Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books)

by Elaine Cunningham

  "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 play
ing 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."