Evermeet

by Elaine Cunningham

  Gone, too, was all hope of an organized defense. Wizards aboard all the ships loosed countering weapons. Massive fireballs tore toward the red dragons, meeting answering fire in bursts of multicolored light and shattering explosions of sound. Enchanted arrows flew from bows passed down by ancient heroes as the fighters sought the vulnerable eyes and wide-flung mouths of the attacking wyrms.

  The Circle did what they could, following Jannalor’s lead and lending their combined strength to one elven attack after another. But the dragons were simply too many. They battered the elven vessels with magic, swooped down and caught up elven fighters in their talons, slashed at the sails with their rending teeth and talons, and slammed the crystal hulls with their own enormous bodies. They fought in near-frenzy, driven by their own desperate hunger and the compelling, mysterious urging of the dragonflight.

  Nor did the Starwings’ defensive stance aid the magi, for there was no one attack to which to lend their strength. One after another, the ships were shattered by dragonfire, or melted by the terrible clouds of acid breath, or left so damaged or bereft of crew that they were forced to limp down toward the sea.

  A sudden surge of magic, like sunlight breaking through winter clouds, flooded the joined minds of the Circle’s elves. As one, they soared upward in thought to seek its source.

  Winging toward the battle in precise formation were thirty gold and silver dragons, each bearing an elven warrior.

  Amlaruil’s lips curved in a triumphant smile. She recognized the formidable Lady Mylaerla Durothil. The matron sat astride a venerable silver and looked as if she’d been born to battle. The grim, Gray elf woman who rode at her right wing tip could only be the legendary Ahskahala. With such heroes as these fighting for Evermeet, surely victory would not be long in coming!

  Yet even as she watched, lending her magic to the Circle as Jannalor wove a net of power that supported the dragonriders like a favorable wind, Amlaruil realized that the battle would not be easily won.

  The dragonriders came in from above, attacking the invaders with great, swooping dives and pulses of magical power. But the evil dragons countered with their own fearful weapons. Amid the terrible confusion of blood and steel and flame and smoke and magic, pairs of the gigantic creatures grappled in the sky. Here and there the entwined dragons plummeted from the fiery clouds, only to be swallowed by the waiting sea.

  Above the roar of the embattled dragons and the answering shouts of elven fighters, a shrill, distant voice took up the elven battle cries. Giant eagles, nearly as large as some of the dragons, hurtled down from the sky. Leading them was a wondrous golden female, and on her back rode Zaor Moonflower. His wild dark blue hair streaked behind him like a storm cloud, and the moonblade he brandished blazed with arcane fire.

  Amlaruil instinctively reached out to him. Her magic strengthened his arm as he slashed out to meet the snapping jaws of a red dragon. The sword slapped the dragon’s head to one side, and the hooked beak of Zaor’s eagle partner sank deep into the vulnerable neck.

  The young mage felt the swell of gathering magic nearby, and she flashed her attention to the small black dragon who drew breath for an attack upon the deadly eagle-rider. Amlaruil sensed the moonblade’s protective shield, and she lent her magic to calling it forth. The dragon spat acid in a fetid stream. It hit the moonblade-created shield and dissolved into a foul smelling cloud, as easily as a cup of water might be dispersed if tossed upon a dwarven forge.

  Deep into the magic of Zaor’s sword Amlaruil went, finding its secrets and lending her magic to his strength. Unknowing, she slipped free of her place in the Circle and bound herself instead to ties still deeper and more mystical. Yet in a distant corner of her mind, she could still hear Jannalor’s voice, still feel the wondering thoughts of the magi as they focused their efforts upon bolstering the new and powerful Center who had unexpectedly taken over the course of the battle.

  Zaor seemed to be everywhere, his sword flashing and diving as he battled the invading dragons. He and his magnificent eagle worked together as if one creature. Dimly, Amlaruil could hear the elf’s voice as he shouted encouragement and instruction to the aptly named WindShriek. But more than that, she felt the distinctive magic of the elven isle itself pulsing through Zaor’s moonblade, and binding the defenders together. It was a magic she knew, for it coursed through her body and sang in her veins.

