"I know that you possess the finest mind of any battlemaster I've met," the ranger insisted.
With a wry grin, Keryth lifted his cup as if to toast himself. "And the strongest sword arm, too."
"We'll contest that matter another day," Zaor retorted good-naturedly. "But if you haven't the sense to pick a battle you've a hope of winning, perhaps I will have to revise my opinion of your skills as battlemaster!"
The friends joined in a brief chuckle. The third member of their trio, a slight, silver-haired Moon elf about Keryth's age, fixed a thoughtful gaze upon Zaor. "You have a plan," he observed.
"A plan? I wouldn't put it quite that high," Zaor said in a dry tone. "A notion, perhaps. If it works, then we'll call it a plan."
"Agreed. What's your notion, then?"
"It seems to me that an elf's worth must be proven, and that there is no time like the moment at hand."
Myronthilar Silverspear nodded, as if this made perfect sense. He put down his cup and swept the tavern with his calm silver gaze. "By Corellon, it looks as if half the city guard drinks in this place!"
"The half that's on duty, no doubt," Keryth put in.
"All the better." Zaor turned to Myronthilar. "You first?"
The small elf lifted a silver brow. "But of course."
Myron hopped lightly from his stool and strolled over to where a cluster of guards, Gold elves all, lolled indolently over a table littered with bottles and goblets. One of them eyed the Moon elf with a supercilious smile, then elbowed his neighbor. He said something that sent a ripple of laughter through the group.
Watching this, Zaor lifted a hand to his lips to hide a smirk. The haughty elves were due for a lesson in the importance of open minds and keen observation. Had they the wit to look beyond their first impression, they would never have discounted the small Moon elf.
There was a remarkable economy about Myronthilar's every movement, a precision and purpose to each step and gesture. He was like a dagger: slender, finely honed, perfectly balanced-and deadly. The results of this encounter, Zaor mused, would be a good start to the necessary reeducation of Evermeet's elves.
Myronthilar stopped and regarded the assembly soberly. "Well met, Saida Evanara," he said politely, regarding a suddenly wary Gold elf female. "I'm afraid I must be the bearer of ill news. Myth Drannor has fallen."
The female's eyes narrowed. "And well I know it. I was there until the final battle ended!"
"Yes, I have heard minstrels sing that tale," Myron said. "Paid minstrels. There are others, though, whose stories claim that you ran like a rat." He looked around the elegant taproom. "Of course, such as they would never perform in so fine an establishment as this."
Saida's face flushed with outrage. "How dare you! Never in my life have I been so insulted!"
"Actually, that is not entirely true. You really ought to listen to a wider range of bardic tales," Myron said helpfully.
One of the guards leaped to his feet and stood menacingly over the diminutive Moon elf. "Have a care how you speak. Saida Evanara is my kinswoman," he said in a low, ominous tone.
"You have my sympathy," the Moon elf returned. "Of course, since none of us can chose our kin, I shall not hold that against you."
The elf scowled and reached for his sword with a slow, dramatic flourish. A look of utter befuddlement crossed his face when his fingers closed around an empty scabbard. His puzzled frown was chased away by an expression of sheer panic as he regarded the length of steel at his throat. It was very familiar steel. Myron had beat him to the draw-and with his own sword!
The Moon elf lifted the "borrowed" blade to his forehead in a mocking salute.
Saida hissed with rage and leaped to her feet. Before she could draw her weapon, Myron tossed her the stolen blade. Instinctively, she caught it, and then lunged. The Moon elf dodged, spun, and parried Saida's second attack-with her sword.
With her free hand, Saida groped at the scabbard at her hip, unwilling to believe the evidence of her eyes. It was indeed empty. Her eyes narrowed with malevolence.
"You're quick, Gray," the Evanara warrior admitted as she shifted into battle stance. "But when I'm finished with you, you'll think you've been stomped by a warhorse!"
"I've heard that," Myron said conversationally. "You really ought to chose lovers less inclined to bemoan their experiences."
"Enough!" snarled the guard whose sword Saida wielded. "By Corellon, I will have your hide tanned for shoe leather!"
