“Why?” she asked simply.
In a few words, with the scant time remaining to him, Adamar told her.
The bladesinger listened in stunned, grieving disbelief as her father confessed his own dishonor, and told at last the terrible secret that he had never been able to bring himself to reveal: that he would be the cause of his own son’s death. Prince Rhenalyrr was not of Zaor’s blood. The king’s moonblade, the sword of Zaor, was not his to claim, and soon all of Evermeet would bear witness to the disgrace of House Alenuath.
When Adamar fell into final silence, Shanyrria raced from the mansion and leaped upon her waiting moon-horse. Rhenalyrr might not be a true prince, but he was her own half-brother. She owed him the loyalty and protection due any member of the clan.
But when her lathered moon-horse pulled up in the valley of Drelagara, the bladesinger was greeted by a chorus of keening elven voices. She did not need to ask to know that Rhenalyrr had not survived the ritual.
Her face set with wrath, Shanyrria swung down from her mount and went off in search of vengeance.
She slipped into the pavilion where the queen sat alone, weeping silent, helpless tears. Quietly she walked up to the grieving elf woman. With a quick, smooth movement, she drew her sword and thrust the tip against Lydi’aleera’s throat.
“I name you, Lydi’aleera Amarillis, false queen of Evermeet, to be a coward, a liar, a whore, and the murderer of my father Adamar Alenuath—and of my half-brother Rhenalyrr.”
The queen stared up at the fierce bladesinger like a mouse awaiting the claws of a striking owl. “I did not know—”
“You knew,” Shanyrria said vehemently. “You knew that Rhenalyrr was not of Zaor’s blood, yet you remained silent while he took the trial of the moonblade! Surely you knew that he would not survive.”
“He was a fine, noble young elf,” she persisted. “There was a chance that he might succeed. And if the moonblades are to be held as sole measure, Amarillis is as worthy of royalty as Moonflower!”
Shanyrria stared at the queen through narrowed eyes. “It is said that only those truly worthy of ruling can bear the sword of Zaor. Very well then. Come.”
She put away her sword with a quick thrust and snatched a small knife from her belt. With one hand she grasped a handful of Lydi’aleera’s hair and jerked her to her feet. She put one arm firmly around the queen’s shoulder, and pressed the knife hard into the elf woman’s ribs.
“I will support you in your grief, my queen,” the bladesinger said with heavy irony, “and take you where you must go.”
The elf woman struggled to pull away, but Shanyrria was strong and held her fast. “What are you going to do?” Lydi’aleera demanded.
“No more than what you did to my brother. You will draw the sword of Zaor and test your worthiness to rule Evermeet. You are Amarillis born, so your chances are as good as Rhenalyrr’s!”
“I will not do it!” gasped Lydi’aleera.
“You will,” Shanyrria asserted. “If you do not, I will proclaim before all of Evermeet what you have done. Zaor will put you away, and you and all your clan will be shamed. Or, if you prefer, I will kill you now, and then speak.”
The queen stared at her, all hope draining from her eyes. “And if I draw, and succeed? Will you keep silent concerning all of this?”
“Whether you live or die is for the moonblade to decide. I will content myself with that. Either way, you will win: a kingdom or an honorable death. It is more than you deserve.”
Since she had no recourse, the queen walked with Shanyrria toward the place where Zaor’s sword lay, gleaming still with faint blue magic, upon the ceremonial pedestal. Before any could divine her intent, Lydi’aleera stepped forward and grasped the sword in her two hands and began to slide it from the scabbard.
A flash of terrible blue light lit the plain. When it faded, the elf woman was gone, but for a pile of pale, drifting ash.
Shanyrria nodded in grim agreement to the sentence that the moonblade had pronounced. The bladesinger felt no guilt over her part in the queen’s death. She considered Lydi’aleera guilty, not only of her brother’s death and her father’s, but also of treason against the crown. It felt right to her that Lydi’aleera’s fate was one that she had chosen, though her pride, ambition, and cowardly silence, for her own son.
