The elf woman watched Nevarth slip away into the silver path of magic, waited until the heat shadow he left behind had faded utterly away. Then she herself began to change. The rich ebony color of her hair leached away, washing down over her skin like spilled ink. She took on height and power in a sudden rush. Her body became more lush, and it gleamed in the lamplight like polished obsidian as she rose from the bed and glided over to a locked chest. From it she took a blood-red scrying bowl. As she knelt and gazed into it, her large blue eyes changed to mirror the malevolent crimson of the ring that Nevarth wore in her honor.
The being known in ages long past as Araushnee studied the bowl intently as the last vestiges of her mortal disguise slipped away. Even with the sharp eyes of a drow, the avatar form of the goddess Lloth, she did not see anything. Nor did she truly expect to. The magic guarding Evermeet was powerful and subtle, and she could not penetrate it even with such magic as she possessed. Nothing that she or her agents had attempted could pierce the shield that Corellon had woven about his children.
Well, Araushnee-or Lloth, as she was now known-had children of her own, and none wove webs more skillfully than she. Beneath the lands that Corellon's children trod, beneath the seas they sailed, her people live in a maze of tunnels so convoluted and intricate that even they themselves could not number all their secrets.
For many hundreds of years, the drow had sought a passage under the seas to Evermeet. Always they had fallen short, for the spells of misdirection protecting the island were powerful. More than once, the work of many years had been ruined in a sudden, terrible flood as the seas rushed in to destroy a too-hasty tunnel. Evermeet had so far remained beyond Lloth's grasping hand.
But Nevarth, dear besotted little elfling that he was, would finally change that. Like so many of Evermeet's elves, he had devoted himself to following the will of this upstart, this Amlaruil.
Lloth hated Evermeet's Grand Mage with a passion that rivalled her loathing for Corellon himself. And yet, she was almost grateful to the Moon elf female. It was Amlaruil, after all, who was opening windows between Evermeet and the rest of Aber-toril.
Windows, that if properly used, could look both ways.
It had been no small thing for Lloth to take on an avatar form so different from her nature, no small thing to play the part of a Moon elf seductress. But if her gambit succeeded, the prize would be worth all the aggravation.
And when Nevarth returned to claim his "beloved," Lloth would take the small, added pleasure of killing the elf, slowly and with exquisite attention to every possible nuance of pain.
A smile of near-contentment crossed the goddess's dark face. Even when compared to her ruling passions-a consuming hatred of elves, a love of power, and an implacable thirst for vengeance-Nevarth's devotion to his precious Amlaruil was a powerful thing. It would give Lloth great pleasure to let him know that not only had he been betrayed, but that he had in turn betrayed Evermeet.
The white whirl and rush of magical travel faded away to be replaced by a deep green haze. As the verdant mist sharpened, Nevarth Ahmaquissar felt the familiar magic of Evermeet's forest reach out to enfold him as if in welcome.
And yet, something did not seem quite right. The elf heard a faint sound, squeals and cries that suggested a wounded animal. He followed the sounds until he stood at the lip of a deep, broad pit. Within the pit, bleeding from a dozen wounds and nearly frantic with pain and terror, was an enormous wild boar.
Nevarth frowned. It was not elven custom to dig pits for hunting, for there was a possibility that an animal might be left wounded and helpless. As he studied the wounded boar, he realized that this was even worse. It appeared that the creature's wounds had been inflicted by elven spears and arrows. The boar had been deliberately hurt, and left here. But why?
The faint sound of elven boots alerted him, and suggested that an answer might be soon in coming. Nevarth darted into the deep foliage, well beyond sight, and crouched down to listen.
"Is the trap in readiness?" inquired a melodious elven voice, a cultured voice belonging to a young male.
Nevarth shifted, trying to catch sight of the speaker, but the thick curtain of leaves blocked his view.
"All is as we discussed," another male responded. "King Zaor will come, and alone. Of that I am certain. When he passes between the twin oaks-as he must, to reach the lodge-the ropes will raise the net beneath the boar. The creature will be free of the pit, and in its pain and madness will attack anything within reach. No single elf, not even Zaor Moonflower, is a match for a wounded boar!"
