Zaor sighed and lowered his gaze to the fresh blanket of snow, willing his mind to imitate the smooth, untroubled surface.
His eyes narrowed as they fell upon a strange mark. The elf dropped to one knee to examine it more closely. The mark was like that of a horse’s hoof, but slightly cloven and far more delicate. And it was not so much a print, but a glittering shadow upon the snow.
Only one creature would leave such a trail. Wonder—a feeling that Zaor had thought was forever banished from his heart—flowed over him in rippling waves. Silently, carefully, the ranger followed the silvery prints deep into the forest and into a snow-shrouded glade.
The sight before him stole his breath. Two unicorns—wondrous creatures whose coats were so white as to render them nearly invisible against the unblemished snow—broke away from the pristine background. They minced toward the center of the glade, tossing their silvery horns and nickering softly.
This was wonder enough, but Zaor found his eyes lingering less on the rare and magical creatures than on the pair of elven maidens who awaited the unicorns with outstretched hands.
Both of the maidens were Moon elves, and by the looks of them initiates of some religious order. They were clad in simple white robes and swathed in white cloaks, and there was a stillness about them that came only with strenuous training and great personal discipline. With their snow-colored garments, milky skin and bright red tresses, they looked like statues fashioned from ice and flame.
Zaor watched, barely breathing, as the unicorns came up and nuzzled the maidens’ outstretched hands. One of them, a tall girl whose hair fell in a riot of tangled curls about her shoulders, sprang onto her unicorn’s back.
“Come, Amlaruil,” she chided when the other girl held back. “Why do you wait? The unicorns have accepted us—we can leave behind the stuffy towers for good and all, and seek adventure at last!”
The other girl’s face was wistful, but she shook her head even as she caressed the second unicorn’s silky mane. “You know I cannot, Ialantha. This is your dream, and I wish you well of it, but my place is elsewhere.” She smiled up at her friend. “Think of me, from time to time, when you are captain of the unicorn riders.”
The girl called Ialantha snorted, as if amused by such visions of grandeur. “All I want is a bit of excitement and an open sky! A year and a day—that is all the service a unicorn will give! And after that, I will be on to the next adventure.”
“We can set our feet upon a path, but we cannot always choose where that path might take us,” Amlaruil said seriously. She reached out and patted her friend’s fey mount. “I think you have found not only a year’s partner, but a destiny.”
Ialantha’s eyes widened. “You have seen this for me, then?”
The girl hesitated. “There is need for unicorn riders,” she said carefully. “I think this unicorn has chosen well. You could ride before you could walk, and you were reaching for a sword before you could do either! No one in the Towers rides or fights as well as you. Who better than you to revive the old ways, and to train and command the swordmaidens?”
“Who indeed?” Ialantha echoed teasingly. Her face turned serious, and she extended her hand to her friend. The girls clasped wrists with the gravity of warriors.
Ialantha lifted her white hood to conceal her bright hair, and then tapped her heels against the unicorn’s sides. The creature reared, pawing the air with hoofs as delicate as the falling snow. With the speed of thought, the unicorn and her rider melted away into the forest. The second, riderless unicorn followed like a white shadow.
After a moment, Amlaruil turned toward the thicket where Zaor crouched. “You might as well come out now,” she said in a clear, bell-like voice. “I will do you no harm.”
Zaor’s first response was mingled surprise and chagrin that the elf maid perceived his presence so easily. Then the irony of her remark struck Zaor as rather amusing. The girl seemed to be little more than a child, and slim as a birch tree and by all appearances fragile as a dream. She might make half his weight, had she been soaking wet.
But he rose and entered the clearing, stopping several paces from her as propriety demanded.
He managed a bow that he thought would not disgrace him too badly. “Zaor Moonflower, at the etrielle’s service,” he said, using the polite term for an elven female of honorable birth and character.
The girls’ large, blue eyes lit up like stars. “Oh! Then we are kin! I am of the Moonflower clan, also. How is it we have never met?”
Zaor managed, just barely, to hold her gaze. “I am recently come from Cormanthyr.”
He steeled himself for the usual barrage of questions, or the formal expressions of regret, or the words of acclaim lavished upon the “heroes” of Myth Drannor. To his relief, the girl merely nodded. “That explains it, then. My name is Amlaruil.”
“I heard.”
“I know.” Her sudden smile lent her face such beauty that Zaor had to drop his eyes to keep from staring. A moment before, she had seemed nothing but a skinny child with long red-gold plaits of hair and huge, serious eyes. The fleeting smile transformed her into the reflection of a goddess.
Zaor took a moment to compose his thoughts. “You spoke of a Tower.”
