Evermeet: Island of Elves

17

So many of Evermeet's elves, the Towers of the Sun and Moon represented the epitome of elven culture.

Fashioned of white stone that had been raised by magic from the heart of the elven land, the Towers were surrounded by wondrous gardens and hidden in the heart of a deep forest. Here were housed some of the most powerful magical artifacts known to elvenkind. Here gathered wizards and High Magi for study and contemplation, for the casting of the Circles, and for the instruction of promising students.

Of all the Tower's students, none showed more promise than Amlaruil Moonflower. Magic seemed to flow through the girl as naturally as rain from a summer cloud. Secretly, the magi believed that she could become the most powerful mage since the legendary Vhoori Durothil. Already she was being groomed to take the place of Jannalor Nierde, Evermeet's Grand Mage.

Yet there were some in the Towers who doubted that the elf maid's destiny was all that certain. Among these was Nakiasha, a Green elf sorceress of considerable ability who had taken upon herself the role of Amlaruil's mentor and confidante.

As was their custom, the two elf women, their day's work completed, walked the paths that curved through the Tower grounds. They walked in silence, to better enjoy the beauty of the evening. Birdsong filled the cooling air, and the chirp of crickets and other forest creatures heralded the coming night.

It was the time of day that they both preferred to all others, when the last, long rays of sunlight bathed everything in a golden haze. But it seemed to Nakiasha that her young friend seemed distracted, and quite removed from their small, self-contained world of magic and scholarship.

"Where are you today, child?" the sorceress asked.

Amlaruil dropped her eyes to the gravel path, and not because she wished to contemplate the exquisite walkway. It was a wondrous thing, to be sure, for the gravel was actually bits of marble in shades that represented all the goodly races of elves: gold, silver, green for the wild elves, and blue for the sea folk. Some whimsical bit of magic kept the colors shifting in an ever-changing mosaic. At the moment, however, Amlaruil wanted merely to escape her teacher's searching gaze.

"I am sorry, Nakiasha," she murmured. "Please forgive my inattention."

"The day's lessons are over. I only wondered if all is well with you," the sorceress said. As she spoke, she peered up into the girl's face-no easy task, for Amlaruil was exceedingly tall. Nakiasha's shrewd eyes took note of the flush on the girl's face.

"By Hanali! You aren't in love, are you?"

Amlaruil slanted a look at her teacher from beneath lowered lashes. "Would that be so bad?"

"Perhaps not." Nakiasha shrugged. "Though to be sure, some of the magi here might worry that your spring fancies might interfere with your studies. It's a wonder," she added with asperity, "that with such thinking, the Gold elf people have not died out long ere this! Who is the lad? Laeroth? A good choice. Very talented."

The girl answered only with a shrug. Laeroth was a fellow student and a good friend. Even so, she could not help but picture the young mage standing alongside Zaor Moonflower. Though Laeroth was nearly six feet tall-nearly as tall as Amlaruil herself-he seemed dwarfed in comparison with the warrior. Amlaruil suspected that in her eyes, it would always be so.

Even so, maidenly yearnings had little to do with Amlaruil's distraction. She had been strangely restless all day. Her spirit felt for all the world like a hawk buffeted by too-strong winds.

With a sigh, she came to a stop at the foot of the Totem, a monument honoring the spirit magic peculiar to the Green elves. Amlaruil's eyes swept up the massive statue, lingering on each of the stark, powerfully portrayed totem animals it depicted. The totem protected the Tower grounds in ways that few of the elves fully understood. Until today, Amlaruil had often found comfort and reassurance in its massive shade. Now, for reasons that she could not define, she found herself wondering if the totem-or anything else-would be enough.

"Primitive art, by Gold elf standards," Nakiasha observed with a touch of sarcasm, "but no one can deny its power! The Totem has protected the Towers from rival spells for many centuries."

Amlaruil nodded, though she knew that in these days of diminished magic, spellbattle between towers occurred only in minstrels' tales. Though such challenges might have been common before the Sundering, no magical battle had ever taken place on Evermeet.

Nakiasha patted her arm. "It is nearly time for even-feast. Go, and meet your young gallant."

"You are not coming?" Amlaruil eyed the older elf. Nakiasha seldom took time to eat or even to seek revery, and her bones were nearly as bare as winter wood. The elf maid often wondered what source fueled the sorceress's unending energy. Once, she had asked. Nakiasha had merely smiled and replied that she would learn the secret herself in due time.

Predictably enough, the sorceress shook her head. "I have work awaiting me. You know of the Accumulator, of course, and you know that it absorbs the magical energies of Evermeet itself. For some reason, the artifact's power is rapidly increasing-it nearly hums with magical energy! We do not yet know why, and this we must know."

"I have felt something beyond the ordinary," Amlaruil admitted.

"Have you, now?" the sorceress said, eying the girl thoughtfully. "If anything more comes to you, be sure to seek me out at once. But go now, and refresh yourself. It might be that we will have need of your youth and strength."

Nakiasha ended her words with a smile, but to Amlaruil's ears they still sounded more like a warning than a compliment.

