Evermeet: Island of Elves

18

The elves who sat at the table of the Council of Elders watched in stunned amazement as Lady Mylaerla Durothil put aside her cloak of office. "Do not look so dismayed," the elf woman said dryly. "In recent years, the title of High Councilor has been largely honorary. It is, quite frankly, an honor I can live without."

"It has never been the way of Durothil to turn aside from duty," Belstram Durothil said in a tight, angry voice.

"Nor do I," retorted the matron. "The recent battle has shown me how I can best serve the People and myself. I am less suited to court life than a general's command, and I say without intention of giving offense that I prefer a dragon's company to that of any elf in this room," she added, gazing pointedly at her great-great-nephew. Belstram flushed angrily and looked away.

"In resigning as High Councilor," Lady Durothil continued, "I do not suggest that the Council itself be dissolved. But mark me, its role, like my own, must change."

"Lady Durothil," interrupted Saida Evanara in a supercilious voice. "With or without you, the Council has ruled Evermeet for centuries untold. It is tradition. What you suggest is absurd."

"Is it?" the matron said tartly. "Perhaps my time in the Eagle Hills has given me the distance needed for clear sight. Do you wish to discuss absurdity? Very well. While this council in my absence debated a course of action, while the commanders of the various forces scrambled for personal glory, a flight of dragons came within a day's ship-travel from our shores! Your own kinsman, Horith Evanara, was slain in this battle. Had he not acted as he did, going into battle without either consulting the council or summoning the dragonriders, we would not have before us the task of choosing his replacement!"

"As to that, I do not see why the council should debate this matter. The command should fall to me," Saida stated, seizing upon the one item in Lady Durothil's speech of personal interest. "Perhaps I am have not been long in Evermeet, but in my clan I stand next to Horith in military rank and experience."

"The Nierde clan is not unique in producing able warriors," Francessca Silverspear pointed out. "Nor are you, Saida, the only elf seated here who fought for the life of Myth Drannor!"

"That is true enough, but would you have us toss aside all tradition in one afternoon?" returned Saida heatedly. "For centuries, the Nierde clan has held Ruith and commanded Sumbrar!"

"And what of Ruith now?" inquired Montagor Amarillis, a young noble with the bright red hair characteristic of his clan. "What of Sumbrar? The Starwing fleet is all but demolished. Many of the Sumbrar Tower's magi perished in an attempt to save the surviving dragons. Our reserves of arms and magic have been dangerously depleted by the actions of the last Evanara to hold Lightspear Keep. I, for one, am not eager to see Horith Evanara's legacy continued!"

Saida turned a coldly furious gaze upon the Moon elf. "The Amarillis have always been ambitious, Montagor. You would be delighted to see control of Evermeet's military seized from the Gold elves. Next, you're going to argue that it's time for Evermeet to succumb to a Moon elven royalty!"

"That is precisely what I think, and it is the reason why I called the council together this day," Lady Durothil announced firmly, turning Saida's mockery into a statement of truth.

She let the silence linger so that it might give weight to her next words. "I know that many of the noble families, particularly the Gold elven clans such as my own, will be resistant to this. But all of us knew that the time would come! I say that it is here, now."

"It is true that with a single voice commanding all the forces of Evermeet, we would be better able to respond to a sudden threat," admitted Yalathanil Symbaern. "According to Lady Durothil's reports, the tide of battle was turned when young Zaor Moonflower took command. I can only speak according to what I have seen, but I believe that if Myth Drannor had been led by a single, capable ruler rather than a contentious council of its own, its fate might have been quite different. Evermeet must learn, and move forward."

Several members of the council nodded thoughtfully. Had this opinion come from a Moon elf, it would not have fallen into such receptive soil. But the Symbaern house was ancient and honorable, even if the Gold elf wizard himself was a new voice in the council. Yalathanil and several other survivors from his clan had fled the destruction of Myth Drannor to settle Evermeet. He was already widely respected for both his magical skills and his wisdom.

"I agree with Lady Durothil's opinion of Zaor Moonflower," added Keerla Hawksong, the aged minstrel who led her Silver elf clan. "His recruitment of the giant eagles was brilliant. Already members of my house have followed up this victory, and are discussing with Queen WindShriek the possibility of forming a permanent troop of Eagle Riders."

"We are wandering from the point at hand," Montagor Amarillis pointed out. "According to our High Councilor, it is time for the People of Evermeet to choose a royal family. I say that the council put the matter to vote this very day!"

"The young have so little regard for history," Lady Durothil said dryly. "Are you forgetting that the choice will be made, not by the council, but by the will of the gods, as interpreted by enchanted swords?"

"Forget? That is hardly likely," sneered Saida, "considering that the Amarillis clan still holds a living moonblade! It is said that Montagor Amarillis has a bit of the seer about him. Perhaps in his dreams of the future he fancies himself a king."

"As to that, it is for the gods to say," Montagor said piously. "Yet it is true that the Amarillis moonblade is unclaimed. My grandmother, Chin'nesstre, was among the commanders of Lightspear Keep who took the Starwing fleet against the invaders. She was slain by dragonfire; her sword was recovered from the charred remains of the ship."

"Your grandmother's sword is not the only Amarillis moonblade still in service to the People," Francessca Silverspear asserted. As she spoke, the warrior touched the moonstone in the hilt of her own blade. "This I know, for I fought beside many of your kin. In the fall of Myth Drannor, many heroes died, including many moonfighters. Some of these swords are unclaimed, others have been lost."

