Evermeet

by Elaine Cunningham

  Montagor bowed deeply. “It would be my great pleasure,” he said sincerely, though he had little illusion about the reason for Lady Nimesin’s request. She clearly disliked the fact that a Moon elf ruled in the Towers and was unwilling to submit herself in the position of supplicant to Amlaruil Moonflower. In sending the Amarillis heir as an errand boy, Vashti would make a statement of her high position and her contempt for Moon elves.

  So be it. It was a price worth paying for Nimesin’s favor.

  Montagor turned his gaze upon Kymil Nimesin, who stood talking with a small group of young Gold elves. He was a singularly handsome youth, with the golden skin of his race contrasting with the ebony luster of his black hair and eyes. Yet he was still a child, far too young for admittance to the tower.

  At that moment, Kymil turned and met Montagor’s curious gaze. The Moon elf recoiled, stunned by the sheer malevolence of those eyes. But the moment passed, so swiftly that Montagor was left wondering if he’d imagined that hate-filled stare. Young Kymil came willingly enough to his mother’s beckoning, and his handsome face was a model of civility as he greeted the Amarillis heir.

  “Montagor Amarillis will escort you to the Towers, my son,” Lady Nimesin said in a satisfied voice. “You will leave at first light. See that you are a credit to your people and your house.”

  “Yes, mother,” the boy said automatically. There was nothing in his face or voice to suggest he was other than a dutiful son, and there was no mockery in the bow he gave the Moon elf noble. Yet Montagor felt deeply uneasy as he contemplated the young elf.

  From time to time, Montagor caught a glimpse of what might yet be. He had not claimed the moonblade because he suspected that he would not survive the attempt. Now, looking at young Kymil Nimesin, he had the same feeling of impending death. There was something stirring in the mists of this boy’s future, something that Montagor could neither see nor grasp. It reached out to him, all the same, taunting him with dire possibilities.

  The Moon elf quickly brushed aside his unease. A moonblade, with its powerful and killing magic, was something to be feared and respected. This boy, however, was a mere stripling. Surely Montagor Amarillis was more than Kymil’s match.

  And so the two left for the Towers the next day, as Lady Nimesin had decreed. Kymil rode well, but he was strangely silent during the northward trip, with none of the questions or chatter that Montagor would have expected from a boy his age.

  Finally the silence began to wear on Montagor. “I trained in the Towers myself, briefly,” he said. “If there is anything you’d like to discuss, I’d be happy to oblige.”

  The boy slanted a look at him. “Thank you, no,” he said politely. “I shall do fine.”

  “Have you friends at the Tower?” Montagor persisted. “I don’t imagine there are many elves your age.”

  “There is at least one,” Kymil said in a dark tone. He grimaced, as if even that terse remark was more than he had intended to say.

  Montagor was intrigued. “I had not known that the Tower magi accepted children.”

  “From time to time, children are born to the Tower magi,” the boy said matter-of-factly. “And sometimes a prodigy is accepted at an early age. Tanyl Evanara, a distant cousin of mine, is much my age and nearly my equal at arms and magic. We will learn together.”

  “Ah. And what use will you make of the magic you acquire?” the Moon elf asked in the patronizing tone often used toward the very young.

  A hard smile played at the corner of the Gold elf’s lips. “What would you say, Lord Amarillis, if I told you that I would use what I learn to do away with the travesty of a Moon elf royalty and restore the Elven Council?” he said softly. “Just for argument’s sake, of course. Naturally, I would never attempt such a thing. No one but a fool would harbor such treasonous thoughts, or express them to the brother of the queen—not even considering that you yourself would profit from such a course of action. Amarillis will never hold the throne, but certainly you could become High Councilor were the Council restored. Again, just for argument’s sake.”

  Montagor blinked, astonished by the levels of intrigue in the boy’s words. He was being warned, courted, and threatened—all at once.

  But even as he regarded the young elf, the sly hard look disappeared beneath the smooth golden mask of Kymil’s handsome face.

  A chill passed through Montagor, swiftly followed by a wave of bitter remorse for his part in delivering this child to the Towers. Whatever came of it, he would have a part. Kymil had implied as much.