The elf maid turned down the path that led to the Tower of the Moon. While the Tower of the Sun was devoted to the storing and casting of magic, the Moon tower tended humbler, more personal needs. Here were kept the living quarters, small rooms dedicated to contemplation or study, and finally the kitchen and dining hall. All meals were taken at the narrow, spiraling table that filled the lower hall.

Laeroth was waiting for her at the door. As she often did, Amlaruil noted that there was something otherworldly about the young mage. It was not merely his appearance, though that was odd enough. Laeroth looked disturbingly akin to the ancient statues that depicted the Faerie People. Tall and exceedingly thin, he was all sharp angles and eerily precise grace. His eyes were black, and they slanted upward at the corners beneath similarly winged, black brows. Only his mop of wheat-colored hair, which was in its usual state of disarray, seemed to place him rightfully in the mortal world.

The young mage sprang at Amlaruil, seizing her by both shoulders. "Where have you been? I have awaited you this hour and more!"

The intensity in his burning black eyes unnerved the girl, especially considering her recent conversation with Nakiasha.

"As ambushes go, that was rather poorly done," she said with a smile, trying to lighten the tone between them. "It is not common practice to show yourself until the moment of attack."

Laeroth released her and ran a long-fingered hand through his unruly hair. "The moon has risen. It will soon be dark enough to see."

"See?"

The young mage took her arm and led her away from the Tower. "The lights here are too bright-they dampen the stars," he explained. "I think we must go into the forest."

Amlaruil followed without comment, caught up in his urgency. The two elves slipped deep into the trees, into the hidden dale where Amlaruil had met the unicorn-and glimpsed her disturbing, improbable destiny.

Laeroth stopped and pointed up into the night sky. "It should be there between the fourth and fifth of Selune's Tears, and slightly to the north."

The elf maid studied the sky, seeing nothing beyond the lights that were familiar friends. But as her eyes sought deeper, she did indeed notice something new. Faint and distant, more like the ghost of a star than a true light, it crouched amid the glowing tears like a crimson shadow.

"By the gods!" she breathed. "The King-Killer star!"

Laeroth nodded, his narrow face set in grim lines. "You see it, then. I thought so, but I had to be sure. Usually its path arcs over Faerun and as far east as Kara-Tur. Never has it been seen on Evermeet."

"What does this mean?"

"I wish I knew," Laeroth said. "This mystery will tax even the magi."

Amlaruil stared at him. "Will tax? You haven't told anyone?"

"I only just found out this evening. In fact, you saw its light before I did." He hesitated. "It's hard to explain, but I think I felt the star's presence. At the very least, I felt something. All this day I have spent in the library, studying the lore for some clue. It was about time for another appearance of the King-Killer star, so…" his voice trailed off, and he shrugged.

Amlaruil's eyes widened. "The Accumulator! Perhaps the appearance of the King-Killer might help explain the magic surge. Nakiasha will wish to know this at once!"

The pair hurried to the Tower of the Sun and told the sorceress what they had seen. Nakiasha led them to the Chamber of a Thousand Eyes.

Here they found Jannalor Nierde, gazing into a long looking tube. The lens was aimed at the far wall, but Amlaruil doubted he was engaged in a study of the tapestry that hung there. The magical device could see nearly any spot on Faerun.

Jannalor disengaged himself from the looking tube and listened gravely to their tale. "I hope that you are wrong," he said when they were finished speaking. "Nonetheless, let us have a look."

The Grand Mage cast an incantation and then trained the looking tube at a high, arched window. He studied the image for a long moment, then swept the lens back and forth as if scanning distant skies.

Suddenly the mage stopped, stiffened, and swore a low, fervent oath. He straightened and gestured for Amlaruil to look within the tube.

The girl peered into the looking glass, and was greeted by Selune's bright, silvery light. As she gazed, a shape like that of an enormous bat winged across the moon. More followed, so many that they nearly blotted out the light.

Horror clenched her throat like a monstrous hand as Amlaruil realized she was gazing upon the deadliest, most dreaded phenomena known to Aber-toril.

"A flight of dragons," she murmured hoarsely.

This, then, was what she had felt. The magical creatures had a powerful aura, and certain mages could sense their near presence. So, apparently, could the Accumulator, for the artifact was no doubt absorbing some of the dragons' power.

"Where are they?" she asked, moving aside to give Laeroth a turn at the glass.

"Far out to sea, praise the gods," Jannalor replied in a worried tone. "But they are flying straight toward Evermeet. We must get word of the coming attack to every corner of the island!"

"But Evermeet is protected by magical shields, woven by Corellon himself," protested Laeroth.

"Think, boy!" growled the mage. "What creature is more magical than a dragon? Any shield that would keep out the magic of a hundred dragons would also block the flow of the Weave of Magic. If Evermeet were so protected, we could not work magic; indeed, under such a shield, we elves would die as surely as the summer lighting bugs that careless children gather and leave too long under a glass! Mark me: there will be an attack."

Nakiasha took the girl's arm. "Come, child. Let the Gold elf attend to sending messages. We must form the Circle, and lend the warriors what help we can."

The door to Horith Evanara's office flew open, striking a ringing blow against the living rock of the chamber wall.