  Nor was she the only one to sense the power of Zaor and his sword. The other eagles, even the dragonriders, rallied to the Moon elf warrior as the magic of the king sword subtly reached out to touch and inspire each child of Evermeet.

  The eagles attacked relentlessly, gouging the invading dragons with their hooked beaks and shredding at their leathery wings with talons as long and sharp as any sword. The eagles swooped down in groups of two and three, slamming into the dragons as the dragons had in turn attacked the elven ships.

  Not all of the giant birds survived. A burst of dragonfire caught one of the eagles in mid-dive, filling the air with a spray of golden feathers, and the stench of charred flesh. Another spun down to the sea, a broken wing hanging over the long bloody gash that scored its side so deeply that it exposed a neat row of bones.

  But at last the battle was over. A single elven ship, a dozen pairs of dragonriders and wyrms, and less than a score of giant eagles winged wearily back toward the island. They left behind skies still dark with smoke, and a sea that still steamed and seethed from the burning destruction of the ships and the gigantic warriors.

  Slowly, gently, Jannalor Nierde reclaimed control of the Circle from the young mage.

  We have yet another task to do, one that will challenge our remaining strength. You were all bound up with the magic of the goodly dragons—you know that those few who survive are without exception gravely wounded. We must put them into healing slumber, else all will die, the Grand Mage said somberly.

  I will take half the Circle—all the males, let us say—to the tower at Sumbrar. Some of the more gravely wounded dragons will surely stop there, at the nearest land. There are hidden caves where they can sleep. Nakiasha, take the others to the Eagle Hills, and do the same.

  In response, the elves eased away from their shared Circle and reformed the magical ties into two groups. Along with the other female magi, Amlaruil focused her will into the casting of the spell that would carry them along magic’s silver path to the Eagle Hills.

  It was the first time she had experienced magical travel. White light enveloped her in a sudden, dizzying whirl. Swept into the vortex, Amlaruil held tight to the threads of magic that bound her to her Circle—and the deeper, more personal tie that guided her to the place she needed to go.

  As the magic faded away, Amlaruil felt the chill sweep of wind against her face. She opened her eyes cautiously, and found that she and her Circle were standing perhaps halfway up the western slope of a mountain. Above them wheeled and soared five silver dragons, and one great gold. Following them like bright shadows were the eagles.

  The gold dragon was clearly in trouble. One wing was badly tattered. Torn flesh showed through the gap where melted scales dripped like liquid gold down his wounded flank. Ahskahala was not in much better shape. Her face was blackened with soot and dried blood, and much of her hair and tunic had been singed away. Zaor and his eagle partner kept close to the wounded dragon’s side. Through senses still attuned to the warrior, Amlaruil heard his voice, felt his sword’s magic, joined in bracing harmony as they urged the faltering wyrm on.

  The dragon that Zaor called Haklashara lumbered to the ground, hitting far too hard and skidding painfully over the rock-strewn hillside. His head—now bereft of one of its proud, curling horns, twisted back to regard his elven partner. An oddly contented smile curved his reptilian maw as he noted that Ahskahala still held her seat.

  Amlaruil rushed forward and caught the wounded elf woman as she fell. “You must speak to the dragon, help him find his way into the cave,” she urged as she lowered Ahskahala to the ground. “We will
put him into deep, magical slumber. He will heal, and live to serve Evermeet again.”

  The warrior’s red-rimmed eyes fastened on Amlaruil’s face. “I will join him,” she croaked.

  “But—”

  “I will join him,” Ahskahala said in a stronger voice, one that neither invited nor permitted argument. “Haklashara and I will heal together, and awaken together. You must do this, mage!”

  A gentle hand rested on Amlaruil’s shoulder. She knew before looking up that Zaor had come to her side. “She will not live, else,” he said softly.

