Lorebooks filled a whole wall of shelves, and an elven harp stood on a table alongside a crystal flute. He had parchment and ink in plenty, and even an elegant, golden-eyed cat to accompany him in his eternal banishment. Yes, the Harpers had been generous.
Once again, as he had so often, Kymil relived the day sentence had been passed upon him by the Harper Tribunal, a detestable court comprising humans and half-breeds. He had been found guilty of the murder of twenty- seven Harpers and sentenced to exile to a miniature, magical world on some distant and mysterious plane of existence far from the world known as Aber-toril. The Harpers had decided this was the only way Kymil's life would be safe, for many elves of Aber-toril would otherwise make it a life quest to hunt him down and kill him. His larger crime-treason against the elven crown-was not a matter Harpers could address. Kymil doubted the elves of Evermeet, given the opportunity to bring him to trial, would have been as merciful as the Harpers.
But there was no gratitude in the elf's heart. The humans who had sent him here were weak, stupid, and shortsighted. He would find a way out of his prison, and then he would complete the task to which he had dedicated his life-the task to which he had been born, bred, and trained.
Kymil envisioned those who had spoken against him at his trial, and then dreamed of the vengeance he would take upon each one. It was an oft-repeated litany, and it had sustained him through his nearly five years of captivity.
First was Arilyn, the half-breed and Harper, who for so long had been Kymil’s unwitting tool. A cast-off bastard of the royal Moonflower clan and the heir to a moonblade, she had no knowledge of her royal elven heritage, no place at all in a world where human and elves were not meant to meet, much less mix. When her mother, the princess Amnestria in exile and disguise, was slain at Kymil's instigation, young Arilyn had been left alone and adrift. To Kymil's astonishment, the elven blade had accepted the half-breed child as a worthy heir. He recovered from this insult quickly, however, swiftly enough to make Arilyn part of his plans. It had been an easy matter to woo her, train her, give her a sense of place and purpose-and then to use the powers of her sword to strike against the family that had rejected her. There was a certain justice in this, as well as an irony, that Kymil had found deeply satisfying. Arilyn, however, had not been of like mind. Even now, it was incomprehensible to Kymil that a mere half-breed could have bested him. She had ferreted her way through the layers of his plot, she had scattered his Elite Guard and destroyed one of his most talented Circle Singers, she had thwarted his plan to attack the heart of Evermeet, and-perhaps most stinging of all-she had defeated him in single combat.
For all these things, Arilyn would die painfully and slowly. But not, Kymil vowed darkly, before she had been stripped of all her pretensions of elfishness. He would force her into battle against noble elves and see her moonblade turn against her. He would see her utterly outcast by humans and elves alike. He would see the devotion in the eyes of the human mage who so clearly loved her replaced by loathing and rejection. He would see her the plaything of orcs and ogres. And then, he would get nasty.
Once Arilyn was satisfactorily destroyed, Kymil would turn his attention to Elaith Craulnober. This was not merely a matter of vengeance, but principle, for Elaith was not only a Gray elf, but a rogue at that. Lord of a vast business empire that ran the gamut from the shockingly criminal to the merely questionable, Elaith was a power with which to reckon in the great city of Waterdeep. Kymil had employed Elaith's services many times, usually when he needed a task done with which he would not sully his own hand. Yet Elaith had taken Arilyn's side, standing together as Gray elves were wont to do, and had given testimony against Kymil. It was so unusual for one elf to speak against another that Elaith's words had held tremendous weight at Kymil's trial. And there was also the matter of the papers that Elaith had produced-papers that linked Kymil with the evil Zhentarim. The Seldarine be praised, Elaith had not scented the meat of Kymil's dealings with this powerful group!
Then would come Lamruil, prince of Evermeet. Oh, Kymil had seen him at the sentencing, though the fool had taken some care to disguise himself. Even with a cloak muting his elven grace and a cowl covering his telltale ears, there was no mistaking Lamruil for any other. The young prince was strikingly handsome, even as beauty was reckoned among the elves. He had the Moonflower eyes-deep, bright blue eyes flecked with golden lights, and he possessed his father's great height and muscular form. Few elves topped six feet, but Lamruil did so with a handspan to spare. His height alone would fool the less observant, but not only had Kymil made a study of the elven 'royal family,' he knew Lamruil well. Too well, in fact.