Many were the witnesses to Lydi’aleera’s death. In the stunned murmurs that swept the group, the elves surmised the queen had been maddened by grief, or determined to prove the worth of Amarillis after her son’s failure. Shanyrria did not care what they thought, as long as they accepted one very important truth: Lydi’aleera Amarillis was not fit to rule. She was not and never had been Evermeet’s queen.
The bladesinger turned to face the gathering crowd. Her eyes sought out Amlaruil, who stood pale and stunned among the Tower magi. Shanyrria bowed deeply, then pulled her blade and raised it to her forehead in a gesture of respect.
“The queen is dead,” she said, and her words seemed to echo in the stunned silence. Then she strode forward and lay her blade in a gesture of fealty at Amlaruil’s feet.
“The queen is dead,” Shanyrria repeated. “Long live the queen.”
Zaor understood at once the importance of this moment. He strode to the alter and drew the sword. Holding it high overhead with one hand, he held out the other to Amlaruil.
The mage hesitated only for a moment. She walked to Zaor’s side and entwined her fingers in his. Then with her other hand, she reached up to grasp the hilt of the king sword.
Fey blue light poured through the moonblade and enveloped them both. They stood together, in full sight of all of Evermeet, joined by the ancient magic.
One by one, the somber elves went down on their knees to acknowledge what no one could deny.
Evermeet had a true queen, at last.
20 Flamerule, 1368 DR
To Lord Danilo Thann does Lamruil, Prince of Evermeet, send fond greetings.
Thank you for your latest letter, my friend, and for the lovely ballad that you sent for my Maura. Today is midsummer, and I have saved your song to sing for her as a midsummer gift. I have but little skill at the harp, but I have been practicing the simple accompaniment you fashioned for me and hope to do it credit. Maura is no critic where music is concerned. She is about as placid as a squirrel in autumn, and I have seldom seen her sit still the length of time needed to hear any piece of music from end to end. But few are the women who will not linger to hear their charm and beauty praised, and I feel confident that she will find enjoyment in this tribute.
It sounds as if you are progressing well in your endeavor. I can readily understand the frustrations you expressed, for the history of Evermeet’s elves is so long and complex that no single work can do more than touch the corner of its shadow. But it is a worthy effort, for all that.
You asked me to speak of the queen. To do so is very much akin to the task you have undertaken: Anything and everything that can be said will fall far short of the possibilities. Amlaruil of Evermeet is revered and loved by the elves of the island and widely respected abroad. Even many of those who do not owe her political allegiance acknowledge that in a mystical sense she is indeed Queen of All Elves. The queen epitomizes all that the elven people value: beauty, grace, magic, wisdom, power. That is just the beginning. Just as your friend Laeral is Chosen of her goddess Mystra, Amlaruil is something more than mortal. She stands alone in a special place between elf woman and goddess. She is also my mother, and as such she often drives me to near madness in the time-honored manner of any mother and son. And in all candor, I must admit that I return the favor.
One of Queen Amlaruil’s most remarkable accomplishments is that she has transcended many of the petty divisions between the elven races. Gold elves join with Moon elves to sing her praises. Green elves would set fire to their ancient forests if such could serve and protect her. The Sea elves adore her, and it is rumored that the Sea elven monarch of the Coral Kingdom has repeatedly asked for her han
d in marriage. I can attest to this, as I was eavesdropping during one such appeal. Even some of the drow recognize Amlaruil as their rightful queen. Not many years ago, the queen secretly received a representative of the goddess Eilistraee. Though drow will never be permitted on Evermeet, the Moonflower family now has alliances with some of the goodly followers of the Dark Maiden.
Permit me to tell you a personal tale that I believe will illustrate the unique color-blind reverence that elves hold for Amlaruil.
Long before you were born, when I was a mere sapling and just beginning to feel my sap rising, I celebrated the summer solstice in the time-honored manner of my people—with feasting and song, revelry and dance. By custom, the royal Moonflower family attends revels in various parts of the island: that year, we celebrated amid the lush meadows of the Horse Fields that cover much of the northwestern part of Evermeet.
