“In resigning as High Councilor,” Lady Durothil continued, “I do not suggest that the Council itself be dissolved. But mark me, its role, like my own, must change.”
“Lady Durothil,” interrupted Saida Evanara in a supercilious voice. “With or without you, the Council has ruled Evermeet for centuries untold. It is tradition. What you suggest is absurd.”
“Is it?” the matron said tartly. “Perhaps my time in the Eagle Hills has given me the distance needed for clear sight. Do you wish to discuss absurdity? Very well. While this council in my absence debated a course of action, while the commanders of the various forces scrambled for personal glory, a flight of dragons came within a day’s ship-travel from our shores! Your own kinsman, Horith Evanara, was slain in this battle. Had he not acted as he did, going into battle without either consulting the council or summoning the dragonriders, we would not have before us the task of choosing his replacement!”
“As to that, I do not see why the council should debate this matter. The command should fall to me,” Saida stated, seizing upon the one item in Lady Durothil’s speech of personal interest. “Perhaps I am have not been long in Evermeet, but in my clan I stand next to Horith in military rank and experience.”
“The Nierde clan is not unique in producing able warriors,” Francessca Silverspear pointed out. “Nor are you, Saida, the only elf seated here who fought for the life of Myth Drannor!”
“That is true enough, but would you have us toss aside all tradition in one afternoon?” returned Saida heatedly. “For centuries, the Nierde clan has held Ruith and commanded Sumbrar!”
“And what of Ruith now?” inquired Montagor Amarillis, a young noble with the bright red hair characteristic of his clan. “What of Sumbrar? The Starwing fleet is all but demolished. Many of the Sumbrar Tower’s magi perished in an attempt to save the surviving dragons. Our reserves of arms and magic have been dangerously depleted by the actions of the last Evanara to hold Lightspear Keep. I, for one, am not eager to see Horith Evanara’s legacy continued!”
Saida turned a coldly furious gaze upon the Moon elf. “The Amarillis have always been ambitious, Montagor. You would be delighted to see control of Evermeet’s military seized from the Gold elves. Next, you’re going to argue that it’s time for Evermeet to succumb to a Moon elven royalty!”
“That is precisely what I think, and it is the reason why I called the council together this day,” Lady Durothil announced firmly, turning Saida’s mockery into a statement of truth.
She let the silence linger so that it might give weight to her next words. “I know that many of the noble families, particularly the Gold elven clans such as my own, will be resistant to this. But all of us knew that the time would come! I say that it is here, now.”
“It is true that with a single voice commanding all the forces of Evermeet, we would be better able to respond to a sudden threat,” admitted Yalathanil Symbaern. “According to Lady Durothil’s reports, the tide of battle was turned when young Zaor Moonflower took command. I can only speak according to what I have seen, but I believe that if Myth Drannor had been led by a single, capable ruler rather than a contentious council of its own, its fate might have been quite different. Evermeet must learn, and move forward.”
Several members of the council nodded thoughtfully. Had this opinion come from a Moon elf, it would not have fallen into such receptive soil. But the Symbaern house was ancient and honorable, even if the Gold elf wizard himself was a new voice in the council. Yalathanil and several other survivors from his clan had fled the destruction of Myth Drannor to settle Evermeet. He was already widely respected for both his magical skills and his wisdom.
“I agree with Lady Durothil’s opinion of Zaor Moonflower,” added Keerla Hawksong, the aged minstrel who led her Silver elf clan. “His recruitment of the giant eagles was brilliant. Already members of my house have followed up this victory, and are discussing with Queen WindShriek the possibility of forming a permanent troop of Eagle Riders.”
“We are wandering from the point at hand,” Montagor Amarillis pointed out. “According to our High Councilor, it is time for the People of Evermeet to choose a royal family. I say that the council put the matter to vote this very day!”
“The young have so little regard for history,” Lady Durothil said dryly. “Are you forgetting that the choice will be made, not by the council, but by the will of the gods, as interpreted by enchanted swords?”
“Forget? That is hardly likely,” sneered Saida, “considering that the Amarillis clan still holds a living moonblade! It is said that Montagor Amarillis has a bit of the seer about him. Perhaps in his dreams of the future he fancies himself a king.”
“As to that, it is for the gods to say,” Montagor said piously. “Yet it is true that the Amarillis moonblade is unclaimed. My grandmother, Chin’nesstre, was among the commanders of Lightspear Keep who took the Starwing fleet against the invaders. She was slain by dragonfire; her sword was recovered from the charred remains of the ship.”
“Your grandmother’s sword is not the only Amarillis moonblade still in service to the People,” Francessca Silverspear asserted. As she spoke, the warrior touched the moonstone in the hilt of her own blade. “This I know, for I fought beside many of your kin. In the fall of Myth Drannor, many heroes died, including many moonfighters. Some of these swords are unclaimed, others have been lost.”
“How are we to know that one of these lost swords might not have been meant to determine kingship?” Saida Evanara demanded. “How can such a decision be made now, when not all of the moonblades can be accounted for?”
“In that, we will have to trust the gods,” Mi’tilarro Aelorothi said firmly. Such was the weight of the Gold elf’s words that all protest fell silent, for the patriarch of the ancient Gold elf clan was also a high priest of Corellon Larethian.