Captain Horith was not at all surprised when Zaor Moonflower burst into the room. The tall, blue-haired Moon elf had swiftly climbed the ranks of the Leuthilspar guard, and had sought reassignment to the fortress city of Ruith. Already Zaor had made his command into perhaps the finest fighting unit among the many that trained and garrisoned within the walls of Lightspear Keep. Zaor was well liked by the fighters, but he did not always show proper respect for either the rank or the wisdom of the keep's commanders.

"I heard of the approaching flight of dragons. Why have you not called forth the dragonriders?" the young warrior demanded.

The captain fixed a cool stare upon his most promising-and most troublesome-officer. "You mean the squadron commanded by those Durothil crones? I think not. This battle-if indeed there is a battle-belongs to me."

"You cannot be serious! You've never seen the destruction a rampaging dragon can leave behind. I have. This matter goes far beyond clan rivalry, or personal pride!"

"Have a care how you speak," the Gold elf said coldly. "I assure you, the situation is under control. The Durothil dragonriders need not hear of it."

"You have not even sent word?" said Zaor in disbelief.

Angry now, Captain Horith rose-and immediately regretted the act. It was difficult to assert authority over an elf who stood head and shoulders above him. Though, in truth, he suspected that Zaor Moonflower would be formidable even at half his size.

"The situation is under control," the Gold elf repeated in a tight voice. "The dragonriders are not needed, and neither, Captain Zaor, is your presence in my office. You are dismissed."

But the Moon elf stood his ground. "Warriors afoot have little chance against a single dragon, much less a hundred. You know that as well as I. What, then, do you intend to do?"

When Horith hesitated, Zaor slammed the desk with one fist in sudden wrath. "This is as much my affair as yours! I've a hundred elves under my command, and I'll be damned as a drow before I'll march them blindly to their deaths! If you have a plan, speak!"

"The Starwing fleet," Horith said grudgingly. "Star ships, man-o-wars that sail through the clouds as nimbly as common ships do the seas. They are kept in secret in the sea caves of Sumbrar. Beyond the Council members and the ships' crew, few elves know of them."

Zaor fell back a step as he absorbed this wonder. "How many ships?"

"Ten. All well-crewed and heavily armed," the Gold elf said with pride. "Finer warships do not exist, on this world or any other. If the need arises, I will command the battle myself from the flagship."

"Even so, what chance have ten ships against a hundred dragons?" Zaor shook his head. "No, Lady Mylaerla must be alerted at once." He spun and stalked from the office.

"If you do," hissed the captain, "I will see you stripped of rank."

Zaor did not pause. "And If I don't," he returned with grim certainty and in a voice that rang though the corridors, "we will all be dead."

Leaving the Gold elf sputtering with rage, the Moon elf captain hurried through the halls of Lightspear Keep to the stables beyond. In the adjoining pasture awaited his horse. No common beast, this, but a moon-horse, a magical beast capable of great speed. He would have need of it, for the Eagle Hills were nearly fifty miles to the west, and too much time had been wasted on Horith Evanara's pride.

Zaor leaped upon the stallion's back and urged it forward with a thought. As he rode through the streets to the western gates, the Moon elf's gaze fell upon a round, white-marble tower, one of the finest buildings in all of Ruith. This was the Pegasi Aerie. Even now, winged horses and their riders were circling the city, landing on the flat roof of the Aerie, practicing the endless, complex maneuvers that had shaped them into a legendary defensive force.

For a moment, Zaor was tempted to stop and try to persuade the Gold elf commander into joining his mutiny. But he knew that such an effort would fail; furthermore, he doubted that a score of winged horses would have much effect upon a hundred rampaging dragons.

Zaor turned away, riding through one of the randomly shifting gates in Ruith's transparent walls. He could feel his moon-horse's relief as they left the city behind. The stallion sped toward the hills, then climbed the first rugged slope as nimbly as a mountain goat.

The Moon elf called a halt at the mouth of a cave. He dismounted, then urged the moon-horse to take refuge in the meadows to the west of the mountains. If all went as he hoped, he would not have need of such a mount in the battle to come.

When the magical creature was safely out of sight, Zaor took up a curving bronze horn that hung from a hook at the cave's entrance. He placed it to his lips and blew three quick blasts.

Before the final echoes died away, Zaor found himself gazing into two pairs of golden eyes. One belonged to Ahskahala Durothil, the other to Haklashara, the venerable gold wyrm who was her partner. At that moment, Zaor could not say with certainty which of the two was the more formidable.

The elf woman's odd, almost reptilian eyes were the only hint of color about her. White of hair and skin, draped in pale chain mail and a silver-gray tunic, Ahskahala closely resembled the spear she carried: tall, slender, lethal. There was more warmth in the dragon's amber gaze than in hers, and less menace.

The warrior listened, tight-lipped, to Zaor's warnings.

"I can meet the flight with thirty dragonriders," she said at last. "But I tell you now, it will not be enough. Most of the dragons are younglings. Even if they were not, the numbers are against us."

"Perhaps the starwing ships will turn the balance," Zaor said. Even as he spoke, he realized how hollow the words sounded.

The dragon Haklashara cleared his throat, a horrible grating sound that reminded Zaor of the first stage of a rock slide.