The morn of midsummer day was fine and bright, and I felt myself blessed by the bright attention of one of the spring maids who danced in the morning rituals. She was a Gold elf, a girl of good if not noble family. Before long it was clear to me that this year, I would join in the evening revels in a manner I had not before.
The girl and I, in our youthful exuberance, were ill content to wait for the coming of night—after all, midsummer is the longest day of the year! She was older than I, and wise in the ways of midsummer revels. Gifted with her soft smiles and sweet words of promise, I found myself in scant supply of that supposedly elven virtue: patience.
Before the dew was off the grass, we stole away and found a place for our private revels. I blush to admit that this place was her father’s hay barns. At the time, however, we felt gloriously unburdened by this singular lack of originality and imagination.
Later, as we were picking bits of straw from each other’s hair and laughing together at small things that would not, under any other circumstances, have seemed half as witty or clever, we were interrupted by her father. Yes. So far, this has all the makings of a second-rate minstrel’s ballad, does it not?
The elf stood over us, grimly dignified and nearly shaking with controlled wrath. “By your leave, Prince Lamruil, I would like to have private speech with my daughter,” he said in a tight, clipped manner.
I gathered up my clothes and fled from the barn. What else was I to do? Yet I did not go far, for though I respected the elf’s right to rule his family as he wished, I would not allow the girl to come to any harm at his hands.
And so, as I hurriedly donned my festival garments just outside the barn door, I shamelessly eavesdropped upon the small drama played out within.
“You have shamed yourself and your family, Elora,” the farmer told her in that same grimly controlled tone.
I could envision the pert, defiant toss of her golden head. “How so? It is midsummer. I am of age and promised to no male. I can do as I will—not even my respected father can gainsay me in such matters.”
“That is not what I mean, and you know it well!” he thundered, his control suddenly spent. “How could you lie with a Gray elf? How could you?”
There was a moment of heavy silence—to which, I might add, I added the weight of my own surprise. Then my lass responded, “Lamruil is a prince of Evermeet. Who in your mind is an elf worthy for me to bed—the king himself?”
“Do not even speak of such treachery against the crown and the queen! With my own hands would I kill any elf woman who so betrayed Evermeet’s Amlaruil, even my own daughter!”
“Then how can you object to Prince Lamruil?” she retorted, reasonably enough—or so it seemed to me. “He is his mother’s son.”
“What of it?”
Another puzzled silence, as the lass and I struggled to comprehend her father’s logic.
“Well, Queen Amlaruil is a Gray elf too,” she pointed out.
A ringing slap echoed through the morning air. “Have a care how you speak of Evermeet’s Queen!” he snarled.
I was about to dash in to protect the girl from further mistreatment, but my intervention was not needed. The farmer stormed out of the barn, too consumed with wrath at his daughter’s sacrilege to notice me standing there in my undergarments, wearing one unlaced boot and brandishing a ready and avenging sword. Admittedly, I doubt he would have been overly impressed by the spectacle.
And thus it is. Whatever enmities exist between Silver and Gold, Amlaruil the queen is truly Queen of All Elves. The efforts of a few stray zealots such as Kymil Nimesin have done great harm—to which my family can attest with sorrow—but I do not believe they will succeed in bringing down what Amlaruil has built.
But in all honesty, I must admit that I have been known to be wrong before.
By the sun and stars! What a dismal sentiment to add at letter’s end! Let me then end by thanking you again for the gift of Maura’s song, which I fondly trust will add sweetness and heat to my midsummer night. Give my regards to Arilyn and the little one. I look forward to seeing you all again soon.
Your uncle and friend,
Lamruil
Prelude: Nightfall
(1371 DR)
hanyrria Alenuath was among the first to see the approaching sky caravan. The bladesinger was drilling a new batch of potential students on a hillside not far from the Towers of the Sun and Moon. This was a particularly promising group, for perhaps half of them had the right combination of talent in music, magic, and swordcraft needed to become a true bladesinger. Of those, two or three might qualify for the specialized training offered by Sunrise Tower. There, skilled bladesingers honed their musical talents into a spellcasting art. The goal was nothing less than the revival of the ancient, nearly forgotten art of spell-song. This was but one of the efforts that sprang up in response to the challenge issued by Amlaruil, back when she was the Lady of the Towers. As queen she had continued to foster and support the elven arts, and Shanyrria was proud to have a part in this effort. She herself would never be a spell-singer, but she had made it her life’s work to seek out promising students and direct them to Sunrise Tower.
