. Baerauble had an anxious, excited expression on his face. Faerlthann took that as a good sign.
“A rulership demanded from the elves is as weak as a rulership offered by the elves,” Iliphar responded calmly.
“I am not demanding this of you,” said Faerlthann, turning to the other assembled men. “Good gentles, these elves will not deal with us seriously unless I hold some sort of power in our community. You’ve known me almost all my life. If you must have an official leader, is there any better available, any you’d rather serve than I?”
Arphoind was the first to reply. The youth strode forward and stood before Faerlthann. He drew his sword as he did so, and drove it into the soft earth before him point first. Kneeling by the blade, he said, “I pledge my loyalty to House Obarskyr, to the memory of Ondeth, and the blood that runs in your veins.” His thin voice cracked and quaked, but the words rang clearly throughout the pavilion.
Faerlthann pulled Mondar’s blade free of the earth and gently tapped the youth on the shoulder. “Arise, Sir Bleth, first of those who serve me.”
Arphoind’s kneeling pledge was followed by those of the Silver brothers and their sons. Then the Turcassans and the Merendils knelt, and one of the Rayburtons. All swore their fealty to House Obarskyr and named Faerlthann their lord.
Faerlthann turned back to the throne, a lump in his throat, and saw that Iliphar had left his throne and was now gliding down the wide steps toward him. The elder elf moved effortlessly, his robes billowing like the sails of a great sailing ship as he drifted down to earth.
At last the ancient elf stood face-to-face with the young human. Iliphar towered over Faerlthann. His sallow, hollow-cheeked face was stern as he gazed down upon the younger man. Faerlthann tried to keep awe from his face as their gazes met. The elf lord’s deep old eyes danced with… mischief?
“We meet now as equals,” Faerlthann said, rousing himself with an effort. “As leaders of our people. Let us come to terms now.”
“If you would be king, you must have a crown,” said the elf, raising his slender hands to the circlet that banded his own brow. Behind Iliphar, the warrior-elf spat a protest, but the old elf took off his crown and held it aloft over Faerlthann’s head.
“I cannot make you king, for your own people have done that,” said Iliphar, and though his voice seemed quiet, it called forth echoes from trees outside the pavilion. “I only recognize that fact in granting you this crown, Faerlthann Obarskyr, son of Ondeth, lord of Suzail, master of the humans within it, and King of Cormyr, the Wolf Woods… the Forest Kingdom. I call upon you to protect this land as the elves have protected it, to recognize the rights of the elves to hunt within its domains, and for you and your heirs to show wisdom and compassion in the dispatch of your duties. Your father ruled for twenty years while rejecting any title. You will have the harder job, for much will be expected of you.”
With that, the elder elf laid the circlet on Faerlthann’s head. Jaquor Silver led a shout of acclaim from the watching humans.
Othorion, the warrior-elf, let out a cry of rage as his radiant blade slid out of its scabbard once more. “Has age finally addled you, my lord,” he snarled, “that you invest such children-such rough, uncultured, unfeeling, unwashed cubs-to protect our forest? I say we should drive them like the rothe before us and make this land truly ours again, washing free the stain they’ve left upon it with their own blood! Let us be masters of this forest once more!”
There was a murmur of assent, small but definitely present, from the watching elves. The men drew together, hands straying to their blades. Arphoind Bleth strode to Faerlthann’s side, his blade half drawn.
Baerauble broke in. “Your first challenge, Lord of the Land of the Purple Dragon. How do you respond to this?” There was a trace of mockery in his tone.
No, not mockery, thought Faerlthann, putting out a hand to stay Arphoind. The wizard was stressing the title of the land. The fledgling King of Cormyr looked at Baerauble, seeing if the mage’s tone meant sarcasm. No, the wizard was nervous now… more anxious than before. What did he mean, then? And why did he keep mentioning the mythical purple dragon?