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 playing 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 Selûne 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, tur
ning 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.”
The Grand Mage of the Towers went down on her knees before the appalled elf. “I pledge my personal allegiance, as well as all the power of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon, to Zaor, King of Evermeet, and to Lydi’aleera his queen. May you both live long, and reign well.” Tears sparkled in her eyes, but her voice was firm.
Before Zaor could speak, Amlaruil disappeared. Only a faint silver sparkle of magic in the air, and the tiny mark of two fallen tears upon the earthen floor of the pavilion, betrayed that she had ever been there at all.
The Moon elf warrior dashed from the tent, looking frantically about for a glimpse of Amlaruil’s beautiful red-gold hair among the crowds of elves. She was nowhere to be seen.
Lady Durothil came forward and grasped him by his forearms, her eyes searching his stricken face. Relief and sympathy mingled on her countenance. “You have chosen well,” she said gently.
“I did not choose at all!” he blurted out. For a moment, the Moon elf’s loss and heartache was naked in his eyes.
“The Lady of the Towers has acted with honor,” Lady Durothil said softly. “And she has taken the worst burden—the burden of choice—from your shoulders. She did what she must, and now so must you.”
Zaor was silent for a long moment. “I have always heard that the sacrifices demanded of those who would lead can be great. Had I any idea of what would be required of me, I would have wanted no part of this!” he said passionately.
The matron sighed. “If the gods are kind, it might be that you’ve already endured the worst! But come, my lord—the others are waiting.”
For the remainder of that summer, the High Magi of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon lavished their magic upon the creation of Evermeet’s court. The Moonstone Palace, a wondrous structure fashioned from marble and moonstone and roofed with gold, rose from the heart of Evermeet.
The labor was bittersweet for Amlaruil. Though she rejoiced to see Zaor as king, her part in his kingmaking was hardly what she had dreamed it might be.
As the summer passed and the brilliant colors of autumn faded from the land, Amlaruil went into seclusion to prepare for the birth of her daughter. Only Nakiasha attended her on the night that Zaor’s heir drew breath, and stood witness to the elf woman’s tears of mingled joy and loss.
In the months that followed, Amlaruil found immense comfort in her daughter. But she could not escape the feeling that this child was merely loaned to her. Amlaruil’s ties to the Seldarine were deep and mystical, but it seemed to her that this babe was more a child of the gods than of mortal elves.
From birth Ilyrana was oddly silent, and her large, sea-blue eyes were grave and ancient. Nor did the babe resemble either of her parents. Tiny and ethereally pale, her white skin seemed tinged with blue, and her snow-colored baby curls held a touch of palest green. Amlaruil named her Ilyrana, from the Elvish word for opal.
Never once did Amlaruil speak the name of her baby’s father. As an elf woman of noble birth, a High Mage, and Grand Mage of the Towers, she was beyond reproach in such matters. The child was hers, and if any of the elves of the Tower cared to speculate further, they did so with unusual discretion. Amlaruil had already won the respect and love of most of the young magi. Most of them grasped that it was her wish to keep the child from common sight and knowledge, and they protected their lady and her child as they did any of the Towers’ other legacies.
What none of the magi understood, however, was that Amlaruil’s reticence was based on something far darker than discretion and a desire for privacy.
The machinations displayed during the kingmaking at the previous summer solstice had opened her eyes to the nobles of Evermeet. The Lady of the Towers kept a careful watch on the multilayered affairs of the c
ourt. The more she learned, the deeper became her concern, not only for Zaor, but for all of Evermeet.
“Really, Montagor, I find your offer singularly ignorant, even considering that it came from a Gray elf,” sneered Vashti Nimesin. “You are of less use to me than Lydi’aleera is to clan Amarillis! Surely you know that any offspring of Zaor will be accounted part of clan Moonflower. You can evoke every long-dead Amarillis hero whose name you can recall, and it will not change that fact!”
The Amarillis heir sipped at his goblet of feywine, buying time to collect his thoughts. He had spent many days currying the favor of the wealthy and increasingly powerful Nimesin clan. Finally, he had finagled an invitation to one of Vashti’s elite parties. Judging from her disdainful tone, it would clearly be a mistake to count his successes too soon.
“Perhaps my sister’s child will be a Moonflower,” he allowed, “but Lydi’aleera is still of House Amarillis! There is much that a queen can do to influence royal policy.”
Lady Nimesin snickered. “And you’re claiming she has the wit to do so, I suppose? That little twit?”
“Lydi’aleera has always been guided by me,” Montagor said stoutly. “I tell you, there is much that can be gained from an alliance with Amarillis.”
The matron’s appraising gaze slid over the young Moon elf. Vashti Nimesin was well aware of Montagor’s ambitions, and in fact she approved of most of the steps he had taken to consolidate his clan’s influence and power in the newly established court. Foisting that insipid little wench upon Zaor Moonflower had been a masterful stroke. It was to Montagor’s credit that he also sought out ties with the members of powerful Gold elf clans.
But it was patently clear to Lady Nimesin that Montagor was not quite up to the standard of his illustrious ancestors. In his naked desire for power, he was vulnerable—and more of a willing tool even than his insipid little sister.
Vashti Nimesin smiled. “There is in fact a service you can do for me. My son, Kymil, shows great promise in both magic and arms. I would have him trained at the Towers of the Sun and Moon. Perhaps you could escort him there, and present him to the ruling mage?”
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