  Suddenly the Moon elf was less certain of his ability to control, or even to fathom, the ambitions of this Gold elf clan. But the spires of the Towers were now clearly visible to all in the escort party.

  Come what may, it was too late to turn back now.

  Several years passed before Montagor Amarillis was again summoned to the mansion of Lady Vashti Nimesin. He found the matron in a state of high excitement.

  “It has begun,” she said bluntly. “The first of the Gray elf pretenders to the throne has been slain. And you, my friend, have made it possible!”

  Montagor stared at the Gold elf. “Zaor is dead?”

  Vashti laughed scornfully. “Not even your sister could get close enough to the king to accomplish that wonder! No, I speak of Zaor’s daughter.”

  “My sister the queen has no children,” the Moon elf said, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  “As all Evermeet well knows!” sneered Lady Vashti. “Amarillis blood is running thin—the best you can offer these days is a barren queen. No, Zaor has a bastard, and by the Lady of the Towers, no less!”

  “Amlaruil Moonflower has a child?” Montagor demanded. “And you are certain that it is Zaor’s?”

  “Oh, yes. I suspected that she was breeding when I saw her at the kingmaking. At the time, I assumed that it was some festival-got brat, or the result of climbing to her high office by currying Jannalor Nierde’s favor—on her back,” Lady Vashti said crudely. “But I made it my business to trace the wench’s footsteps back. She and Zaor were together at the right time. There are magics that can determine a child’s sire …”

  She cast a sly look at the appalled Moon elf. “Why do you suppose I was so eager to place my son in the Towers? It was not from a desire to have him learn magic at the foot of a Gray elf, I assure you!”

  “Kymil has slain Amlaruil’s daughter,” Montagor repeated in a dazed voice.

  “Well, it appears that this elf can be taught,” the Nimesin matron said with heavy sarcasm. “Ilyrana Moonflower is dead, or soon to be. It seems she fancies herself a priestess rather than a mage. She left the Towers to travel to Corellon’s Grove as if it were some sacred pilgrimage. Kymil sent me word of this. Which brings us to your part in the matter.”

  “I will have no part of this!” Montagor said.

  “An admirable sentiment, but a bit late in coming,” Lady Vashti said dryly. “When you escorted Kymil to the Towers, he told you quite plainly of his intent. He said that you made no move to dissuade him or to disagree. We took your silence as assent, as will any who might hear of this matter now. Speak of it, and you will only condemn yourself.”

  The Moon elf slumped in his chair, defeated. “What must I do?”

  Vashti Nimesin smiled coldly. “Many days will pass before Ilyrana is missed. By then, the poison which sent her into confused slumber will have run its course. It will be assumed that she, who has never been out of the Towers, simply lost her way in the forest and perished. Although it is unlikely that dark intent will be suspected, you will provide Kymil with a safeguard story. He left the Towers the day before Ilyrana departed. If any question is raised, you will say that he was hunting at your villa in the Eagle Hills, as your invited guest.”

  Montagor’s thoughts whirled as he worked his way through this puzzle. All his life he had lived with the small intrigues, the endless positioning for power and influence, but never had he suspected that one elf would willingly slay another for gain. He
wanted no part in any of it, yet he feared he was as firmly enmeshed as Lady Vashti claimed.

  And yet, what would he lose if the Nimesin elves succeeded? Surely the Gold elf would not be content with killing Zaor’s daughter. Lydi’aleera would be the next to go—perhaps Lady Nimesin would even require Montagor’s hand in the matter! And for all that, what would keep her from eliminating the claimants of clan Amarillis, once the Moonflower elves were removed? No, this was not a path that Montagor could safely tread. He must set Lady Nimesin’s foot upon another.

  “I fear that this matter has gone beyond the simple remedy you suggest,” Montagor said gravely. “As you know, my sister the queen has yet to bear an heir to the throne. You were not the only one to notice the looks that passed between Zaor and Amlaruil Moonflower during his king-making, or to search for possible by-blows of the king.”

  “What are you saying?” the elf woman demanded.