"How are we to know that one of these lost swords might not have been meant to determine kingship?" Saida Evanara demanded. "How can such a decision be made now, when not all of the moonblades can be accounted for?"

"In that, we will have to trust the gods," Mi'tilarro Aelorothi said firmly. Such was the weight of the Gold elf's words that all protest fell silent, for the patriarch of the ancient Gold elf clan was also a high priest of Corellon Larethian.

"It is decided, then," Lady Durothil said firmly. "Send word to all clans of Evermeet, and to all elves bearing moonblades upon the mainland. When the summer solstice arrives, all will gather in the meadowlands surrounding Drelagara."

Montagor's attention was suddenly fixed intently upon the goblet before him. "As you have pointed out, Lady Durothil, my knowledge of history is perhaps not what it should be. Tell me, what will happen if more than one clan demonstrates through possession of a moonblade a viable claim to the throne?"

Mylaerla Durothil's face turned grim. "It will be as it has always been: a matter for the gods to decide. Each sword has developed certain powers, and the elf who wields the sword must be equal to the challenge of his or her blade. Who holds the most powerful sword, and who wields it best, the same shall win the throne."

"You mean that elves of noble blood must fight each other?" Montagor asked, clearly appalled.

The elf woman's smile was ironic in the extreme. "Since when, young Lord Amarillis, have we ever done anything else?"

There were few places on all of Evermeet as lovely as Drelagara. A small city, it made up in symmetry and quiet beauty what it lacked in grandeur. The buildings were all of white marble, magically raised from the depths of Evermeet, and the whole was located in the center of an expanse of gently rolling meadows that measured more than sixty miles wide. This meadowland was surrounded on all sides by forests, and within a day's ride of the wondrous white-sand beaches of Siiluth.

The moon-horses, those magical white beasts who were the willing allies and friends of the elves, made their home in the meadows of Drelagara. As the day of the summer solstice dawned the moon-horses were as much in evidence as the elves. Their glossy coats gleamed in the pale light that proceeded sunrise as they pranced among the gathered people and the bright silk pavilions, accepting the caresses of elven children, tossing their flower-braided manes as if they were gracious hosts giving welcome to their elven visitors.

From all over Evermeet the elves gathered in the Drelagara meadow, along with representatives from many distant elven communities. This, the selection of Evermeet's ruling house, was a matter that concerned all the People.

Many of the wild elves ventured from the forest depths for the occasion, though no one there could get a true sense of their number. The fey folk kept to the shadows of the forest's edge, or gathered beneath the meadow's scattered trees. Like elusive deer, they were nearly invisible until they showed their presence with movement.

There were also a number of Sea elven representatives who wore amulets to aid them in breathing air so that they might observe the ceremony.

Moon elves were much in evidence, of course. Each clan gathered under the bright banners of its house standard. Those who possessed moonblades would contend for the honor of rulership, and these clans were given the prime locations nearest the center of the gathering place.

And all the Gold elf clans were present, though it was widely noted and softly commented that many of these elves did not look pleased with the prospect of eminent Moon elven rule.

Members of all the other fey races gathered in Drelagara as well, for Evermeet's king would be the ruler of them all. Massive centaur warriors stood at the perimeter of the forest, eyeing the large, silvery forms of the nearby Iythari-the elusive, shapeshifting elven wolf-people-with wary respect. Unicorns and pegasi exchanged silent gossip. Faerie dragons flitted about the meadow, some of them amusing themselves by playing tricks on the elves, some giggling wildly as they chased the delegation of sprites about as if they were herding a flock of tiny, airborne sheep. Pixies sat comfortably upon the leafy arms of a giant treant, an ancient, sentient tree-person who watched over the proceedings with solemn patience.

A place of honor near the very center of the gathering had been granted to the delegation from the Towers of the Sun and Moon. In her own private pavilion, Amlaruil prepared herself for the festivities with more than her usual care. As Lady of the Tower, she held a position nearly the equal of the soon-to-be chosen ruler. This was her first state appearance, and she would be the focus of many eyes this day.

Amlaruil wished to do honor to the Towers, but in her preparations she answered another, more personal motive. Several months had passed since she and Zaor had made their pledges in the heady aftermath of battle. She had not seen him since. Everything must be right for this, their first meeting.

The elf woman carefully arranged her red-gold hair in elaborate curls, and donned the jewels passed down to her from distant generations. Her gown, though lovely and fashioned of silk the color of summer skies, was of less importance, for it would be covered by the flowing mantle that proclaimed her office.

"And a good thing, too," Amlaruil murmured. A small, secret smile curved her lips as she smoothed her hands over the clinging silk of her gown. Though she took nothing but joy in the tiny life that slept within the growing curve of her belly, she wanted Zaor to see her, first and foremost, and not the child who would be his heir.

His royal heir.

Of this, Amlaruil was as certain as sunrise. In her few months as Grand Mage, and under the careful tutelage of the sorceress Nakiasha, she had come to accept the unusual link between her spirit and the gods of the Seldarine. Attuned to Evermeet in ways that she could not yet begin to understand, Amlaruil knew and recognized the power of the sword Zaor carried. She also felt the innate nobility of the elf who wielded it. In Amlaruil's mind, Zaor was Evermeet's king. This day would only affirm what she knew to be true,

"My lady?"