"What of the giant eagles that nest on the high crags?" suggested the wyrm. "Many times I have told you, elf woman, that they also might be persuaded to take on the training of you elves. At the very least, they might remove some of the burden of Evermeet's defense from the shoulders of the dragon folk!"

The elf glared at her mount. "This is not the time to sing that old song! Even if you were right-and mind you, I'm not saying you are-there is no time for it. Such birds must begin training the moment they emerge from their eggs. No untrained eagle would be able to work with an elven rider."

"Or vice versa," the dragon put in snootily.

Despite the bantering nature of this exchange, the dragon's words gave Zaor a sudden, desperate idea. He knew that all the creatures who made Evermeet their home were closely bound to the magic isle. A common eagle in defense of its nest was a fearsome adversary. Perhaps as many as fifty giant eagles lived in the mountains to which they lent their name. If he could convince these creatures to join the coming battle, they might have a real chance.

"Who leads the giant eagles?" he demanded of Haklashara.

"Hmm." The dragon raised a paw and tapped reflectively at his scaly chin with one massive claw. "That would be WindShriek, I believe."

"Do you know where to find him? Can you take me there?"

"Her," the dragon corrected. "WindShriek is a female, and as nasty-tempered as this other two-legged one before you. As to your questions, yes and yes. I know where her nest is, and I will take you there." The enormous creature slipped from the cave, sinuous as a snake, then crouched down to allow Zaor to mount his back.

"You would permit another elf to ride you?" demanded Ahskahala in astonishment.

The dragon shot a look of pure, gloating delight at his elven partner. "Only an elf who possesses the good sense to recognize wisdom when he hears it," he said slyly. A cryptic expression crossed his scaled visage, and he added in more serious tones, "And only the elf who bears such a sword."

Before Ahskahala could voice further protest, the dragon flexed his wings and leaped into the air.

The sudden rush of wind and speed nearly tore Zaor from his seat. He grasped the horn of the saddle with both hands, hanging on for his life and swearing with a soldier's fluency.

A low, grating chuckle thrummed through the shrieking wind. "Get used to it, elf king," advised the dragon. "As much as it pains me to admit, WindShriek in a dive flies even swifter than I!"

Haklashara climbed steadily until all that lay beneath them was a bank of clouds. Suddenly he curved his wings in a tight arch and spun down in a sweeping circle.

As they burst from the clouds, Zaor's eyes widened in pure panic. The dragon was hurtling with incredible speed toward the sheer rock wall of a mountain.

The wyrm's deep, booming chuckle bounced off the mountain, to be echoed again and again by the hills beyond. Just as Zaor was certain he could glimpse before him the shadows of Arvandor's trees, Haklashara wheeled abruptly to one side, then glided down to land with astonishing lightness and ease upon a large stone ledge.

The winds still roared in Zaor's ears as he leaped down from the saddle. Even so, he was nearly deafened by a shrieking cry, a scream so powerful that it shook loose rocks and sent them tumbling down the rocky face of the mountain. With a flurry of wings, WindShriek rushed at the invaders.

Zaor's moonblade hissed free of its scabbard. The elf brought the sword up in guard position and held his ground.

An aura of power, like a shining blue haze, surrounded the elf. Magic gleamed like captured lightning along the rune-carved length of the sword. Yet Zaor did not attack the wondrous bird.

Taller than a war-horse and garbed with golden feathers, the giant eagle was magnificent in her fury. Zaor only hoped that WindShriek, like Haklashara, recognized the significance of the magic sword and the destiny of the elf who wielded it.

WindShriek halted beyond the glowing aura, her wings batting wildly and her furious golden eyes fixed upon the dragon. The buffeting winds from her flailing wings threatened to sweep Zaor from his feet despite the sword's protective shield of magic.

"Why you come by my nest, dragon?" demanded the eagle in a high, ringing voice. "Bring lotsa blue magic, elf with sword. How come? You wanna steal egg, you plenty late! Eggs hatch, hatchlings now fledglings. Children not here-fly far and strong!"

"Do you take me for a starling or a squirrel? I'm no nest robber, and well you know it!" the dragon huffed.

Zaor took a single step forward. "Do not blame Haklashara for this intrusion, Queen WindShriek. Evermeet has need of you and your strong children."

The eagle cocked her head and examined the elf. "Who you?"

"For a creature with your legendarily keen eyesight, you're remarkably slow to see what's before you," the dragon said dryly. "You don't recognize the power of the sword, do you? It pulses as if it were the heart of Evermeet! 'Lotsa blue magic,' indeed! This is the elven king, you feather-brained dolt! He has come at last."

It was not a claim that Zaor felt he could make, nor one he wished to reaffirm. To his relief, WindShriek accepted the dragon's pronouncement without question. "Why you come by my nest, elf king?"

"I come to bring word of great danger to your people and mine," the elf said. "You are not a night bird, so it might be that word might not have reached you. A bright red star shines in the eastern sky. When this happens, oftentimes a flock of evil dragons gathers to join in a flight of destruction. This time, they are heading directly for Evermeet. We must stop them before they reach the island."

The giant eagle pondered this. "What you want WindShriek to do, elf king?"