"It is a fearsome animal, and in fine mettle for a fight," the first elf said. "You have done well, Fenian."
"I hope the creature is too far gone in pain and rage to come under the king's spell," the one called Fenian said in a worried tone. "My father knew Zaor in Cormanthyr. He said that as a ranger, Zaor was without equal. Do you think he can tame that boar?"
The elf laughed. "I doubt it. And even if Zaor should manage to tame or kill the beast, he will not find a smooth path back to Leuthilspar. Other traps await him. And if need arises, well, I'd be more than happy to do the deed myself. My mother bid me not to kill the Moon elf myself- since there is always the possibility of discovery-but I would relish the opportunity for battle. Have I not pledged to see every one of the Gray elf pretenders slain?"
Nevarth could bear no more. He exploded from his hiding place, drawing his sword as he rushed toward the traitorous elves.
The pair of them looked up, startled, as the Moon elf came at them. With a stab of surprise, Nevarth realized that he knew one of them. Fenian Ni'Tessine had left Evermeet with his Gold elf family years ago for the forests of Cormanthyr. The other, younger Gold elf was also familiar, but Nevarth could not place him.
Both elves drew their swords. In unspoken agreement, they whirled away from the onrushing elf, forcing Nevarth to chose a single target. The Moon elf settled on Fenian and came at him, sword held high for a slashing downward stroke.
As Nevarth hoped, Fenian countered, raising his blade to parry. The Moon elf swung down hard, meeting Fenian's sword with enough force to send sparks darting off into the forest shadows. Before the Gold elven traitor could recover from the blow and disengage his blade, Nevarth snatched a long knife from his belt and stepped in under the joined swords.
The second elf's sword thrust in hard, slashing a deep gash across the back of Nevarth's knife hand and spoiling his killing stroke. The Moon elf threw his arm wide and somehow managed to land a wild backhand punch to the attacker's face. He spun away, then faced the pair of Gold elves head on. They stalked in like hunting cats, swords before them.
Nevarth did what he could, but his two blades could not match the swords of the Gold elven traitors. Again and again they broke through his guard, their swords leaving long and bloody trails across his arms, his chest, his face.
Still Nevarth fought on, not only for his life, but for that of the king. He had to survive, or Zaor would walk into a traitor's snare.
A female voice called his name, and suddenly Nevarth knew the fight was won. "That is Amlaruil-the Grand Mage," he informed the elves, speaking the words between the rapid exchange of blows. "You are as good as dead."
A look of deep hatred swept the face of the younger elf, but he danced back beyond the reach of Nevarth's sword. "Fenian, to the trees! Let the king's whore find her slain champion. You can bring her down with an arrow while she mourns him!"
Nevarth thought this a bit presumptuous, considering that he was far from dead. Yet even as the thought formed, the Gold elf whirled forward, his sword flashing up and around so rapidly that its path seemed to linger as a solid, silvery circle. Nevarth did not feel the cut, but dimly he felt the blood-soaked ground rush up to meet him. In some distant, fading part of his mind he saw the Gold elf sheath his blade and melt into the forest.
He tried to warn Amlaruil, tried to wave her away, tried to bid her no when she knelt beside him. But his limbs were so terribly cold, and they would no
longer answer his will. No words could rise through his torn throat.
He thought, briefly, of his Araushnee, but oddly enough he could not bring to mind an image of her face. The light faded from before his eyes, until all that was left to him was an image of the glowing ruby on his hand, and a deep, terrible sense of failure. Amlaruil would die because of him.
Yes, she will die, and all of Corellon's children with her, exulted a familiar dark-velvet voice in his mind.
Nevarth heard Amlaruil's startled intake of breath, and realized that she, too, heard the silent voice. And then he was gone, spinning away from his torn body.
Amlaruil stared in disbelief at the dead elf, her mind whirling as she tried to sort through what had happened. He had been in fierce battle-she had heard the clash of swords from the lodge nearby. His enemies could not have gone far. And what of that terrible, malevolent voice, the sense of dark and evil magic that hung about him like a miasma?
