The Simbul’s Gift

Alassra thought there might be other options, chief among them: talking to the Cha'Tel'Quessir elders who freely admitted—to her, at least—that they knew less than they would have liked about their Yuir ancestors. She'd take care of that when she got back to Aglarond when she shared her account of this evening. But before that—lest the reason for this gathering be forgotten:

"Excuse me, I came here to learn about Zandilar, the Dancer."

"The fool," Stiwelen replied as Islywyn said:

"The traitor."

"One, the other, or both?" Alassra asked, provoking the two men in the hope of getting them to speak freely, and rashly.

But it was the old woman who answered her. "A maiden, not of the Sy-Tel'Quessir. She fell in love with the forest and it gave her one of the old names and accepted her as part of itself. Neither wizard, nor warrior, she was merely beautiful, and when the Yuirwood was attacked, she defended it with her beauty and rode to battle on a gray horse."

Islywyn strode onto the quilt. He stood in front of the old woman, towering over her. "Zandilar rode straight to the drow temples. She defended the Yuirwood by consorting with the dark god, Vhaeraun!"

The old woman rose to her feet, agile and steady despite her frail appearance. "She hoped to seduce him and take his secrets back to the Yuirwood. She was betrayed."

"The traitor herself betrayed!" Islywyn countered. "The fate of all those who treat with the drow: the seducer becomes the seduced."

"Never! She suffered, as only gods can suffer, but her true faith was never broken, even at the end."

"Here's your fool, Stiwelen," Islywyn said, staring at the old woman. "Zandilar the Martyr."

The old woman closed her eyes.

It was stand or be left out of the conversation, so Alassra stood. "What happened to Zandilar? Her name remains on a Sunglade stone. Others have weathered, but hers remains."

"That's a question to which no one has an answer," Stiwelen said softly. He leaned against the menhir, knife in hand, examining its edge. "Zandilar, as my lady says, suffered as only gods can suffer: she was subsumed, vanquished, we think, along with all the gods and demigods the Yuir venerated. They all disappeared, extinguished like so many candles. The Tel'Quessir cannot find them. The Seldarine cannot find them. As for the Yuir, they were extinguished not long after they defeated the drow and drove them back; and the trolls and their other enemies—except for the humans.

"Humans cut down the ancient trees; the Yuir fought among themselves. Humans carved farms where there had been forest; the Yuir sickened and dwindled. Humans set up camps in the heart of the forest and within a generation—a human generation—the Cha'Tel'Quessir had claimed the Yuirwood." Stiwelen sheathed his knife. "Tell me, Queen of Aglarond, do you think there was love in the air when the first Cha'Tel'Quessir were born?"

"Yes." Alassra replied.

"Then, tell me the name of your mother's mother."

The Queen of Aglarond stood mute, unable to answer, uncertain which of her mother's parents had been an elf, which had been human.

"Bethril," Alustriel answered in her sister's place, "Bethril Morningsong, daughter of Herran and Caethene. She was a Moon elf, like yourself and through Herran Morningsong she traced her lineage to Querryl and Thalleir, Elayna and—" Alassra stopped her sister with a sad shake of her head. "Thank you, I should have asked long ago, but Stiwelen's point is well-taken. The Cha'Tel'Quessir know they are descended from the Yuir elves, but they know nothing about them, presumably because those ancestors shared nothing with their Cha'Tel'Quessir children. The Yuir and their gods were forgotten or—worse—half remembered. And the problem with anything half-done or half-remembered is that it's never the right half. Is it, Stiwelen?"

"Never," the Moon elf agreed. "The Yuir erected the outer circle, but they didn't tell their children why. Now those children are whispering forbidden names, and their whispers are being heard."

"You can't be serious," Islywyn snarled. "It's been five hundred years since the last Yuir died."

Alassra couldn't tell if the Gold elf meant too much time had passed, or not enough. Elves understood time and tradition in a fundamentally different way than humans could. Mystra's Chosen— Elminster, herself and her sisters, and a handful of others—might live as long as elves, but they were too few in number to ever think like them. She judged Stiwelen younger than Islywyn and both of them far younger than the old woman, but she couldn't guess if five hundred years was a large part of Stiwelen's life or a small one.