"You are queen of your kind. Lead them into battle. The risks will be great," he told her gravely, "and many of your own will not return. The same is true of all who will fight, be they eagles or dragon folk or elves. Yet there is no other choice before us, but death for all."

"Hmm. Eagle people never fight dragons," WindShriek mused, but there was no fear in her voice.

"I have," Zaor asserted, "and I trust that your battle prowess is equal to the task. If you will work with me, I believe together we can turn them back."

"Trust, elf king?"

WindShriek stared at the elf for a moment, her wild eyes unreadable. Then she lunged at him, her hooked beak diving toward his throat.

Trusting his instinct, Zaor did not flinch or attempt to parry the attack. The enormous beak snapped shut a finger's breadth from his face. Nearly eye to eye, the eagle and the elf regarded each other.

The giant eagle stepped back. "You plenty brave, elf king," she said approvingly. "You trust WindShriek, WindShriek trust you. Eagle people fight with elves and dragons this day."

"Now that that's settled," the dragon said, "I'll take my leave. Ahskahala is not the most patient of elves, and her disposition does not improve with pending battle. Your majesties." Without irony, the great creature inclined his horned head to the eagle and the elf, and then leaped from the ledge into the air.

WindShriek spread her wings, as well. "You not gonna walk, are you?"

This effectively settled Zaor's next problem-how to persuade the giant eagle to allow him to ride upon her back. The elf climbed onto her wide shoulders sitting just behind her enormous golden head. With a shrilling cry, the eagle climbed into the sky.

In the Tower of the Sun, Amlaruil joined with the other High Magi in a spell of seeking. In the combined vision of the Circle, the elves reached out across the miles, out over the open sea, to the dragons that winged steadily toward Evermeet.

There were perhaps seventy of them. Many of the dragons bore the scars of their long flight: scales dulled or molting, wings frayed by storms and sea winds, the leathery hide of the neck hanging in loose folds over depleted flesh. In response to the strange compulsion of dragonflight, the great creatures had flown far without rest or food.

But the elves did not take too much heart from this evidence of the dragons' weariness. By now, the creatures were desperate, and in their imperative need to reach Evermeet, they would certainly throw all their remaining strength against the defenders.

Even as the elves struggled to absorb the horrendous mental image of the dragonflight, a new wonder edged its way into their vast magical canvas. Amlaruil caught her breath in awe at her first glimpse of the Starwing fleet.

There were ten of them, all man-o-wars, and they swept toward the invading dragons like a flock of titanic butterflies. Their slender crystal hulls cut through the air as swiftly as did the dragons' sleek forms, and their glistening, brightly colored pairs of double sails seized every breath of wind.

As Amlaruil watched, the blood-red ship in the lead position fired her ballista. An enormous, iron-tipped bolt streaked toward the nearest black dragon.

To the elf's astonishment, the black wyrm deftly snatched the weapon from the air with one forepaw. Immediately it bought the spear up against its body, so that the force of the stopped bolt was not borne by that one limb. Then the dragon twirled the ballista bolt around, nimbly as an elven fighter might spin his staff. Its massive black tongue lolled out and licked at the wicked tip.

A corrosive hiss and the stench of burning metal filled the air as the black dragon's acid began to melt through the iron tip. Holding the weapon like a javelin, the creature reared back in the air and hurled the ballista bolt back toward the lead ship.

The man-o-war pulled hard to one side, but the tainted weapon tore through the starboard wing. The tattered hole it left behind began to grow as the acid spread, eating its way through the crimson wing and sending melting drops falling like blood to the deck below. The cries of wounded elves echoed horribly. The ship began to falter, sinking down toward the waiting sea.

Swiftly the remaining ships fanned out to form a defensive line between the island and the approaching dragons. Thump after thump filled the air as their catapults loosed a steady barrage of scattershot at the approaching dragons.

The deadly fire had effect. Four of the creatures spiraled down to the waters, their wings torn and useless. But the others, even those who had been wounded, came steadily on. In their lead was a young red dragon, a large male. The bands of armor encircling the dragon's mighty chest swelled as the creature fueled itself for the killing blast.

Fire shields, now!

Jannalor Nierde's voice, imperative and desperate, sounded in the minds of each elf in the Circle. As one, the High Magi chanted the words that would fashion the protective spell.

Fire burst from the creature's mouth, pouring out in a stream of flame that went on and on in a seemingly endless gout of heat and destruction. The immense, curved shield of magic that warded the ships turned back the flame, but within moments the once-invisible barrier was red-hot, the surface blistered and bubbling like melting glass.

Most of the onrushing dragons ducked under the reflected waves of fire. They glided under the ships, letting the searing heat and flame waft upward harmlessly. Only two of the dragons were caught in the updraft and tossed high into the sky.

Well enough, thought Amlaruil in relief. The ships had survived the dragons' worst weapon, and they were above most of the wyrms, and thus in a far more defensible position.

Immediately the man-o-wars began to maneuver into a new formation. The ships on the outer edges of the line swept around to the west, the others following until all nine had formed a circle. The dragons, however, knew no such organization. They swarmed toward the ships from all sides in sudden, terrible, relentless attack.