“Yes. I am a student of High Magic at the Towers of the Sun and Moon. They are not far from here.”
The ranger frowned. “I have never seen these towers.”
“Nor will you, unless you know where to look.” The girl laughed at the aggrieved expression that crossed Zaor’s face. “Do not take offense—the magic that shields the towers hides them even from the birds and wood nymphs. But rest assured, you will see them one day.”
Zaor’s brows lifted at this odd pronouncement. There was a strange note in her voice as she spoke these last few words, an abstracted tone that had been missing a moment before.
“You sound very certain of this. Can you read portents, then?” he asked, thinking to humor the child.
“Sometimes,” she said in all seriousness. “It is easier to do if the person carries an object of power. I do not know why that is, but it is so.”
Her eyes fell to the sword on Zaor’s hip. Although sheathed, the ornate hilt with its crowning moonstone gem was clearly visible. Before Zaor could divine her intent, she reached out and ran her fingertips over the smooth, milky surface of the stone.
With an oath, Zaor jerked away. No one could safely touch such a sword but the wielder—surely the foolish child knew that!
But apparently she did not. Amlaruil regarded him in surprise, her eyes wide. After a moment Zaor realized that she had gone unscathed. The slender fingers that by all rights should have been blackened by a blast of killing magic were as smooth and white as the winter snow.
For some reason, this shook Zaor almost as deeply as the thought that the girl had come to harm through his carelessness. “You should never touch such a sword,” he told her sternly. “This is a moonblade, and can mean death to any but he who wields it.”
Amlaruil’s eyes grew still wider. “A moonblade. Oh, then that explains …” Her voice trailed off uncertainly and her gaze slid to one side.
“You really did see something, didn’t you?” he asked, intrigued.
The girl nodded, her face grave. “This is the king sword. Who rules this sword, will also rule Evermeet.”
Zaor stared at her, not wanting to believe the words she spoke with such uncanny certainty. Yet there was something about the girl that lent weight to her words. He believed her, even if he did not wish to do so.
“There is nothing of the king about me,” he said dully. How could there be? It was the final duty of any elven king to die for his people. Myth Drannor lay dead, and he stood hale and unblemished, half a world away in the glades of Evermeet. “My children, perhaps, might someday serve—that is, if their mother can make up for my lacks.”
“Perhaps,” she echoed in a tone that gave away nothing of her thoughts.
Zaor shook aside the girl’s
troubling pronouncement and turned to something that lay closer to his ken. “You touched the sword without harm. How can that be?”
Suddenly, Amlaruil did not look so much a child as she had a moment before. A faint flush stained the snow of her cheeks. “As to that, I cannot say,” she murmured.
“Cannot, or will not?” Zaor pressed.
Again, that incandescent smile. “Yes,” was all she said.
The elves joined in a burst of laughter. It seemed to Zaor that suddenly the burden that had weighed down his heart for so long was easier to bear.
After the shared laughter faded, they stood gazing at each other for a long moment. Amlaruil was first to break the silence. “I must return to the Towers. I have been away too long.”
“We will meet again, though?”
The girl hesitated, as if not sure how to answer. Then slowly, deliberately, she reached out and curled her fingers around the hilt of Zaor’s sword.
And then she was gone, disappearing into the forest as quickly and silently as the elusive unicorns.
In the white silence of the woodland glade, Zaor bowed his head and struggled to absorb what had just happened. In the passing of a few moments, his life had been utterly changed. One burden—the terrible load of guilt and grief—had been lifted; another, still greater burden had taken its place.
Amlaruil’s vision for him was beyond anything Zaor had ever imagined. Even so, he found he had no desire to shy away from it.
The ranger turned and headed southward with a swift and determined stride. All that he had seen and suffered, all the lessons he had learned to his sorrow, he would share. He would find a way to make the complacent elves of Leuthilspar hear what he had to say. Evermeet would not suffer the same fate as Myth Drannor, not while Zaor Moonflower lived.
Even as he made this silent vow, Zaor drew the moonblade—the king sword—from its sheath. He was not surprised to note that a new rune was etched upon the blade. Amlaruil’s vision was now his own, and the magical sword he carried had responded with the needed power. No longer did he fear or doubt the destiny before him.
Who ruled the sword, would also rule Evermeet.
Keryth Blackhelm shook his head. “It won’t work, Zaor,” he said ruefully. “I’m too young—I’ve yet to reach my first centennial! Nor am I nobly born. By the gods, I can’t even name my father, much less trace my ancestors back into Faerie and beyond! The Leuthilspar guard will have nothing to do with the likes of me, and you know it well.”
“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 well 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 this 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 engag
ed 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.
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