  The young mage nodded. Zaor swept the dragonrider up into his arms, and the three elves made their way into the cave, followed by the gravely wounded dragon.

  When they were deep within the mountain, Ahskahala called a halt. She gritted her teeth as Zaor lowered her carefully to the ground, then looked with contentment at the stone chamber, and the dragon who curled around her like a gigantic cat preparing to nap.

  “It is well. Here we will stay until Evermeet’s need is as grave as it was this day. When and if that day comes, call us forth.”

  The warrior took a ring from her hand and gave it to Zaor. “Speak my name, my lord, and the dragonriders will answer your call. If the gods are kind and the day long in coming, you must give this ring to whosoever rules after you.”

  “You know,” Zaor said in wonderment.

  A faint smile crossed the elf woman’s blackened face. “If one so dense as Haklashara can see what you are, do you think that I cannot?”

  “I heard that, elf,” the dragon rumbled.

  With a soft chuckle, Ahskahala leaned back against her partner’s scaly side. “Go about your work, mage. We are very tired.”

  A moment of pure panic threatened to claim Amlaruil. The spell that she must cast was High Magic, an enchantment so powerful that it could not be safely cast outside of the strength and support of a Circle. And that was considering just the spell for the dragon alone; to send an elf into endless revery was more difficult still.

  And yet, what else could she do? The dragon and elven heroes would die before Amlaruil could gather the other elves, who, for that matter, would be busy with their other dragon charges.

  The mage took a long breath to steady her resolve, then sank deep into the magic. She called forth the spell, her body swaying and her hands gesturing gracefully as she chanted, summoning the threads of magic and weaving them into the needed pattern. As she worked, she could feel the silvery web take shape, and then sink down over the pair of warriors like a comforting blanket.

  Swept up in the power of the magic, Amlaruil had no sense of the passing of time. Nor did she feel the hunger or exhaustion that so often plagued the magi after the workings of the Circle. If anything, she felt invigorated by the flow of magic.

  Almost regretfully, she released herself from the spell and left Ahskahala and her dragon friend to their long slumber. Without speaking, she and Zaor made their way from the cave.

  The mountainside was deserted when they emerged, and the sunset colors stained the distance hills. “The others must have returned to the Towers,” Amlaruil murmured. “Working together, they could have completed the task faster than one alone.”

  After a moment’s silence, Zaor reached out and took her hands in his. “I felt you with me during the battle, you know. Your magic, your strength.”

  The elf woman nodded. The bond that had formed between them still sang in her blood and filled her soul. A shy smile curved her lips as she looked into the warrior’s searching eyes and saw a similar knowledge there.

  Amlaruil did not return to the Towers that night, nor did Zaor turn his steps southward toward the fortress at Ruith. In a stone chamber in the heart of Evermeet, bathed in the soft light of the king sword, they acknowledged what both had known from their first meeting. That night, with words and with loving actions, they pledged themselves gladly to the future. They belonged to each other, and together, to Evermeet.

  With the coming of dawn’s first light, the lovers said their farewells, each content in the knowledge that their joined destiny would surely bring them back into each other’s arms.

  Amlaruil stood long at the mouth of the cave and watched the warrior descend the mountain, hurrying toward a handful of surviving dragonriders who had gathered in the valley below.

  Despite all Zaor had told her of his leave-taking from Lightspear Keep, Amlaruil had little fear that censure awaited him. For one thing, Captain Horith Evanara’s ship was gone, crushed into shards of crystal by the weight of a falling dragon. Even had the Captain survived, he could not have denied that Zaor Moonflower was one of the battle’s true heroes. Without the dragonriders, without the giant eagles, the flight of evil dragons would have slipped through Evermeet’s shields and laid waste the island.

  And more than that, Amlaruil had faith in the destiny whispered to her by the moonblade Zaor carried. He was destined to rule, and she with him.

  Bright dreams filled her thoughts as she summoned the silver path that would carry her back to the Towers. But as the whirl and rush of the magic travel faded, she was greeted by the sound of anguished elven mourning.