Gone, too, was all hope of an organized defense. Wizards aboard all the ships loosed countering weapons. Massive fireballs tore toward the red dragons, meeting answering fire in bursts of multicolored light and shattering explosions of sound. Enchanted arrows flew from bows passed down by ancient heroes as the fighters sought the vulnerable eyes and wide-flung mouths of the attacking wyrms.

The Circle did what they could, following Jannalor's lead and lending their combined strength to one elven attack after another. But the dragons were simply too many. They battered the elven vessels with magic, swooped down and caught up elven fighters in their talons, slashed at the sails with their rending teeth and talons, and slammed the crystal hulls with their own enormous bodies. They fought in near-frenzy, driven by their own desperate hunger and the compelling, mysterious urging of the dragonflight.

Nor did the Starwings' defensive stance aid the magi, for there was no one attack to which to lend their strength. One after another, the ships were shattered by dragonfire, or melted by the terrible clouds of acid breath, or left so damaged or bereft of crew that they were forced to limp down toward the sea.

A sudden surge of magic, like sunlight breaking through winter clouds, flooded the joined minds of the Circle's elves. As one, they soared upward in thought to seek its source.

Winging toward the battle in precise formation were thirty gold and silver dragons, each bearing an elven warrior.

Amlaruil's lips curved in a triumphant smile. She recognized the formidable Lady Mylaerla Durothil. The matron sat astride a venerable silver and looked as if she'd been born to battle. The grim, Gray elf woman who rode at her right wing tip could only be the legendary Ahskahala. With such heroes as these fighting for Evermeet, surely victory would not be long in coming!

Yet even as she watched, lending her magic to the Circle as Jannalor wove a net of power that supported the dragonriders like a favorable wind, Amlaruil realized that the battle would not be easily won.

The dragonriders came in from above, attacking the invaders with great, swooping dives and pulses of magical power. But the evil dragons countered with their own fearful weapons. Amid the terrible confusion of blood and steel and flame and smoke and magic, pairs of the gigantic creatures grappled in the sky. Here and there the entwined dragons plummeted from the fiery clouds, only to be swallowed by the waiting sea.

Above the roar of the embattled dragons and the answering shouts of elven fighters, a shrill, distant voice took up the elven battle cries. Giant eagles, nearly as large as some of the dragons, hurtled down from the sky. Leading them was a wondrous golden female, and on her back rode Zaor Moonflower. His wild dark blue hair streaked behind him like a storm cloud, and the moonblade he brandished blazed with arcane fire.

Amlaruil instinctively reached out to him. Her magic strengthened his arm as he slashed out to meet the snapping jaws of a red dragon. The sword slapped the dragon's head to one side, and the hooked beak of Zaor's eagle partner sank deep into the vulnerable neck.

The young mage felt the swell of gathering magic nearby, and she flashed her attention to the small black dragon who drew breath for an attack upon the deadly eagle-rider. Amlaruil sensed the moonblade's protective shield, and she lent her magic to calling it forth. The dragon spat acid in a fetid stream. It hit the moonblade-created shield and dissolved into a foul smelling cloud, as easily as a cup of water might be dispersed if tossed upon a dwarven forge.

Deep into the magic of Zaor's sword Amlaruil went, finding its secrets and lending her magic to his strength. Unknowing, she slipped free of her place in the Circle and bound herself instead to ties still deeper and more mystical. Yet in a distant corner of her mind, she could still hear Jannalor's voice, still feel the wondering thoughts of the magi as they focused their efforts upon bolstering the new and powerful Center who had unexpectedly taken over the course of the battle.

Zaor seemed to be everywhere, his sword flashing and diving as he battled the invading dragons. He and his magnificent eagle worked together as if one creature. Dimly, Amlaruil could hear the elf's voice as he shouted encouragement and instruction to the aptly named WindShriek. But more than that, she felt the distinctive magic of the elven isle itself pulsing through Zaor's moonblade, and binding the defenders together. It was a magic she knew, for it coursed through her body and sang in her veins.

Nor was she the only one to sense the power of Zaor and his sword. The other eagles, even the dragonriders, rallied to the Moon elf warrior as the magic of the king sword subtly reached out to touch and inspire each child of Evermeet.

The eagles attacked relentlessly, gouging the invading dragons with their hooked beaks and shredding at their leathery wings with talons as long and sharp as any sword. The eagles swooped down in groups of two and three, slamming into the dragons as the dragons had in turn attacked the elven ships.

Not all of the giant birds survived. A burst of dragonfire caught one of the eagles in mid-dive, filling the air with a spray of golden feathers, and the stench of charred flesh. Another spun down to the sea, a broken wing hanging over the long bloody gash that scored its side so deeply that it exposed a neat row of bones.

But at last the battle was over. A single elven ship, a dozen pairs of dragonriders and wyrms, and less than a score of giant eagles winged wearily back toward the island. They left behind skies still dark with smoke, and a sea that still steamed and seethed from the burning destruction of the ships and the gigantic warriors.

Slowly, gently, Jannalor Nierde reclaimed control of the Circle from the young mage.