The sound of Nakiasha's voice, coming from outside the pavilion, startled Amlaruil from her thoughts. She snatched up her mantle and quickly draped it about her shoulders.

"Come," she said, schooling her face to serenity before turning to meet her mentor.

Nakiasha brushed aside the tent's closing and surveyed the young elf woman with a mother's pride. "You are beautiful, child," she said, forgetting for the moment the formality due to Amlaruil's position. "It's nearly time for the ceremony-you must take your place among the members of the Council."

Amlaruil nodded, and followed the sorceress from the pavilion. In her heightened state of excitement, she was keenly aware of the eyes that followed her as she ascended the platform to her assigned place. This was the first time that she had appeared at any ceremony as Lady of the Towers, and the elves were understandably curious about the new Grand Mage.

But even without the mantle of office, Amlaruil would have drawn wondering stares. She was exceedingly tall-a full head taller than most elves, and she moved with an ethereal grace that lent her even more presence. Her red-gold hair was an unusual and striking shade, and she knew without vanity that she was accounted beautiful. Even Laeroth, her fellow mage and the most unromantic and practical elf of her acquaintance, once commented that her face tended to linger in memory like a haunting melody. Amlaruil found herself hoping that Zaor's memory had been thus afflicted.

She took her place next to the matron of the Nimesin clan, a Gold elf woman hugely rounded with child. A sympathetic smile curved Amlaruil's lips, but her words of congratulations died unborn as the elf woman met her friendly smile with a gaze icy enough to freeze the tides.

"Well. Now that I see you, I understand why a Gray elf wench rules in the Towers," the elf said coldly. "Jannalor Nierde always was a fool for a pretty face and a summer night's frolic! You, I take it, were his favorite plaything."

A slow, hot flush spread over Amlaruil's face. "You do not know me, Lady, yet Jannalor Nierde was widely revered for his wisdom and honor. Your words do him grave injustice."

The bitter lines around the elf woman's mouth deepened, and she continued to regard the Grand Mage with the disdain usually reserved for the half-eaten offerings of a hunting house cat. "Is it not enough to demand that the People endure a Moon elf royalty? Why must the honor of the Towers be sullied, as well?"

"I have done the Towers no dishonor, nor will I," Amlaruil said. Her voice was calm and soft, yet full of power.

The animosity in the Gold elf's eyes faltered, as if she suddenly felt uncertain of an easy quarry. "The ceremony is soon to begin," the elf woman said grudgingly, but she sounded oddly grateful for the excuse to turn away from the conversation-and the young Moon elf's unshakable dignity.

As the heirs to the unclaimed moonblades stepped forward, Amlaruil forgot the Nimesin matron's bitter comments. Though her own brother possessed such a sword, Amlaruil had never seen the ceremony in which the swords were claimed.

It was beautiful, and it was terrible. The recent battles had left several swords unclaimed. Ten elves, all nobles of ancient house and good reputation, pledged themselves to the power of the swords and the service of the People. Of them, only six survived the ceremony.

For two of these survivors, there was no triumph. The magic in the blades they held went silent and dormant in their hands. They had been proved unequal to the task of wielding the powers within their family blades; as the last living descendant of the original wielders, they were spared a sudden death. The expression of stunned disbelief on the two elves' faces suggested that they would perhaps have preferred death to this living realization of their loss.

In the heavy silence that followed the first claiming, the four Moon elf houses who had lost their first and best hope of the future tried again, and yet again, to claim the honor of Evermeet's throne.

Amlaruil's eyes burned with tears of mingled pride and grief as she watched one young elf after another step forward to die, like so many moths flinging themselves against the seductive promise of a lantern's heat and light.

Yet not one of the elven houses yielded, not until the last surviving member of the clan stood alive, but defeated. Their moonblades, their task of selection completed, went dormant at last.

In the grim and reverent silence that followed the claiming, Lady Mylaerla Durothil rose to speak, the last time in her office of High Councilor of Evermeet.

"The Council of Elders honors all those who came this day to stand before the People and the gods of the Seldarine, and to dare the crucible of the moonblade's magic. No dishonor tarnishes the houses who were not selected, and a place in Arvandor awaits all those who had the courage to take up a moonblade. To those new moonfighters among us, we extend congratulations."

The Gold elf's gaze swept the small group of Moon elves before her. "The task ahead is more difficult still. There are yet five-and-twenty living moonblades. Legend says that when four-and-twenty remain, the king sword will announce itself and its wielder. We are one too many, and thus the royal family must be determined by its collective strength. Moonfighters, please gather by clans."

The keepers of the magic swords shifted, each coming to stand beside his or her family standard. In all houses but two, there was but a single wielder. Of these, the Moonflower clan clearly possessed the stronger claim.

Three Moonflower fighters gathered under the banner of the blue rose. Giullio, Amlaruil's much-older brother, appeared greatly ill at ease in the center of so many eyes. Slight of stature and diffident in manner, the solitary, scholarly elf devoted himself to the veneration of Labelas Enoreth, the god of years. Giullio was a worthy claimant to his moonblade, which possessed magics of healing and inspiration, but he was no king. Only with great difficulty had he been persuaded to come to Drelagara at all. Thasitalia, a distant relative, was an adventuress who had never before stepped foot upon the elven isle. By her own words, she was eager to leave. Hers was a restless spirit, and her sword was fashioned for the fighting of solitary battles. Then there was Zaor, standing head and shoulders above every other elf in the field. The young warrior held himself with quiet confidence as he awaited the decision that had been set in motion centuries earlier.

