The Simbul’s Gift

"Our friend here," Stiwelen extended his hand toward Alassra, "did not hear Hanali's name in her dreams. She heard Zandilar. The Yuirwood Sy-Tel'Quessir failed, Islywyn. They couldn't keep their promises to the Seldarine, and they couldn't keep their promises to the Yuirwood, either. Can you imagine that these Cha'Tel'Quessir will fare better? They don't even know what those promises were! We don't know! How many more mistakes must be made before they are corrected? You listened to our friend: Zandilar's name came to her in a dream. Zandilar's stone is legible again. Zandilar's coming back, Islywyn. They'll all come back."

"Zandilar," Islywyn mused. "Zandilar the Traitor, corrupted by Vhaeraun."

"Not a traitor," the old woman insisted. "Never a traitor! She escaped from Vhaeraun's pit and returned to the Yuirwood. Her faith was never challenged."

"It should have been," Stiwelen shouted. "It should have been by the Tel'Quessir! We should have acted when we could."

"They did," the old woman said in a whisper that commanded attention. "I was there. The drow and their allies were gone; the humans were coming. The Yuirwood could never be restored to what it had been; there was only the question of protecting what was left. The Yuir elves and their gods agreed: they gave up their essence to the forest, to keep its secrets. They agreed to be forgotten."

"But they weren't," Alassra said, matching the old woman's tone. "The Cha'Tel'Quessir were born. They remember ... They want to remember."

The old woman smiled. "There was love when the first Cha'Tel'Quessir were born. Zandilar saw to that."

Satisfaction illuminated her pale, fragile skin. "There must always be passion and hope."

"Zandilar, the Traitor," Stiwelen hissed, his hands going for his knives.

Alassra surged, intending to place herself between the Moon elf and the woman. Alustriel latched on to her sleeve.

Nethreene! No! We have stayed too long. We must go— quickly.

Spellcraft tingled on Alassra's elbow. She could have shaken it off. She could have blasted Stiwelen: instincts honed through six centuries of danger told Alassra that she had the advantage over the sages—though not, perhaps, over the servant who, scarcely noticed, prepared a spell of his own. Elves at war with elves: it was the darker part of their legends, even in the Yuirwood.

Nethreene!

And nothing a human should witness.

Alassra shook off her sister's hand and spell. She wouldn't be dragged like a wayward child. A moment later they faced each other in Silverymoon.

"Well, that was interesting." Alassra got the first words between them.

Alustriel was too shaken to respond. Her eyes were glazed with tears; she made her way blindly to a chair where she sat with her fingers in a knot. "We have turned over stones best left unturned," she murmured. "The sages always speak with one voice."

"Either you're mistaken, or we weren't listening to elven sages. We didn't start turning over stones, Sister, they rolled over in front of us. The Yuirwood's getting its most ancient gods back, and I don't know what that means because the Tel'Quessir either don't know themselves or won't trust a human with the truth."

After a moment's reflection, Alustriel nodded slowly. "They wanted to know what you already knew. They came to listen, not to advise."

"They were supposed to come with answers."

"They will confer, resolve their differences—"

"Concoct a tale suitable for our ears? They're afraid, Sister dear. They've been afraid of the Yuirwood since they came to Abeir-toril, and they've never been more afraid than they are now."

"With good reason."

"That remains to be seen." Alassra summoned the wherewithal to return to Velprintalar.

"Be careful, 'Las. Don't do anything rash, I beg you. I'll return to Evermeet; I'll talk to them and get to the bottom of this."

"Do as you wish, and don't worry about me: I don't start things; I finish them."

Alassra raised her hand and was gone, back to Velprintalar and her privy chambers where she shed her gown, her silver hair and every other habitual part of her appearance. The Simbul became Cha'Tel'Quessir, with brown hair and burnished skin. She pulled on soft leathers in wine and sable. She retrieved weapons—a spear and a sword—from a chest beneath her bed. When her transformation was finished, not even her sisters or Elminster would have guessed she was not what she appeared to be: a Cha'Tel'Quessir sell-sword without a whit of magic to her name. 18

The city of Bezantur, in Thay Approaching sunset, the nineteenth day of Highsun, The Year of the Banner (1368DR)

Lauzoril paced his locked bolt-hole deep within enchantment's Bezantur academy. His crimson robes of office, shimmering with enchantments and embroidered in gold, swirled around him. Dust vanished in the spell-induced breeze that kept the bolt-hole air cool and fresh. Waiting never came easily for him. Waiting for the Chairmaster to open a Convocation came hardest of all.