We have yet another task to do, one that will challenge our remaining strength. You were all bound up with the magic of the goodly dragons-you know that those few who survive are without exception gravely wounded. We must put them into healing slumber, else all will die, the Grand Mage said somberly.

I will take half the Circle-all the males, let us say-to the tower at Sumbrar. Some of the more gravely wounded dragons will surely stop there, at the nearest land. There are hidden caves where they can sleep. Nakiasha, take the others to the Eagle Hills, and do the same.

In response, the elves eased away from their shared Circle and reformed the magical ties into two groups. Along with the other female magi, Amlaruil focused her will into the casting of the spell that would carry them along magic's silver path to the Eagle Hills.

It was the first time she had experienced magical travel. White light enveloped her in a sudden, dizzying whirl. Swept into the vortex, Amlaruil held tight to the threads of magic that bound her to her Circle-and the deeper, more personal tie that guided her to the place she needed to go.

As the magic faded away, Amlaruil felt the chill sweep of wind against her face. She opened her eyes cautiously, and found that she and her Circle were standing perhaps halfway up the western slope of a mountain. Above them wheeled and soared five silver dragons, and one great gold. Following them like bright shadows were the eagles.

The gold dragon was clearly in trouble. One wing was badly tattered. Torn flesh showed through the gap where melted scales dripped like liquid gold down his wounded flank. Ahskahala was not in much better shape. Her face was blackened with soot and dried blood, and much of her hair and tunic had been singed away. Zaor and his eagle partner kept close to the wounded dragon's side. Through senses still attuned to the warrior, Amlaruil heard his voice, felt his sword's magic, joined in bracing harmony as they urged the faltering wyrm on.

The dragon that Zaor called Haklashara lumbered to the ground, hitting far too hard and skidding painfully over the rock-strewn hillside. His head-now bereft of one of its proud, curling horns, twisted back to regard his elven partner. An oddly contented smile curved his reptilian maw as he noted that Ahskahala still held her seat.

Amlaruil rushed forward and caught the wounded elf woman as she fell. "You must speak to the dragon, help him find his way into the cave," she urged as she lowered Ahskahala to the ground. "We will put him into deep, magical slumber. He will heal, and live to serve Evermeet again."

The warrior's red-rimmed eyes fastened on Amlaruil's face. "I will join him," she croaked.

"But-"

"I will join him," Ahskahala said in a stronger voice, one that neither invited nor permitted argument. "Haklashara and I will heal together, and awaken together. You must do this, mage!"

A gentle hand rested on Amlaruil's shoulder. She knew before looking up that Zaor had come to her side. "She will not live, else," he said softly.

The young mage nodded. Zaor swept the dragonrider up into his arms, and the three elves made their way into the cave, followed by the gravely wounded dragon.

When they were deep within the mountain, Ahskahala called a halt. She gritted her teeth as Zaor lowered her carefully to the ground, then looked with contentment at the stone chamber, and the dragon who curled around her like a gigantic cat preparing to nap.

"It is well. Here we will stay until Evermeet's need is as grave as it was this day. When and if that day comes, call us forth."

The warrior took a ring from her hand and gave it to Zaor. "Speak my name, my lord, and the dragonriders will answer your call. If the gods are kind and the day long in coming, you must give this ring to whosoever rules after you."

"You know," Zaor said in wonderment.

A faint smile crossed the elf woman's blackened face. "If one so dense as Haklashara can see what you are, do you think that I cannot?"

"I heard that, elf," the dragon rumbled.

With a soft chuckle, Ahskahala leaned back against her partner's scaly side. "Go about your work, mage. We are very tired."

A moment of pure panic threatened to claim Amlaruil. The spell that she must cast was High Magic, an enchantment so powerful that it could not be safely cast outside of the strength and support of a Circle. And that was considering just the spell for the dragon alone; to send an elf into endless revery was more difficult still.

And yet, what else could she do? The dragon and elven heroes would die before Amlaruil could gather the other elves, who, for that matter, would be busy with their other dragon charges.

The mage took a long breath to steady her resolve, then sank deep into the magic. She called forth the spell, her body swaying and her hands gesturing gracefully as she chanted, summoning the threads of magic and weaving them into the needed pattern. As she worked, she could feel the silvery web take shape, and then sink down over the pair of warriors like a comforting blanket.

Swept up in the power of the magic, Amlaruil had no sense of the passing of time. Nor did she feel the hunger or exhaustion that so often plagued the magi after the workings of the Circle. If anything, she felt invigorated by the flow of magic.

Almost regretfully, she released herself from the spell and left Ahskahala and her dragon friend to their long slumber. Without speaking, she and Zaor made their way from the cave.

The mountainside was deserted when they emerged, and the sunset colors stained the distance hills. "The others must have returned to the Towers," Amlaruil murmured. "Working together, they could have completed the task faster than one alone."

After a moment's silence, Zaor reached out and took her hands in his. "I felt you with me during the battle, you know. Your magic, your strength."

The elf woman nodded. The bond that had formed between them still sang in her blood and filled her soul. A shy smile curved her lips as she looked into the warrior's searching eyes and saw a similar knowledge there.