The Amarillis clan possessed two living moonblades. One was a sword recently recovered from the ruins of ancient Aryvandaar, newly claimed by a flame-haired girl-child known as Echo. The other was wielded by a mage from the mainland settlement of Tangletrees.

"By the strength of numbers, Moonflower has proven a strong succession and thus has passed the first test given for the royal clan," Lady Durothil began.

"With your permission, Lady, I must object," interrupted a voice from the crowd.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd as Montagor Amarillis stepped forward to join his two kin. The Moon elf was strangely pale, and his face was the color of snow beneath the thick shock of bright red hair characteristic of his family. He unbuckled his weapons belt and held high a sheathed blade, turning slowly so that all might see the glowing moonstone in the hilt.

"This sword belonged to my grandmother. It was her will that it pass to me. There are therefore three living moonblades in House Amarillis, making us the equal of Moonflower."

Lady Durothil stared, dumbfounded, at the young noble. "Why did you not come forward for the claiming ceremony?"

"It is the right of every elf to decline his hereditary blade," Montagor said in a steady tone. "I claim the right to keep this sword in trust for my oldest child, as yet unborn."

Montagor turned to his two kin. "These worthy elves are not of Evermeet, and have told me they have no desire to stay or to rule. If there is to be an Amarillis king, he will be of my blood." He looked over to the three elves who stood beneath the blue rose standard. "Have the Moonflowers likewise come to an understanding?"

"I make no claim to royalty, and I would decline the throne if it were offered," Thasitalia Moonflower announced in a clear, low voice.

"And you, Giullio?" Lady Durothil prompted.

In response, the cleric drew his moonblade and saluted Zaor.

"That is clear enough," Montagor said, a smile of satisfaction playing about his lips. "I, too, will pledge my support to Zaor Moonflower, provided that he agrees to honor and acknowledge the rights of clan Amarillis."

Zaor stepped forward to face the red-haired noble. "The honor of Amarillis is beyond question," he said in a puzzled voice. "But of what rights do you speak?"

"The rights of royalty," Montagor said firmly. "The swords of Myth Drannor declare that this right is ours as much as yours. If you deny this, know that the Moonflower family will not hold the throne uncontested."

"You would have me divide the kingdom?" Zaor demanded.

"I would have you unite the two clans," Montagor countered. "Take my sister, Lydi'aleera, as your queen, and we will consider the matter settled."

The noble turned and extended a peremptory hand. A small, golden-haired elf woman came forward from beneath the green dolphin crest that marked the pavilion of House Amarillis. Montagor took her hand, which he in turn presented, in obvious symbolism, to Zaor.

Stunned into immobility, the warrior stared down at the girl. She was very beautiful, though her pale coloring set her apart from the ruddy elves of Amarillis. Her gown was spring green-which in ancient legend was considered the color of elven royalty-and a wreath of flowers clung to her hair as if she were already prepared for a wedding.

As he gazed at the elf maid, Zaor silently cursed Montagor for putting him in this untenable position. His eyes darted to the place where the Grand Mage of the Towers sat.

Amlaruil's blue eyes were unreadable, her face utterly still. Not even her posture yielded any clues as to her thoughts, for the flowing mantle of her office obscured her form.

Since he could hardly refuse to acknowledge the girl, Zaor took the elf maid's offered hand and bowed over it. Yet as soon as he decently could, he released the slim white fingers and turned his attention back to Montagor.

"I am honored by the offer of union with Amarillis, and by the consent of this noble lady," he said carefully. "But the decision of what house will rule Evermeet was never mine to make. The moonblades alone must decide."

"You would chose battle between our clans rather than union?" Montagor asked incredulously. "What would be the cost of such a blood war to Evermeet? The Moonflowers and the Amarillis are ancient families with ties to many houses. Craulnober would surely come to your defense, and behind them the northland commoners who have given allegiance to them! The Silverspear newcomers are aligned with you, as is the commoner captain of the Leuthilspar guard! But the Hawksongs, the Eroths, the Alenuath-they have blood ties and close loyalties to Amarillis. Think carefully on what you would begin."

"Battle, if such there must be, would not involve all these elves!" Zaor protested. "Only those who hold the moonblades must contend for the throne."

"I have declined mine in favor of my heir. Would you let the question of kingship wait until I have a son or daughter to challenge you for it? Would a delay of a hundred years or more serve Evermeet?"

With great difficulty, Zaor held onto his temper. He recognized the layers of sophistry in the elf's argument, and he did not feel equal to meeting them. And there was enough truth in Montagor's words to be disturbing. Perhaps his rejection of the Amarillis alliance would not trigger a full-scale civil war, but it would cause a deep resentment, a division among the Moon elf families. And there were many Gold elves who would be quick to seize

Montagor's suggestion, in hope of holding onto the Council rule for a few decades more.

"It seems to me that this matter cannot be resolved between you and me. I should consult with both the Council of Elders and with my advisers," Zaor said. "Let us all meet again this night, when the Tears of Selune are in midsky. Perhaps the reminder that we are all of the blood of Corellon and the tears of the Lady Moon might help us unite as we must."

Montagor's jaw tightened with anger, but he could not refute such a reasonable and pious request. He inclined his head to Zaor-a bow between equals, no more. "I agree. It will be as you suggest."