Answers she must have, no matter how they were gotten. Amlaruil took a deep breath and prepared to do what was anathema to any elf: interfere with the afterlife of another. To delay the passage to Arvandor, for any reason, was a terrible thing. But Amlaruil was certain that this she must do.
She was no priestess, yet her connection to the Seldarine was deep and direct. Amlaruil sent her thoughts along the path to Arvandor, the same path that Nevarth was surely taking.
In the gray mist between the mortal world and the immortal, she felt the uncertain spirit of the Moon elf agent. Urgently she demanded to know what had happened. Nevarth told her without words, transferring his thoughts, his fears and failures. He gave her the name he knew-Fenien-and warned her there were other traitors. He yielded his regrets, his hopes, his dearest dreams. As the information surged into her mind, one thing stood out-a name from the ancient mythos of her people. A sense of dread and terror filled Amlaruil as she realized what Nevarth had brought with him to Evermeet. Yet as his spirit drifted away, his final and most urgent message was not of the goddess Araushnee, but of an immediate and mortal danger.
Acting on instinct, Amlaruil thrust Nevarth's body aside and rolled away. Two arrows, in rapid succession, plunged into the dead Moon elf.
The High Mage sprang to her feet, her blue eyes blazing with battle light and her hands outstretched. A small pulse of power burst from her fingertips and sizzled upward along the path that the arrow had taken. A cry of pain rang out through the forest, and the trees overhead rustled as the hidden foes drew away.
For a moment, Amlaruil was tempted to pursue. Yet another, more pressing matter weighed upon her. Zaor was in grave danger. Nevarth did not know the location or the nature of all the traps these traitors had laid for the king, so Amlaruil could do little to forestall them. She did not know where Zaor himself might be, nor did she have any means of reaching him through magic.
But there was one who did. Amlaruil steeled herself for the confrontation ahead. Never, not once, had she faced Zaor's consort. Yet Lydi'aleera wore an elfrune attuned to the king, a gift from the Towers fashioned by Amlaruil herself.
The High Mage stooped and gathered Nevarth's torn body in her arms. Eyes closed, she murmured the phrase that would summon the silver threads of magic, and carry them both to the very heart of the elven court.
A jangle of harpstrings and a shriek of mixed terror and disgust was Amlaruil's welcome to the Moonstone Palace. She opened her eyes and looked up into the white, startled face of Zaor's queen.
The spell Amlaruil cast was designed to bring her to the presence of the elfrune's wearer. She had come upon Queen Lydi'aleera at a time when the queen was alone and at leisure, amusing herself in a chamber filled with artworks and with wondrous musical instruments. The queen had sprung to her feet, upending both the padded bench on which she had been sitting and the golden harp before her. Her wide, staring eyes were fixed upon the slain elf.
With all the dignity she could muster, Amlaruil rose to face Zaor's consort. She was keenly aware of the flare of resentment in Lydi'aleera's eyes as she recognized her visitor, and the disdain on the elf woman's face as she took in Amlaruil's disheveled appearance and bloodstained robes.
"Forgive me for this intrusion, my lady," Amlaruil began, "but this is a matter of great urgency. You must contact the king at once."
Lydi'aleera's chin came up. "Who are you, to tell me what I must do?" she said with a mixture of hatred and hauteur that might have been chilling, had Amlaruil not had far greater concerns.
The mage snatched up the queen's small, white hand and turned it so the elfrune was apparent. "With this ring you can speak to Zaor. Do so now, or he will die! There are traitors and traps awaiting him-I know not exactly how many or where they might be! But he must turn back at once. At once!"
The urgency in Amlaruil's voice finally began to pierce the cloud of resentment that seemed to enshroud the queen. A small, sly smile lifted the corners of her lips.
"Very well, I will do as you suggest," the queen agreed, "but at a price."
Amlaruil reeled back, staring in disbelief. "You would put a price upon Zaor's life?" she demanded.
"Is not my life of value?" Lydi'aleera returned in a shrill, tight voice. "What of me? Am I utterly without worth, that I must sit by and see another woman's child made my husband's heir?"
"If you do not act now then Ilyrana will inherit sooner than any of us would like," the mage pointed out, taking another tact.
"Do not place that little witch upon my conscience," the queen hissed. "She is none of my doing, and I swear that she will not have the throne! She will not!"