“It is decided, then,” Lady Durothil said firmly. “Send word to all clans of Evermeet, and to all elves bearing moonblades upon the mainland. When the summer solstice arrives, all will gather in the meadowlands surrounding Drelagara.”
Montagor’s attention was suddenly fixed intently upon the goblet before him. “As you have pointed out, Lady Durothil, my knowledge of history is perhaps not what it should be. Tell me, what will happen if more than one clan demonstrates through possession of a moonblade a viable claim to the throne?”
Mylaerla Durothil’s face turned grim. “It will be as it has always been: a matter for the gods to decide. Each sword has developed certain powers, and the elf who wields the sword must be equal to the challenge of his or her blade. Who holds the most powerful sword, and who wields it best, the same shall win the throne.”
“You mean that elves of noble blood must fight each other?” Montagor asked, clearly appalled.
The elf woman’s smile was ironic in the extreme. “Since when, young Lord Amarillis, have we ever done anything else?”
There were few places on all of Evermeet as lovely as Drelagara. A small city, it made up in symmetry and quiet beauty what it lacked in grandeur. The buildings were all of white marble, magically raised from the depths of Evermeet, and the whole was located in the center of an expanse of gently rolling meadows that measured more than sixty miles wide. This meadowland was surrounded on all sides by forests, and within a day’s ride of the wondrous white-sand beaches of Siiluth.
The moon-horses, those magical white beasts who were the willing allies and friends of the elves, made their home in the meadows of Drelagara. As the day of the summer solstice dawned the moon-horses were as much in evidence as the elves. Their glossy coats gleamed in the pale light that proceeded sunrise as they pranced among the gathered people and the bright silk pavilions, accepting the caresses of elven children, tossing their flower-braided manes as if they were gracious hosts giving welcome to their elven visitors.
From all over Evermeet the elves gathered in the Drelagara meadow, along with representatives from many distant elven communities. This, the selection o
f Evermeet’s ruling house, was a matter that concerned all the People.
Many of the wild elves ventured from the forest depths for the occasion, though no one there could get a true sense of their number. The fey folk kept to the shadows of the forest’s edge, or gathered beneath the meadow’s scattered trees. Like elusive deer, they were nearly invisible until they showed their presence with movement.
There were also a number of Sea elven representatives who wore amulets to aid them in breathing air so that they might observe the ceremony.
Moon elves were much in evidence, of course. Each clan gathered under the bright banners of its house standard. Those who possessed moonblades would contend for the honor of rulership, and these clans were given the prime locations nearest the center of the gathering place.
And all the Gold elf clans were present, though it was widely noted and softly commented that many of these elves did not look pleased with the prospect of eminent Moon elven rule.
Members of all the other fey races gathered in Drelagara as well, for Evermeet’s king would be the ruler of them all. Massive centaur warriors stood at the perimeter of the forest, eyeing the large, silvery forms of the nearby lythari—the elusive, shapeshifting elven wolf-people—with wary respect. Unicorns and pegasi exchanged silent gossip. Faerie dragons flitted about the meadow, some of them amusing themselves by playing tricks on the elves, some giggling wildly as they chased the delegation of sprites about as if they were herding a flock of tiny, airborne sheep. Pixies sat comfortably upon the leafy arms of a giant treant, an ancient, sentient tree-person who watched over the proceedings with solemn patience.
A place of honor near the very center of the gathering had been granted to the delegation from the Towers of the Sun and Moon. In her own private pavilion, Amlaruil prepared herself for the festivities with more than her usual care. As Lady of the Tower, she held a position nearly the equal of the soon-to-be chosen ruler. This was her first state appearance, and she would be the focus of many eyes this day.
Amlaruil wished to do honor to the Towers, but in her preparations she answered another, more personal motive. Several months had passed since she and Zaor had made their pledges in the heady aftermath of battle. She had not seen him since. Everything must be right for this, their first meeting.
The elf woman carefully arranged her red-gold hair in elaborate curls, and donned the jewels passed down to her from distant generations. Her gown, though lovely and fashioned of silk the color of summer skies, was of less importance, for it would be covered by the flowing mantle that proclaimed her office.
“And a good thing, too,” Amlaruil murmured. A small, secret smile curved her lips as she smoothed her hands over the clinging silk of her gown. Though she took nothing but joy in the tiny life that slept within the growing curve of her belly, she wanted Zaor to see her, first and foremost, and not the child who would be his heir.
His royal heir.
Of this, Amlaruil was as certain as sunrise. In her few months as Grand Mage, and under the careful tutelage of the sorceress Nakiasha, she had come to accept the unusual link between her spirit and the gods of the Seldarine. Attuned to Evermeet in ways that she could not yet begin to understand, Amlaruil knew and recognized the power of the sword Zaor carried. She also felt the innate nobility of the elf who wielded it. In Amlaruil’s mind, Zaor was Evermeet’s king. This day would only affirm what she knew to be true.
“My lady?”
The sound of Nakiasha’s voice, coming from outside the pavilion, startled Amlaruil from her thoughts. She snatched up her mantle and quickly draped it about her shoulders.
“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. Moonlighters, 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.
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