He turned and stalked away, leaving Lydi'aleera standing alone with the Moon elf. Zaor bowed to the young elf woman and strode from the field, not entirely sure where he should go.

Lady Mylaerla caught him by the arm and led him into her pavilion. "I have sent messengers to gather some of the People you'll wish to consult: some of the Elders, leaders among the warriors, a few of the clerics and magi, your circle of trusted friends," she said as she settled down in a chair. "They will be along shortly. I thought it best that we speak alone first."

Zaor paced restlessly about the tent. "What do you think of Montagor's claim?"

"He shows more subtlety than I had thought him capable of mustering," she admitted. "And he's in a good position to carry out his threat of delaying the selection of a royal house."

"And the possibility of clan warfare between Amarillis and Moonflower?"

"Unlikely. But you know that many of the Gold elves resent their exclusion from the process of selection. Of all the Moon elf families, Amarillis has the most demand upon their loyalties. High Councilors, when not of the Durothil lines, were usually from Amarillis. The family is one long, nearly unbroken line of warriors, mages, legendary heroes. If you turn away from an alliance with Amarillis, you stand to alienate most of Evermeet. Believe me, Montagor knows what you will refuse if you refuse Lydi'aleera. And doing that, in and of itself, would give Amarillis-and most of Evermeet-ample cause to take offense."

"I have no wish to insult the girl," Zaor said in deep frustration, "but even less desire to wed her!"

"It was unconscionable for Montagor to put either you or his sister in such a position," the elf woman agreed. "Yet Lydi'aleera is a reasonable choice for queen, even apart from her high family. The girl is beautiful and well mannered. She is an accomplished singer, and well versed in the arts. Many would consider her an ornament to the court. Ah, here are the others," she said, turning to beckon to the small, somber group that gathered at the open door of her pavilion.

As the elves entered, Zaor took note of how they aligned themselves. The Council members stayed together, forming a small group at the far side of the tent. His friends Keryth Blackhelm, who now commanded the Leuthilspar guard, and Myronthilar Silverspear, a captain of the guard, came to flank him in unspoken support.

Only Amlaruil stood apart and alone, as isolated and solitary as the Towers she ruled. Zaor could not bring himself to meet her eyes, for fear of what he might reveal before the gathered elves. He could only imagine what use Montagor Amarillis might make of the knowledge that Zaor had already pledged his heart-and to an elf woman of his own clan!

He turned to the Council. "Will you as a group support the Moonflower claim?"

"How can we, when the task of the moonblades is incomplete?" responded Yalathanil Symbaern.

Francessca Silverspear snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. "Then let it be completed! Let the Amarillis pup draw his moonblade, if he dares, and then further dare to fight Zaor for the throne!"

"We cannot compel him to do so," said Mi'tilarro Aelorothi firmly, his golden fingers curving around the holy symbol of Corellon Larethian that hung over his heart. "The rules for the selection of the royal family were given by the gods. Montagor Amarillis is within his rights."

"You see how it is," Lady Durothil said dryly, tossing an exasperated glance at Zaor. "The Council is not of one mind about this matter, or any other. Montagor Amarillis plays upon these divisions like a master minstrel his harp!"

Zaor nodded, and turned to Keryth Blackhelm. "You know the minds of Leuthilspar's warriors. What do you think? Can I hold Evermeet without the support of Amarillis?"

The captain thought this over. "The warriors respect you. There's no doubt that they would follow you in battle. It's peace that worries me. You and I are warriors, Zaor, but neither of us understands the sort of bloodless battle waged among the noble houses. The truth, then? No. I don't believe that you can rule without Amarillis. Not as it should be done, at least."

Zaor stood silent, his head bowed, as he struggled to find his way through the tangle. Finally he looked up, his eyes at last falling upon Amlaruil.

"My friends, I would like to consult with the Lady of the Towers," he said softly. "I thank you all for your advice. I will not leave you waiting long for my decision."

Lady Durothil cast a glance at Amlaruil Moonflower's inscrutable face, then turned a searching gaze upon the Moon elf warrior. She seemed deeply disturbed by what she saw. She rose hastily.

"Come, all of you," she said briskly. "The sooner we're away, the sooner Zaor can make his choice."

Amlaruil sat silently as the Gold elf matron herded the others from the pavilion, as relentlessly and efficiently as a Craulnober hound might drive a flock of northland sheep from a pasture.

"She knows," the mage said simply when at last she and Zaor were alone. "She knows, and does not approve."

"Lady Durothil has been High Councilor for many years," Zaor said hastily. "She knows how the noble clans will respond to news of our love. She has spent a lifetime dealing with the nobles and their small intrigues."

"Which only give more weight to her opinion."

"It doesn't matter. None of it matters." Zaor covered the distance between them in a few steps and took both of her cold hands in his. "Amlaruil, we made a pledge to each other. Whatever happens, I intend to honor that! There can be no one for me but you."

Amlaruil’s gaze was sad, but steady. "If you refuse this alliance with Amarillis, war among the clans-the very threat that the moonblades were intended to forestall-seems possible. Even if you rule in peace, offending Amarillis will almost certainly ensure the failure of the very task for which you were chosen: bringing unity to the elves. You must understand that clan Amarillis forms both a link and a buffer between Moon elves and Gold. Without Amarillis, you might as well take scepter and crown and place them directly into Durothil hands."