But there was one loyalty even nearer to Shanyrria’s heart. The sight of the pale blue rose emblazoned on the banner of the sky caravan was enough to make her drop her sword and forget her students. She stared in horror and consternation at the white-draped litter that was bourn southward by a team of four white pegasi. It looked like a funeral procession. The blue rose was the standard of the Moonflower family, and the pegasi were in the service of the Queen herself.
Shanyrria dismissed the students at once and sprinted down the hill toward the Tower of the Sun. Laeroth Runemaster, who had succeeded Amlaruil as Grand Mage of the Towers, would know if … Shanyrria’s thoughts slammed to a stop, unwilling even to form the words. Yet she had to know the meaning of the white-draped litter. Laeroth would know what there was to be known.
She found all the High Magi gathered in the large spellcasting chamber awaiting the Grand Mage. Too impatient to wait, Shanyrria pushed through them and went in search of Laeroth. She found the aged elf in the upper tower, in the act of removing the Accumulator from its protective wrapping. Apprehension clutched at her throat with icy fingers as she contemplated a danger that would necessitate bringing out one of the greatest of Evermeet’s defenses. An ancient artifact, it stored the power of the spells around it. Shanyrria’s trained senses sang in harmony with the magic—the unique magic of Evermeet—which emanated from the artifact in silent song.
Laeroth turned to the bladesinger. “I am to take this to the palace,” he said simply. “The queen is in need of all of Evermeet’s defenders.”
Relief flooded Shanyrria. “The queen lives! Praise the gods! But the royal litter?”
“The Princess Ilyrana,” the runemaster said sadly. “She lives, but her spirit has flown—carried away to do battle in another place. They take her body to her mother the queen.”
“How—”
“Ityak-Ortheel,” Laeroth interrupted, his usually gentle voice dark with hatred. “The creature of Malar,
unleashed upon Evermeet itself. Ilyrana carried it away—to Arvandor, I believe—but most of the elven clerics were slain during the battle I fear.” He gazed down at the Accumulator. “There is much yet to come. Every child of Evermeet must rally to meet this threat, or we will all perish. We stand alone, for all the magical gates of Evermeet have been blocked. The High Magi have gathered to see if this can be countered.”
He looked up at her. “You are friends of the centaurs. Alert them, tell them to hurry to the river and hold back the sahuagin and scrags that have invaded the heartland. Then hasten to Sunrise Tower, prepare the spell-singers to defend the valley. A huge invading fleet approaches, and if any of the raiders manage to come ashore, you can imagine what prizes they might take.”
Shanyrria nodded. Sunrise Tower stood in Drelagara, a Gold elf town in the midst of the lush measures that were home to the moon-horses. The wondrous beasts often played in the sea and the white-sand beaches east of the meadows; if raiders were to catch sight of such creatures, they would surely pursue them into the valley. A single moon-horse was worth more than a red dragon’s hoard.
The bladesinger reached into the leather bag on her belt and took a small package of green powder from it. This she poured into her hand. She spat, then mixed it into a paste and streaked it across her cheeks with the fingers of her hands. It was not as elaborate a war paint as was her custom, but it was all that time permitted. Shanyrria was already a daunting sight. Her appearance was unusual for a Silver elf, for she was tall and broad of shoulder, with eyes the color of amber. Her reddish-brown hair had been plaited into dozens of braids and woven with feathers and painted stone beads. In her mildest mood, Shanyrria was fearsome to behold. Now, even the Runemaster, no coward or weakling, hung back from her.
“Send me to Sunrise Tower,” she demanded. “I will rally the spell-singers, and then go to fight beside the centaurs.”
Laeroth nodded and began to cast the spell that would carry the bladesinger to distant Drelagara.
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