The enraged elf leaped at Myronthilar. He never came close. In fact, he never touched the floor. Instead, he found himself gasping for air, his feet dangling, as he looked into the eyes of the biggest elf he had ever seen- a blue-haired giant who held him aloft with one hand by the collar of his uniform, as a boy might hoist a puppy by the scruff of the neck.
"As you can see, the quessir is already engaged," Zaor said, referring to Myron in the term reserved for noble elven males. "If it is the custom of the guard to fight two and three against one, by all means-choose an assortment of your comrades and I will be happy to oblige you."
The elf's face, already red from his struggle for air, turned purple with rage. Three of the guards leaped to their feet and rushed to his defense. The Moon elf casually tossed his captive at them, bringing all four down in a heap.
Myron and Saida were fully engaged now, and the ring and clash of their weapons filled the tavern with grim music. The remaining two guards rose from the table to take the blue-haired elf's challenge. They reached for their swords, only to find that their scabbards were empty, as well.
They whirled. Behind them stood Keryth, a sword in each hand. "Excuse me," he said politely, walking past the bemused elves to hand one of the blades to Zaor. He turned the other sword and offered it hilt-first to its owner.
"My apologies for the inconvenience, but you see, my friend cannot fight you with his own sword. Bad form, you know, using a moonblade in a tavern brawl-especially against honorable People such as yourselves."
In almost comic unison, the guards turned to stare at the sword on Zaor's hip. A mixture of chagrin and grudging respect dawned on their faces. One of the elves, a raven-haired male who wore the insignia of a captain, rose to his feet. He wiped a line of blood from his chin with his sleeve and eyed Zaor with genuine curiosity.
"What's this about, then?"
"I wish to apply for a position in the guard," Zaor said.
A dry chuckle escaped the captain. "You chose an unusual way to do so! Why didn't you just come right out and say you were a moonfighter? No order or regiment would refuse you."
"Had I done so, would you have considered my friends, as well?"
"No," the captain admitted. "Though they are as quick and skilled as any elf under my command."
Zaor tactfully declined to point out the obvious flaw in the captain's claim. "The three of us, then," he pressed.
The Gold elf shrugged. "Done."
At that moment a sharp thud resounded through the tavern. They turned, observing as Saida gritted her teeth and tugged at the blade embedded in the living wood of the tavern wall. Myronthilar, who had just sidestepped her lunge, was examining his fingernails in an exaggerated gesture of patience.
"One more thing. Call off your lieutenant before she takes the edge off her kinsman's blade," Zaor requested dryly.
The captain sniffed, as if in derisive agreement. He slanted a look up at the blue-haired elf. "What your friend said of Saida Evanara's courage in battle-was there any truth to it, or was he merely taunting her to start this fight?"
Zaor shrugged. "As to that, you must judge for yourself. Myronthilar Silverspear's words had a purpose, and they served their purpose well. Saida Evanara is under your command. Her measure is not mine to take."
"Fair enough." The captain cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, "Hold!"
Myron responded instantly, dancing back out of his opponent's reach and dropping his sword to a low guard. He inclined his head to Saida, the respectful gesture
of one fighter to another to mark the end of an honorable practice match.
But the female stood still, her sword poised for a strike and her entire body quivering with rage and indecision.
"I said hold!" snapped the captain. He strode over to the elf woman and seized her wrist. Saida's gaze snapped onto his face. Her eyes grew wary, then guarded.
"On your command," she agreed, then added, "I would not have struck, captain."
The Gold elf searched her face. "I wonder," he murmured.
He dropped her wrist and turned away. "Follow me to the guard's barracks. You have much to learn."
The three Moon elves exchanged triumphant smiles and fell into step behind the captain. But the Gold elf whirled, and fixed a stare upon the company of guards behind them.
"I was talking," he said grimly, "to you."
Lady Mylaerla Durothil, the formidable matriarch who headed the city's most powerful Gold elf clan, regarded her visitor with interest.
She was not a young elf, and had left the midpoint of her mortal life behind many summers past. But she was not too old to appreciate so handsome an elf as the one who sat before her. If the young captain of the guard had charm enough to waste on an old elf woman, why not give him the chance to use it? More, his plan intrigued her.
"You are certain that Ahskahala Durothil is of my kindred?" Mylaerla asked.