"That is in the hands of the gods. Zaor's life, however, is in your hands. Name your price, and quickly," Amlaruil said, willing to do anything to calm the queen.
Lydi'aleera seemed to sense this. A faint, feral smile lit her thin face. "Very well. I want you to give me a potion that will make Zaor hold no image in his heart but mine, and another that will enable me-me! — to conceive an heir to Evermeet's throne!"
21
The Sword of Zaor
"How can you ask this now?" Amlaruil said in disbelief. "How can you think of anything at all but the fact that the king is in danger?"
"I would give Zaor a lawful heir!" Lydi'aleera said implacably. "Surely you, the King's most devoted subject, could desire no less for him."
"Zaor already has an heir, as well you know! You have taken my daughter from me. How much more will you demand?"
"Just a bit of magic," Lydi'aleera said, shrugging negligently. "A potion. Any wood-witch or commoner crone could put together a few herbs and create the same effect."
"If you believe that to be so, then why do you trouble me for this magic, but for spite?"
Lydi'aleera's pale faced flamed. "Remember your place, mage, and have a care how you speak to me!"
"My place is in the Towers," Amlaruil said in a tight voice. "Permit me to return there at once."
The queen stepped forward, her hand outstretched so that Amlaruil could see the enchanted ring. Her pale eyes were set with resolve. "Go then. But do so knowing that you have been the death of your beloved king! Give me what I desire, and I will alert him of danger. If you do not pledge to do as I say, he will die, and be lost to us both. I would rather have it so, than remain as things are."
The two elf women locked eyes in a silent, bitter battle. Finally Amlaruil bowed her head, defeated. "You have my pledge. Alert the king, and I will make you your potions."
Smiling in triumph, the queen lifted the ring to her lips and spoke a single arcane word. The ring began to glow with faint, fey light. In a moment, Zaor's voice drifted into the room.
"How may I serve you, Queen Lydi'aleera?" inquired the voice in formal, distant tones.
"My lord king, I have grave news," the queen said, a faint smirk on her lips as she held Amlaruil's gaze. "Are you alone to hear it?"
"There are none with me."
At these words, Amlaruil's concern increased fourfold. What possessed the king to go
into the forest alone? Where were his soldiers? Where was Myronthilar Silverspear, his pledged guard?
"You must retrace your path at once," Lydi'aleera said. "Gold elf traitors have planned that an accident befall you."
"That is most unlikely," the king said impatiently.
The queen's expression tightened. "Even so, it is true. I have before me a messenger from the Towers of the Sun and the Moon. The magi have foreseen this plot, and sent word."
There was a moment's silence. "I cannot return to the palace, but thank the magi for their diligence."
Amlaruil sprang forward and seized the queen's hand. "Zaor, you must!" she said urgently. "They have laid traps for you! I saw one myself, near the lodge at the Lake of Dreams, and one of my agents heard the conspirators speak of others! There are armed elves awaiting you, as well-two that I know of, perhaps more. How is it that you are alone, leaving no word where you go?"
"Amlaruil?" his voice said, brightening with hope. "Did you hear any word of our sons? Xharlion and Zhoron? Are they yet alive?"
Suddenly the mage understood what had lured the king into the forest. "I have come this day from Craulnober Keep," she assured him. "The boys are well, and safe. This is but a cruel ruse to draw you off alone!"
"Thank the gods," Zaor said fervently. "I will return to Leuthilspar at once."
The light in Lydi'aleera's ring winked out. "He would not consider the warning on the merit of my words alone," the queen said bitterly. "Oh no. He listens only to the mother of his children! Well, you will lose your sole claim to that place soon enough."
Amlaruil did not offer comment. "With your permission, I must return to the Towers. I will have the potions sent to you."
"Oh, no," the queen said softly. "You will bring them yourself, and place them into my hand. If there were a way to do so without offending proprieties, I would have you stay and witness the results, from the first sip of wine to the birth of Evermeet's true heir!"
The High Mage turned away, unable to face the cruelty in the elf woman's face. She fled from the chamber with no thought to dignity, and ran headlong into a flame-haired elf just entering the room.
Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books) Page 39