  “Lydi’aleera knows that Amlaruil’s daughter is Zaor’s heir, and she has already taken steps to have the child brought to the palace for fosterage. Therein lies the problem. The death of a novice priestess might be mistaken as an accident; the death of a secret heir to the throne would certainly attract more scrutiny than either you or I could bear.”

  “How is this possible? You were surprised to hear of Amlaruil’s child!”

  Montagor spread his hands. “Forgive me for my prevarication, my lady. I had to feign ignorance, the better to learn the full extent of your knowledge. This is a delicate matter, and I’m sure you can understand.”

  “Has Lydi’aleera approached the king yet? Has he knowledge of this child?”

  “Yes,” Montagor said stoutly, praying that he might get word to his sister in time to bolster his plans.

  The Gold elf wrung her hands in dismay. “Then all is lost! Had we known of this, Kymil would have chosen another way.”

  “There is yet a way to turn this around,” Montagor said earnestly. “Kymil must find the princess before the poison takes effect, and bring her to the palace. I will swear that he acted all the while in behalf of Lydi’aleera.”

  “A Nimesin, errand runner for a Gray elf?” Vashti sneered.

  “Better than being seen as a murderer and a traitor,” Montagor pointed out coldly. “And do not think that you can implicate me in this. I have aided my sister in seeking out Zaor’s heir—she will vouch for this! In this task, I have demonstrated my loyalty to the royal family, even placing it over the concerns and claims of Amarillis! In light of this, no one will believe I conspired with you against the crown princess. No, Nimesin will fall alone for this deed, on this you may believe me!”

  He gave the elf woman time to absorb this new threat. “There is a way, however, that Nimesin can escape any taint of scandal,” he said softly. “More than one Gold elf clan has left Evermeet for Cormanthyr—just last fortnight, every member of Ni’Tessine sailed for the mainland. Join them, and seek there the power that you have forfeited upon this island. If you go, I pledge upon my life and my honor that your secret will never be disclosed.”

  Lady Vashti glared at him with undisguised hatred. “Very well,” she said at last. “Kymil will deliver the bastard princess and grit his teeth as he plays the role of heroic rescuer. Then I and all my house will leave this island. But do not think for a moment that we will cease to work for the good of the People!”

  A familiar chill shivered through Montagor at these words, for in them he glimpsed the shadow of deeds yet undone.

  Yet he quickly comforted himself with this day’s success. Once the Nimesins were safely off the island, he could surely stave off any future attacks. After all, was not Evermeet inviolate?

  Lydi’aleera would not be pleased by these developments, but she was a pragmatic elf. Ensuring a strong succession to the throne was vital—that was the first lesson of the moonblades. Moreover, as a barren wife, she could not remain queen forever. Evermeet must have an heir, on that even the Gold elves agreed.

  Montagor rose to his feet. “With your permission, Lady Nimesin, I am away to the palace. The queen needs to know that the princess is on her way, sooner than expected.”

  As he hurried through the streets of Leuthilspar toward the Moonstone Palace, Montagor wryly noted that his last words to Vashti Nimesin held much more truth than the elf woman could know.

  19

  Towers of the Sun and Moon

  mlaruil sat alone in her chamber in the Tower of the Moon, staring at the framed picture in her hands. It was a small painting of Ilyrana as a child, done by one of the student mages not many years ago as a gift to the Lady of the Towers.

  The mage studied the face of her only daughter, looking, as she often did, for some visible link between herself and Zaor. But Ilyrana was ever and always nothing but her own person.

  Never had Amlaruil seen such oddly beautiful coloring as Ilyrana’s. The elf maid closely resembled the opal for which she had been named; pure white, but for hints of pale colors that almost seemed to be reflected from some other source. Palest blue clung to her angular features, a flush of pink lingered about her lips and in the hollows of her cheeks, and a hint of green glinted among her white curls. Ilyrana was as beautiful—and nearly as remote—as the gods themselves.

  With a sigh, Amlaruil put aside the portrait, silently berating herself for the terrible, numbing loss she felt over her daughter’s absence. Surely that was nothing but selfishness!