Gently, she slipped her fingers from Zaor's grasp. "The gods have chosen you as Evermeet's king. They have chosen me to help you, and so I must."

The Grand Mage of the Towers went down on her knees before the appalled elf. "I pledge my personal allegiance, as well as all the power of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon, to Zaor, King of Evermeet, and to Lydi'aleera his queen. May you both live long, and reign well." Tears sparkled in her eyes, but her voice was firm.

Before Zaor could speak, Amlaruil disappeared. Only a faint silver sparkle of magic in the air, and the tiny mark of two fallen tears upon the earthen floor of the pavilion, betrayed that she had ever been there at all.

The Moon elf warrior dashed from the tent, looking frantically about for a glimpse of Amlaruil's beautiful red-gold hair among the crowds of elves. She was nowhere to be seen.

Lady Durothil came forward and grasped him by his forearms, her eyes searching his stricken face. Relief and sympathy mingled on her countenance. "You have chosen well," she said gently.

"I did not choose at all!" he blurted out. For a moment, the Moon elf's loss and heartache was naked in his eyes.

"The Lady of the Towers has acted with honor," Lady Durothil said softly. "And she has taken the worst burden-the burden of choice-from your shoulders. She did what she must, and now so must you."

Zaor was silent for a long moment. "I have always heard that the sacrifices demanded of those who would lead can be great. Had I any idea of what would be required of me, I would have wanted no part of this!" he said passionately.

The matron sighed. "If the gods are kind, it might be that you've already endured the worst! But come, my lord-the others are waiting."

For the remainder of that summer, the High Magi of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon lavished their magic upon the creation of Evermeet's court. The Moonstone Palace, a wondrous structure fashioned from marble and moonstone and roofed with gold, rose from the heart of Evermeet.

The labor was bittersweet for Amlaruil. Though she rejoiced to see Zaor as king, her part in his kingmaking was hardly what she had dreamed it might be.

As the summer passed and the brilliant colors of autumn faded from the land, Amlaruil went into seclusion to prepare for the birth of her daughter. Only Nakiasha attended her on the night that Zaor's heir drew breath, and stood witness to the elf woman's tears of mingled joy and loss.

In the months that followed, Amlaruil found immense comfort in her daughter. But she could not escape the feeling that this child was merely loaned to her. Amlaruil's ties to the Seldarine were deep and mystical, but it seemed to her that this babe was more a child of the gods than of mortal elves.

From birth Ilyrana was oddly silent, and her large, sea-blue eyes were grave and ancient. Nor did the babe resemble either of her parents. Tiny and ethereally pale, her white skin seemed tinged with blue, and her snow-colored baby curls held a touch of palest green. Amlaruil named her Ilyrana, from the Elvish word for opal.

Never once did Amlaruil speak the name of her baby's father. As an elf woman of noble birth, a High Mage, and Grand Mage of the Towers, she was beyond reproach in such matters. The child was hers, and if any of the elves of the Tower cared to speculate further, they did so with unusual discretion. Amlaruil had already won the respect and love of most of the young magi. Most of them grasped that it was her wish to keep the child from common sight and knowledge, and they protected their lady and her child as they did any of the Towers' other legacies.

What none of the magi understood, however, was that Amlaruil's reticence was based on something far darker than discretion and a desire for privacy.

The machinations displayed during the kingmaking at the previous summer solstice had opened her eyes to the nobles of Evermeet. The Lady of the Towers kept a careful watch on the multilayered affairs of the court. The more she learned, the deeper became her concern, not only for Zaor, but for all of Evermeet.

"Really, Montagor, I find your offer singularly ignorant, even considering that it came from a Gray elf," sneered Vashti Nimesin. "You are of less use to me than Lydi'aleera is to clan Amarillis! Surely you know that any offspring of Zaor will be accounted part of clan Moonflower. You can evoke every long-dead Amarillis hero whose name you can recall, and it will not change that fact!"

The Amarillis heir sipped at his goblet of feywine, buying time to collect his thoughts. He had spent many days currying the favor of the wealthy and increasingly powerful Nimesin clan. Finally, he had finagled an invitation to one of Vashti's elite parties. Judging from her disdainful tone, it would clearly be a mistake to count his successes too soon.

"Perhaps my sister's child will be a Moonflower," he allowed, "but Lydi'aleera is still of House Amarillis! There is much that a queen can do to influence royal policy."

Lady Nimesin snickered. "And you're claiming she has the wit to do so, I suppose? That little twit?"

"Lydi'aleera has always been guided by me," Montagor said stoutly. "I tell you, there is much that can be gained from an alliance with Amarillis."

The matron's appraising gaze slid over the young Moon elf. Vashti Nimesin was well aware of Montagor's ambitions, and in fact she approved of most of the steps he had taken to consolidate his clan's influence and power in the newly established court. Foisting that insipid little wench upon Zaor Moonflower had been a masterful stroke. It was to Montagor's credit that he also sought out ties with the members of powerful Gold elf clans.

But it was patently clear to Lady Nimesin that Montagor was not quite up to the standard of his illustrious ancestors. In his naked desire for power, he was vulnerable-and more of a willing tool even than his insipid little sister.

Vashti Nimesin smiled. "There is in fact a service you can do for me. My son, Kymil, shows great promise in both magic and arms. I would have him trained at the Towers of the Sun and Moon. Perhaps you could escort him there, and present him to the ruling mage?"