  High, wordless keening filled the air as the elves of the Towers gave themselves over to grief. Amlaruil gathered up her skirts and ran for the Tower of the Sun. She burst into the lower chamber, in which stood a single elf, draped and cowled in the robes of the Grand Mage of the Towers.

  “Jannalor! What happened? What is wrong?” she cried.

  “Hush, child.” To Amlaruil’s surprise, the voice belonged not to Jannalor, but to Nakiasha. The forest elf turned to face the young mage, and lowered the cowl that obscured her tear-streaked face. “Do not speak his name while his spirit is yet so near to Evermeet, lest he turn away from Arvandor for love of you.”

  To the young mage, this seemed impossible. For as long as she had lived—nearly three and a half centuries—Jannalor Nierde had ruled the Towers of the Sun and Moon. His calm presence seemed as constant and predictable as the dawn.

  “Surely he is not dead!” she protested.

  “Along with the other magi who ensorcelled the dragons,” Nakiasha said sadly. “The task was too great, the magic that bound us all together too strained by the battle and by our far distance from each other. You were not part of the Circle, so you could not know. But each of the five magi who went with us to the Eagle Hills attended the silver dragons in separate, distant chambers among the caves. I felt them die when the enchantment was done, yet I could do nothing to save them.”

  Amlaruil stared at her mentor, her thoughts spinning in confusion and stunned grief. Among the magi were many of her closest friends, and nearest kin. “How then do you and I still live? It does not seem possible. It does not seem—”

  “Right?” the older elf finished. “Do not think that I have not asked that same question, many times. But to do so is to doubt the will of the gods. You and I, Amlaruil, carry the special blessing of the Seldarine. How old do you think me?”

  The girl blinked, startled by the seeming non sequitur. “You are past midlife, perhaps in your fifth century.”

  Nakiasha snorted. “Double that, you’d be closer. It will be much the same for you. Do not look so doubtful! You have lived three centuries and more, yet most who behold you take you for a maiden fresh from childhood. And what of your power? You should not have been able to cast the spell upon the dragon alone, and yet you did. You survived, even while those joined in a Circle could not bear the flow of magic. It is a hard fact, but you must accustom yourself to it, for it is your destiny. As is this.”

  The forest elf shrugged off the Grand Mage mantle and came forward to drape it over Amlaruil’s shoulders. “It was the will of he who ruled these Towers that you succeed him. I but kept it in trust for your arrival.”

  Amlaruil stared at her mentor, unable to take in all that she had said. “But I am pledged elsewhere,” she whispered.

  “Are you, now?” Nakiasha looked at her shrewdly.
“Ah. I see the way of it. The young warrior whom you supported through the battle, is it not?

  “Even so,” the sorceress said briskly, not awaiting an answer. “Was the nature of your pledge merely that of a young lover, or she who wishes to serve all her People?”

  “Must I choose between them?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Amlaruil’s fingers tangled in the folds of the Grand Mage’s mantle, as if uncertain whether to draw it close or cast it aside. Yet there was no denying Nakiasha’s words. The promises that she and Zaor had exchanged during the long, sweet hours of the night sang in her heart, and she would hold true to them. They were pledged to each other—and to the service of Evermeet.

  In her heart, Amlaruil knew herself to be Zaor’s true queen. But surely a long and difficult road lay before Zaor before he was acclaimed Evermeet’s king. Perhaps she could best serve his destiny by accepting that which had been laid upon her by the former Grand Mage.

  The elf maid lifted her head in an unconscious gesture of command. “We must gather the magi. With so many of us gone, there is much that must be done to rebuild the strength of the Towers, and to lift the spirits of those who remain.”

  A faint smile, one that was both proud and sad, crossed Nakiasha’s face. Jannalor Nierde had chosen well—Amlaruil filled the mantle of power as if she had been fashioned for the task. The sorceress bowed her head in a gesture of respect, and followed the new Grand Mage out into the Tower courtyard.

  18

  For the Good of the People

  he 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.