Amlaruil did not return to the Towers that night, nor did Zaor turn his steps southward toward the fortress at Ruith. In a stone chamber in the heart of Evermeet, bathed in the soft light of the king sword, they acknowledged what both had known from their first meeting. That night, with words and with loving actions, they pledged themselves gladly to the future. They belonged to each other, and together, to Evermeet.

With the coming of dawn's first light, the lovers said their farewells, each content in the knowledge that their joined destiny would surely bring them back into each other's arms.

Amlaruil stood long at the mouth of the cave and watched the warrior descend the mountain, hurrying toward a handful of surviving dragonriders who had gathered in the valley below.

Despite all Zaor had told her of his leave-taking from Lightspear Keep, Amlaruil had little fear that censure awaited him. For one thing, Captain Horith Evanara's ship was gone, crushed into shards of crystal by the weight of a falling dragon. Even had the Captain survived, he could not have denied that Zaor Moonflower was one of the battle's true heroes. Without the dragonriders, without the giant eagles, the flight of evil dragons would have slipped through Evermeet's shields and laid waste the island.

And more than that, Amlaruil had faith in the destiny whispered to her by the moonblade Zaor carried. He was destined to rule, and she with him.

Bright dreams filled her thoughts as she summoned the silver path that would carry her back to the Towers. But as the whirl and rush of the magic travel faded, she was greeted by the sound of anguished elven mourning.

High, wordless keening filled the air as the elves of the Towers gave themselves over to grief. Amlaruil gathered up her skirts and ran for the Tower of the Sun. She burst into the lower chamber, in which stood a single elf, draped and cowled in the robes of the Grand Mage of the Towers.

"Jannalor! What happened? What is wrong?" she cried.

"Hush, child." To Amlaruil's surprise, the voice belonged not to Jannalor, but to Nakiasha. The forest elf turned to face the young mage, and lowered the cowl that obscured her tear-streaked face. "Do not speak his name while his spirit is yet so near to Evermeet, lest he turn away from Arvandor for love of you."

To the young mage, this seemed impossible. For as long as she had lived-nearly three and a half centuries-Jannalor Nierde had ruled the Towers of the Sun and Moon. His calm presence seemed as constant and predictable as the dawn.

"Surely he is not dead!" she protested.

"Along with the other magi who ensorcelled the dragons," Nakiasha said sadly. "The task was too great, the magic that bound us all together too strained by the battle and by our far distance from each other. You were not part of the Circle, so you could not know. But each of the five magi who went with us to the Eagle Hills attended the silver dragons in separate, distant chambers among the caves. I felt them die when the enchantment was done, yet I could do nothing to save them."

Amlaruil stared at her mentor, her thoughts spinning in confusion and stunned grief. Among the magi were many of her closest friends, and nearest kin. "How then do you and I still live? It does not seem possible. It does not seem-"

"Right?" the older elf finished. "Do not think that I have not asked that same question, many times. But to do so is to doubt the will of the gods. You and I, Amlaruil, carry the special blessing of the Seldarine. How old do you think me?"

The girl blinked, startled by the seeming non sequitur. "You are past midlife, perhaps in your fifth century."

Nakiasha snorted. "Double that, you'd be closer. It will be much the same for you. Do not look so doubtful! You have lived three centuries and more, yet most who behold you take you for a maiden fresh from childhood. And what of your power? You should not have been able to cast the spell upon the dragon alone, and yet you did. You survived, even while those joined in a Circle could not bear the flow of magic. It is a hard fact, but you must accustom yourself to it, for it is your destiny. As is this."

The forest elf shrugged off the Grand Mage mantle and came forward to drape it over Amlaruil's shoulders. "It was the will of he who ruled these Towers that you succeed him. I but kept it in trust for your arrival."

Amlaruil stared at her mentor, unable to take in all that she had said. "But I am pledged elsewhere," she whispered.

"Are you, now?" Nakiasha looked at her shrewdly. "Ah. I see the way of it. The young warrior whom you supported through the battle, is it not?

"Even so," the sorceress said briskly, not awaiting an answer. "Was the nature of your pledge merely that of a young lover, or she who wishes to serve all her People?"

"Must I choose between them?"

"Perhaps."

Amlaruil's fingers tangled in the folds of the Grand Mage's mantle, as if uncertain whether to draw it close or cast it aside. Yet there was no denying Nakiasha's words. The promises that she and Zaor had exchanged during the long, sweet hours of the night sang in her heart, and she would hold true to them. They were pledged to each other-and to the service of Evermeet.

In her heart, Amlaruil knew herself to be Zaor's true queen. But surely a long and difficult road lay before Zaor before he was acclaimed Evermeet's king. Perhaps she could best serve his destiny by accepting that which had been laid upon her by the former Grand Mage.

The elf maid lifted her head in an unconscious gesture of command. "We must gather the magi. With so many of us gone, there is much that must be done to rebuild the strength of the Towers, and to lift the spirits of those who remain."

A faint smile, one that was both proud and sad, crossed Nakiasha's face. Jannalor Nierde had chosen well-Amlaruil filled the mantle of power as if she had been fashioned for the task. The sorceress bowed her head in a gesture of respect, and followed the new Grand Mage out into the Tower courtyard.