Montagor bowed deeply. "It would be my great pleasure," he said sincerely, though he had little illusion about the reason for Lady Nimesin's request. She clearly disliked the fact that a Moon elf ruled in the Towers and was unwilling to submit herself in the position of supplicant to Amlaruil Moonflower. In sending the Amarillis heir as an errand boy, Vashti would make a statement of her high position and her contempt for Moon elves.

So be it. It was a price worth paying for Nimesin's favor. Montagor turned his gaze upon Kymil Nimesin, who stood talking with a small group of young Gold elves. He was a singularly handsome youth, with the golden skin of his race contrasting with the ebony luster of his black hair and eyes. Yet he was still a child, far too young for admittance to the tower.

At that moment, Kymil turned and met Montagor's curious gaze. The Moon elf recoiled, stunned by the sheer malevolence of those eyes. But the moment passed, so swiftly that Montagor was left wondering if he'd imagined that hate-filled stare. Young Kymil came willingly enough to his mother's beckoning, and his handsome face was a model of civility as he greeted the Amarillis heir.

"Montagor Amarillis will escort you to the Towers, my son," Lady Nimesin said in a satisfied voice. "You will leave at first light. See that you are a credit to your people and your house."

"Yes, mother," the boy said automatically. There was nothing in his face or voice to suggest he was other than a dutiful son, and there was no mockery in the bow he gave the Moon elf noble. Yet Montagor felt deeply uneasy as he contemplated the young elf.

From time to time, Montagor caught a glimpse of what might yet be. He had not claimed the moonblade because he suspected that he would not survive the attempt. Now, looking at young Kymil Nimesin, he had the same feeling of impending death. There was something stirring in the mists of this boy's future, something that Montagor could neither see nor grasp. It reached out to him, all the same, taunting him with dire possibilities.

The Moon elf quickly brushed aside his unease. A moonblade, with its powerful and killing magic, was something to be feared and respected. This boy, however, was a mere stripling. Surely Montagor Amarillis was more than Kymil's match.

And so the two left for the Towers the next day, as Lady Nimesin had decreed. Kymil rode well, but he was strangely silent during the northward trip, with none of the questions or chatter that Montagor would have expected from a boy his age.

Finally the silence began to wear on Montagor. "I trained in the Towers myself, briefly," he said. "If there is anything you'd like to discuss, I'd be happy to oblige."

The boy slanted a look at him. "Thank you, no," he said politely. "I shall do fine."

"Have you friends at the Tower?" Montagor persisted. "I don't imagine there are many elves your age."

"There is at least one," Kymil said in a dark tone. He grimaced, as if even that terse remark was more than he had intended to say.

Montagor was intrigued. "I had not known that the Tower magi accepted children."

"From time to time, children are born to the Tower magi," the boy said matter-of-factly. "And sometimes a prodigy is accepted at an early age. Tanyl Evanara, a distant cousin of mine, is much my age and nearly my equal at arms and magic. We will learn together."

"Ah. And what use will you make of the magic you acquire?" the Moon elf asked in the patronizing tone often used toward the very young.

A hard smile played at the corner of the Gold elf's lips. "What would you say, Lord Amarillis, if I told you that I would use what I learn to do away with the travesty of a Moon elf royalty and restore the Elven Council?" he said softly. "Just for argument's sake, of course. Naturally, I would never attempt such a thing. No one but a fool would harbor such treasonous thoughts, or express them to the brother of the queen-not even considering that you yourself would profit from such a course of action. Amarillis will never hold the throne, but certainly you could become High Councilor were the Council restored. Again, just for argument's sake."

Montagor blinked, astonished by the levels of intrigue in the boy's words. He was being warned, courted, and threatened-all at once.

But even as he regarded the young elf, the sly hard look disappeared beneath the smooth golden mask of Kymil's handsome face.

A chill passed through Montagor, swiftly followed by a wave of bitter remorse for his part in delivering this child to the Towers. Whatever came of it, he would have a part. Kymil had implied as much.

Suddenly the Moon elf was less certain of his ability to control, or even to fathom, the ambitions of this Gold elf clan. But the spires of the Towers were now clearly visible to all in the escort party.

Come what may, it was too late to turn back now.

Several years passed before Montagor Amarillis was again summoned to the mansion of Lady Vashti Nimesin. He found the matron in a state of high excitement.

"It has begun," she said bluntly. "The first of the Gray elf pretenders to the throne has been slain. And you, my friend, have made it possible!"

Montagor stared at the Gold elf. "Zaor is dead?"

Vashti laughed scornfully. "Not even your sister could get close enough to the king to accomplish that wonder! No, I speak of Zaor's daughter."

"My sister the queen has no children," the Moon elf said, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"As all Evermeet well knows!" sneered Lady Vashti. "Amarillis blood is running thin-the best you can offer these days is a barren queen. No, Zaor has a bastard, and by the Lady of the Towers, no less!"

"Amlaruil Moonflower has a child?" Montagor demanded. "And you are certain that it is Zaor's?"

"Oh, yes. I suspected that she was breeding when I saw her at the kingmaking. At the time, I assumed that it was some festival-got brat, or the result of climbing to her high office by currying Jannalor Nierde's favor-on her back," Lady Vashti said crudely. "But I made it my business to trace the wench's footsteps back. She and Zaor were together at the right time. There are magics that can determine a child's sire…"

She cast a sly look at the appalled Moon elf. "Why do you suppose I was so eager to place my son in the Towers? It was not from a desire to have him learn magic at the foot of a Gray elf, I assure you!"

