witness, Ilyrana was fighting still.
Book Four
'Duty to clan and family, to people and homeland-this is the truth that guides the life path and heats the fighting blood of the Moonshae Folk. But I've come to learn in these many years of my life that the honor held so dear by my highland kin is but a pale thing compared to that of the elves. 'Tis a truth that makes me humble indeed before these wondrous folk-and, I admit in all candor, more than a wee bit frightened.'
15
— 9000 DR
The claiming of the king-making swords was set for twilight on the eve of the summer solstice-a time of powerful magic. From all over Aber-toril, elven nobles gathered in the forests of Cormanthyr for the ceremony. With them came High Magi, three hundred of them, one for each of the swords.
When the sun began to sink below its zenith, they all gathered in a broad valley. Ethlando awaited them, standing in a vast circle of swords lying with the hilts turned outward. The magi took their places, as well, standing within the parameters of the swords, near to but not touching the points of the gleaming blades.
Anticipation hung heavy in the air-even the birds seemed hushed as they listened to Ethlando's magically enhanced voice describe at last the full role of the magic swords.
'Many years ago, I was given a spell by Corellon Larethian himself,' Ethlando began, his voice resonant and sure despite his great age, and flavored with the quaint accent of lost Aryvandaar. 'This spell have I taught to these magi. Its magic will give to the swords two things that no other magic weapon possesses: the ability to determine what powers it will possess, and the judgment to chose who is worthy to wield these powers.'
The ancient mage cast a slow, searching glance over the gathered elves. On each face, he saw written confidence, expectation. No one among the assemblage appeared to think himself less than worthy of this honor. Ethlando hoped that not too many would die before they learned otherwise.
'Each clan has chosen and sent representatives. Many who will claim the swords today come from ancient lines, and they can point with pride to many illustrious ancestors. This is a fine thing, but it is not the measure that the swords will use.'
A few brows furrowed in puzzlement or consternation as the elves contemplated these words. How else would a royal house be chosen, but for the honor of lineage?
Ethlando took this as a good sign. At least they were thinking.
'Today, the swords will select their first wielders. In time, they will chose a worthy clan with a proven succession. You see, these are hereditary blades, meant to be passed down to worthy descendants for as long as the line lasts. Claiming a sword will become more difficult as time goes on, for the sword will choose only those who have the potential strength and the character to wield all of the powers of the sword. With each passing generation, the task will grow more difficult.'
'How will we know if the sword has chosen us?'
Ethlando turned to face the young elf who asked the question. 'If you are still alive, you have been deemed worthy.'
The seer let this statement hang for several moments in the silence. 'Yes, the swords-the moonblades-will take the life of any who are not worthy. This may seem harsh, but consider how great the power of these weapons will be when ten generations have past! Safeguards must be taken, lest their magic fall into evil hands and evil use. Once a sword is claimed, only the sword's rightful wielder can unsheathe it and live.'
The elves nodded cautiously as they considered the practicalities involved in safeguarding weapons so potentially powerful. None spoke, though, for all were intent upon hearing the seer's words.
'Any elf can decline the honor of inheritance. There is no compulsion today, nor will there ever be. But know this: those who lay hold of a moonblade also pledge themselves to the service of the People. They do so at great cost.
'The magic each wielder adds to the sword is that part of the Weave that the elf calls his own. You will serve the sword and the People after your death, and forgo the joys of Arvandor. Yet this is not an eternal sentence,' Ethlando added quickly. 'When the sword's work is done, it becomes dormant. Its magic flees-and the essence of all its wielders is released to Arvandor.'
The seer paused to let each elf absorb the magnitude of the commitment, then turned to the matter for which they all had gathered.
'The moonblades will select a royal family through two means. First, the swords will narrow down the field. In a few millenia, only a few worthy clans will still hold blades. These will demonstrate a proven succession of worthy elves. It is possible that a few thousand years hence, some clans might yet have more than one blade in service to the People.
'Second, the powers with which a particular sword is imbued will determine the clan's worthiness to rule. Some swords will become formidable weapons for highly skilled fighters, others will become like the mage's staffs that hold spellpower. One, or perhaps two or three, will become such a sword as a king might wield.'
Ethlando let the words echo long. 'There is one thing I would ask of you. This is not the directive of the gods, but my own request. Do not let more than two elves from any one clan fail this day. If you so desire, an unclaimed sword may be kept by the clan in trust for some future wielder to use in the service of the People. But understand that those clans who do not succeed today, bear little hope of aspiring to Evermeet's throne.
'Now is the time to speak, if you have any questions. This is not a choice to be made lightly. No elf will be thought the less of for choosing not to claim a moonblade, now or ever. There are many ways to serve the People. This is but one.'
Predictably enough, there was no sound but the restless shifting of elven feet, no emotion written on the waiting faces but confidence of the outcome-and impatience to begin.
Ethlando smiled ruefully. 'Very well, then. These are the last words you will have of me. When the casting is done, the magi will see to the ceremony of choosing.'
The ancient elf's eyes drifted shut, and he began to sway as he hummed an eerie melody. One by one, the circle of magi took up the weird casting. Before the wondering eyes of the elven throng, Ethlando began to glow with faint blue light. His form grew translucent, shimmering with gathering power. The chanting magi, themselves enchanted, began to add words to their spell, albeit words that no mortal elf had heard or spoken before. Ethlando's form took on height and power as the spell drew magic from the Weave, and wisdom from the gods.
Finally the spell ended on a single high, ringing note. Ethlando's glowing form burst apart as if he were a crystal shattered by sound. The light that was Ethlando shot out like rays from a cerulean sun. Blue bolts of magic and power flashed to each of the moonblades. The swords were suddenly alive with magic, and glowing with intense blue light.
The watching elves flung up hands to ward off the sudden brilliant flare. When their eyes adjusted to the magical light, they saw that though the moonblades were still alight, Ethlando was gone.