Lamruil had traveled with him for years, unwittingly aiding Kymil in his search for the 'lost' Moonflower children. In the process, the prince had fought at Kymil's side, learned from him the art of swordcraft, and uncovered the lost wealth of Kymil's ancestors. It often seemed, however, that the Gray elf pup was more interested in drinking and wenching than he was in their shared adventures. Lamruil certainly showed far too much interest in humans and their affairs, and his gaiety and light-hearted personality was as annoying to Kymil as one of those trite tavern ballads that so delighted humans-and, truth be told, Lamruil as well. It galled Kymil now to think that this spoiled and insipid princeling might try to recover some of the treasure that they'd left in hidden caches throughout the wilds of Faerun. That treasure Kymil had meant to fund his ambitions against Evermeet.
And yet, perhaps that would be for the best. A smile pulled at the corners of Kymil's tightly set lips. He had warded his troves well, and he doubted that Lamruil, who had scant interest in the art of magic, would be able to survive any attempt to plunder the treasure.
In a way, Kymil would be sorry to see Lamruil die. The young prince had been a useful tool and might again be of some use. Devoted to his sister Amnestria, Lamruil had been blindly determined to find the runaway princess. He was also anxious to see and experience the wide world and eager to link his fortunes with an adventurer of Kymil's renown. The lad had been a fountain of information about the royal family, and a pawn in Kymil's own deadly search for the princess Amnestria and the sword she carried. Lamruil's search for his sister had failed: Kymil's had not.
And he'd gotten away with it for a long time, long enough to give him a confidence that spurred him toward his most cherished goals. After all, Amnestria had been dead for more than twenty-five years, her father for more than forty. This Kymil considered his crowning achievement. All his life-All his life! — he had searched for a means to breach Evermeet's defenses and destroy the Gray elf pretenders to the throne. His family's secret exile from the island had made his task more difficult. Kymil could not set foot upon Evermeet, for fear of alerting the powerful Silver elf who knew his secrets. Yet he had found a way, for the discovery of Princess Amnestria's elfgate had enabled him to send an assassin into the royal city. The elfgate had been his triumph-and his downfall.
Yet Kymil was nothing if not persistent. For five years, he had contemplated a way to turn this failure around. The elfgate had been moved, the silver threads of magic's Weave rearranged in a way that Kymil would have thought impossible. But even that could be turned against the royal elves.
Since the death of Evermeet's king, Kymil had made a special study of magical travel. He understood it as few elves did. In time, he would put this knowledge to work.
Nor was that his only expertise. One of the Elite Guard slain by the half-breed was Filauria Ni'Tessine, Kymil's lover and a Circle Singer of great power. Most elves thought that this ancient gift-a rare type of spell song that could bind disparate magics together-was extinct. But Kymil had sought out Circle Singers, had trained them to weave magic in a manner similar to that done by a Center-a powerful mage who directed a Circle of High Magi. Over the years, the Nimesins and their secret allies had built a Tower of their own upon Evermeet. A circle powerful enough to challenge Evermeet's own and shut the island off from the world-leaving it stranded, imprisoned by its own powerful Weave of magic.
'The elves of Evermeet wished to be isolated from the world. They will get what they wished for-and what they deserve,' Kymil murmured.
All that lacked to bring this to fruition was Kymil himself. If only he could free himself from this prison, he could set in motion plans he and his clan had spent centuries putting into place.
If only.
The elf's near-delirium faded, and the reality of his imprisonment closed around his heart like the talons of a hunting hawk. A cry of rage and despair escaped his lips-a fearful howl so full of rage that it sent a shimmer of dread down his own spine.
The echoes of his scream lingered long in the chamber, slowly diminishing in a manner than reminded Kymil of the spreading rings sent forth when a pebble is cast into a calm sea.
When all was silent, the incomprehensible happened: Someone-something-responded to his inchoate call.
A foul scent drifted into the chamber, and the pattern on the fine woolen carpet began to blur as a dark, gelatinous substance oozed up from some mysterious depth below it. Kymil watched, horror-struck, as the entity