"Kymil has slain Amlaruil's daughter," Montagor repeated in a dazed voice.

"Well, it appears that this elf can be taught," the Nimesin matron said with heavy sarcasm. "Ilyrana Moonflower is dead, or soon to be. It seems she fancies herself a priestess rather than a mage. She left the Towers to travel to Corellon's Grove as if it were some sacred pilgrimage. Kymil sent me word of this. Which brings us to your part in the matter."

"I will have no part of this!" Montagor said.

"An admirable sentiment, but a bit late in coming," Lady Vashti said dryly. "When you escorted Kymil to the Towers, he told you quite plainly of his intent. He said that you made no move to dissuade him or to disagree. We took your silence as assent, as will any who might hear of this matter now. Speak of it, and you will only condemn yourself."

The Moon elf slumped in his chair, defeated. "What must I do?"

Vashti Nimesin smiled coldly. "Many days will pass before Ilyrana is missed. By then, the poison which sent her into confused slumber will have run its course. It will be assumed that she, who has never been out of the Towers, simply lost her way in the forest and perished. Although it is unlikely that dark intent will be suspected, you will provide Kymil with a safeguard story. He left the Towers the day before Ilyrana departed. If any question is raised, you will say that he was hunting at your villa in the Eagle Hills, as your invited guest."

Montagor's thoughts whirled as he worked his way through this puzzle. All his life he had lived with the small intrigues, the endless positioning for power and influence, but never had he suspected that one elf would willingly slay another for gain. He wanted no part in any of it, yet he feared he was as firmly enmeshed as Lady Vashti claimed.

And yet, what would he lose if the Nimesin elves succeeded? Surely the Gold elf would not be content with killing Zaor's daughter. Lydi'aleera would be the next to go-perhaps Lady Nimesin would even require Montagor's hand in the matter! And for all that, what would keep her from eliminating the claimants of clan Amarillis, once the Moonflower elves were removed? No, this was not a path that Montagor could safely tread. He must set Lady Nimesin's foot upon another.

"I fear that this matter has gone beyond the simple remedy you suggest," Montagor said gravely. "As you know, my sister the queen has yet to bear an heir to the throne. You were not the only one to notice the looks that passed between Zaor and Amlaruil Moonflower during his king-making, or to search for possible by-blows of the king."

"What are you saying?" the elf woman demanded.

"Lydi'aleera knows that Amlaruil's daughter is Zaor's heir, and she has already taken steps to have the child brought to the palace for fosterage. Therein lies the problem. The death of a novice priestess might be mistaken as an accident; the death of a secret heir to the throne would certainly attract more scrutiny than either you or I could bear."

"How is this possible? You were surprised to hear of Amlaruil's child!"

Montagor spread his hands. "Forgive me for my prevarication, my lady. I had to feign ignorance, the better to learn the full extent of your knowledge. This is a delicate matter, and I'm sure you can understand."

"Has Lydi'aleera approached the king yet? Has he knowledge of this child?"

"Yes," Montagor said stoutly, praying that he might get word to his sister in time to bolster his plans.

The Gold elf wrung her hands in dismay. "Then all is lost! Had we known of this, Kymil would have chosen another way."

"There is yet a way to turn this around," Montagor said earnestly. "Kymil must find the princess before the poison takes effect, and bring her to the palace. I will swear that he acted all the while in behalf of Lydi'aleera."

"A Nimesin, errand runner for a Gray elf?" Vashti sneered.

"Better than being seen as a murderer and a traitor," Montagor pointed out coldly. "And do not think that you can implicate me in this. I have aided my sister in seeking out Zaor's heir-she will vouch for this! In this task, I have demonstrated my loyalty to the royal family, even placing it over the concerns and claims of Amarillis! In light of this, no one will believe I conspired with you against the crown princess. No, Nimesin will fall alone for this deed, on this you may believe me!"

He gave the elf woman time to absorb this new threat. "There is a way, however, that Nimesin can escape any taint of scandal," he said softly. "More than one Gold elf clan has left Evermeet for Cormanthyr-just last fortnight, every member of Ni'Tessine sailed for the mainland. Join them, and seek there the power that you have forfeited upon this island. If you go, I pledge upon my life and my honor that your secret will never be disclosed."

Lady Vashti glared at him with undisguised hatred. "Very well," she said at last. "Kymil will deliver the bastard princess and grit his teeth as he plays the role of heroic rescuer. Then I and all my house will leave this island. But do not think for a moment that we will cease to work for the good of the People!"

A familiar chill shivered through Montagor at these words, for in them he glimpsed the shadow of deeds yet undone.

Yet he quickly comforted himself with this day's success. Once the Nimesins were safely off the island, he could surely stave off any future attacks. After all, was not Evermeet inviolate?

Lydi'aleera would not be pleased by these developments, but she was a pragmatic elf. Ensuring a strong succession to the throne was vital-that was the first lesson of the moonblades. Moreover, as a barren wife, she could not remain queen forever. Evermeet must have an heir, on that even the Gold elves agreed.

Montagor rose to his feet. "With your permission, Lady Nimesin, I am away to the palace. The queen needs to know that the princess is on her way, sooner than expected."

As he hurried through the streets of Leuthilspar toward the Moonstone Palace, Montagor wryly noted that his last words to Vashti Nimesin held much more truth than the elf woman could know.