"Beyond a doubt," Zaor said stoutly. "I have made a study of the Durothil linage, and can assure you that she, like you, is a direct descendant of the Rolim Durothil who first settled Evermeet. Her ancestors fought against the dragonflight in the year of Malar's Great Hunt. She is a worthy descendant of all these illustrious elves; moreover, she is the finest, fiercest dragonrider I have ever seen."
"Is it so? Then how is it that she survived Myth Drannor's fall, when so many fine, fierce warriors did not?"
It was a hard question, but an important one. Nearly as important was the manner in which Zaor posed the answer. "Ahskahala has little patience with the habits and concerns of city dwellers," he said carefully. "She preferred to live in the wild places, and she served the People of Cormanthyr by guarding the outposts. But for her efforts, the city would have fallen much sooner than it did. More than one marauding band of orcs or goblins met their end due to her diligence. But her dragon was wounded during the early days of the siege, stranding both of them in their mountain lair. When at last they could take flight, the time for battle had passed."
"Hmm. How would we contact this dragonrider?"
Zaor inclined his head in a gesture of respect. "The abilities of House Durothil in matters of communication are legendary. I do not think this task would pose much challenge to your magi."
"Well said. But what makes you think she would come to Evermeet now?" the elf woman asked shrewdly. "What gain would she hope to find here? Power? Honor? Wealth?"
"Ahskahala has seen one elven culture fall. She would not wish the same on another."
Mylaerla blinked, startled by the young warrior's bluntness. "You think it possible that Evermeet could share Myth Drannor's fate?"
"Don't you?"
For a long moment, the elves regarded each other keenly. Then Mylaerla leaned back in her chair, and a mask seemed to drop from her face.
"You are more right than you know about many things, Zaor Moonflower," she said bitterly. "I cannot tell you how weary I am of the Durothil clan's endless concern with magic-aided chitchat. It was not always so. The first dragonrider was a Durothil-the Durothil. Did you know that?"
Not waiting for an answer, she hissed out an earthy curse and shook her head in frustration. "My clan are descendants of Durothil, and what have we become? Effete, tower-bound layabouts, content to waste our brief centuries of life using magic to exchange gossip and to peek into distant bedchambers! Bah!"
Zaor leaned forward. "There are yet dragons on Evermeet, are there not?"
Mylaerla considered this. "I believe so, yes. I've heard talk of fairly recent sightings of a gold and a mated pair of silvers flying above the Eagle Hills." She lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "If Ahskahala is all you say, I doubt she would have much difficulty in training the dragons to this task. My concern is this: How would she deal with the Durothils of Evermeet and their ilk?"
"Your kindred will not have an easy time of it," Zaor admitted.
The elf woman nodded. "Good," she said with grim satisfaction. "In that case, we will send for her at once."
Hearing the dismissal in her words, Zaor rose to leave.
Mylaerla sighed heavily. Something in the sound froze Zaor in the midst of his polite bow of leave-taking. He straightened and met her eyes, nodding encouragement for her to continue.
"This visit has reminded me of many things I should not have forgotten. For one, I have been too long in this city. It has been many years since I climbed the slopes of Eagle Hills. I do not even know for certain whether there still are dragons upon Evermeet!" She looked up at Zaor, and her smile was strangely tentative. "Tell me something, youngling, do you think that even such as I could ride a dragon?"
As she spoke, a wistful expression crept into her eyes and softened her aging face. But her poignant longing did not in the least blunt the steel in her voice or the forceful impact of her presence.
Zaor could not keep the smile from his face. "My lady, I don't think there's a dragon alive who could keep you from it."
The elf woman burst into surprised and delighted laughter. Still smiling warmly, she rose and extended her hand to the young warrior as one adventurer to another. "Then it is settled. The dragonriders will become Evermeet's guardians. Her shores will be kept inviolate."
"As the gods will," Zaor responded fervently.
Mylaerla cocked her head. "I meant what I said, you know, about learning the craft myself. But what of you? Will you be joining those who ride the winds?"
"Regretfully, no. My responsibility lies elsewhere."
Lady Durothil regarded him for a long moment. Then she nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes, it may indeed be so."
17
Heirs of Destiny
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.
Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books) Page 31