  And yet, even as the thought formed, Amlaruil knew it was untrue. She would have missed Ilyrana had the girl gone to the groves of Corellon to study as a priestess, but she would be content knowing that her daughter was following her chosen path. There was no peace in the knowledge that Ilyrana had been taken away from her own desires to be raised as a princess in the court of Leuthilspar.

  It seemed to Amlaruil that there was reason for concern. One thing had Ilyrana inherited from her mother; her connection with the Seldarine was deep and profound, so much so that the girl often seemed detached from the mortal elves around her. How would she fare among the shallow, petty concerns of the Leuthilspar court? In the palace of Queen Lydi’aleera, fey and uncanny Ilyrana would be like a penned unicorn, or a pixie captured beneath a glass!

  A soft knock at her door interrupted the mage’s bitter thoughts. “Lady? I am bidden to summon you for evenfeast,” came a tentative male voice from without.

  Amlaruil started guiltily. Evenfeast, already? The day had slipped past unnoticed. It had not been the first.

  She rose, smoothing the folds of her mantle about her, and bid the lad enter. Tanyl Evanara, a Gold elf boy whose slender limbs already held the promise of unusual grace and height, slipped into the room.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Lady,” he said, as his eyes darted to the portrait of Ilyrana.

  “Not at all,” Amlaruil said briskly, softening the words with a smile. “You merely did as you were bid, and well, as usual. Your studies are progressing, I trust?”

  The boy’s face lit up in a grin. “Shanyrria Alenuath says I will make a bladesinger, if that is my wish! I have both the sword and the voice for it, she says!”

  “I am sure she is right,” Amlaruil said, but she wondered if the fiery young bladesinger spoke more from impulse than wisdom. Shanyrria had that tendency. Yet truly, Tanyl showed promise in the use of both weapons and song magic, and perhaps the bladesinger’s path was indeed his to follow. A bladesinger melded magic, music, and fighting into a uniquely elven technique, and was in many ways the epitome of an elven warrior. But bladesinging was not merely a fighting style, but a philosophy. Amlaruil could not picture the gregarious Tanyl as one of these self-contained warriors.

  “I am sure that Shanyrria is right about your potential,” Amlaruil repeated, “but remember that your path is your own to chose. Just because you can do a thing, it does not follow that you must.”

  The boy’s forehead furrowed as he contemplated this advice. “I will remember,” he said somberly. He bowed then, and offered his arm to A
mlaruil with the grace of a courtier.

  “I am to escort you to evenfeast. You must eat—Nakiasha said so,” he added with a grin, suddenly appearing to be the boy he was. He clearly took delight in their implied fellowship; after all, even the beautiful Grand Mage of the Towers had to listen to someone!

  Smothering her own smile, Amlaruil took the arm Tanyl offered and walked with him down the spiraling stairs that led to the dining hall.

  As she did, she could not help but wonder if her well-meaning words to this talented boy were based in reality. Had she herself chosen the path she now trod? Had Ilyrana, or even Zaor? In truth, did anyone?

  The soft murmur of conversation that filled the dining hall dwindled to near silence as the Grand Mage entered the room. Amlaruil smiled and nodded to the gathered elves, indicating that they should continue. At proud Tanyl’s side, she made her way into the very center of the spiraling table. As she took her place in the midst of them, a terrible desolation swept over her in sudden, devastating waves. None of this felt real—not the gathered elves, or the food on her plate, not even her presence in this chamber.

  Amlaruil speared a bit of venison and pretended to eat. As she did, she noted the disapproving eyes of Belstram Durothil upon her.

  A troubling thought edged into her mind. The young nobleman was highly ranked in his clan, and had even held a seat on the Council until his recent decision to leave the court of Leuthilspar to study magic at the Towers. Belstram was also a near relative of Mylaerla Durothil, that too-perceptive matron who had seen what had passed between Zaor and Amlaruil on the day of Zaor’s crowning. Lady Durothil was now one of Zaor’s most trusted generals, but it was possible that she had spoken to her kin of the “nearly-averted disaster” that had threatened the kingmaking alliance between Moonflower and Amarillis. Perhaps it had been Belstram who had ferreted out the truth of Ilyrana’s parentage, and had taken word of the royal heir to Moonstone Palace. His arrival at the Towers was certainly well timed.