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 even-feast," 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 Amlaruil 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.
Amlaruil dropped her gaze to her plate. It would not help matters if her bitterness were to creep into her eyes, and give further offense to any member of clan Durothil. There were many among the Durothils who believed that one of their members-or at the very least, another Gold elf-should rule the Towers in Amlaruil's stead.
"Is my lady well?" Belstram inquired politely.
"No, and well you know it."
A long, silent moment passed before Amlaruil realized that she had spoken the bitter words aloud. Amlaruil took a long, steadying breath and forced herself to meet the Gold elf's eyes.
"Forgive me, Lord Durothil, and all of you," she said in a clear voice that reached to the edges of the chamber. "That was spoken without thought or purpose. I have been too absorbed with my own affairs. It will not continue."
"I am glad to hear these words, Lady Amlaruil. Do you mean to say, then, that you will no longer remain in seclusion in these Towers?" Belstram pressed. "It is a matter that must be addressed," he continued heatedly, silencing the murmur of protest that rose from the assembled magi. "Lady Amlaruil has not left these Tower grounds for nearly fifteen years, not since the birth of her daughter. Indeed, until recently it was not known beyond these walls that she had a child."
Amlaruil rose in one swift movement. "And now that all the world knows?" she said in a choked voice. "What good has come of it?"
The Gold elf rose from his place and came to face the angry mage. "The royal house has an heir," Belstram said softly. "This was a needed thing. What Evermeet needs now, my lady, is a Grand Mage."
Several of the elves gasped at his effrontery, others rose in protest. The bladesinger Shanyrria, predictably enough, drew her sword in hot-tempered willingness to fight for the Lady of the Tower's honor.
Amlaruil gazed down at the Gold elf, astounded by his open challenge to her position before all the gathered magi. But to her astonishment, she read in Belstram's face not animosity, not even ambition, but deep and genuine concern. She saw, too, the truth in his accusation.
A sad smile curved her lips. "Thank you, Lord Durothil," she said softly. "Thank you for your honesty. Your words are hard, but fair. I have not been the Grand Mage that Evermeet deserves."
"You misunderstand," Belstram said, seeming genuinely appalled by Amlaruil's words. He further astounded her by going down on one knee before her.
"You are dying, Lady Amlaruil," he said bluntly. "With each day that passes, you slip closer to Arvandor. Evermeet needs a Grand Mage, yet you are willfully depriving her of perhaps the greatest to rule these towers. Once, I thought that Jannalor Nierde had chosen his successor unwisely. Do not continue on this path, and prove me right."
For many moments, the silence that filled the chamber was profound and absolute. Then Nakiasha huffed loudly. "It's about time someone other than me spoke sense in these halls," declared the opinion
ated sorceress. "Which leads me to an interesting question. Are you absolutely certain, Belstram, that you aren't a Green elf in disguise?"
The look of consternation that crossed the Durothil's face sent the forest elf sorceress into hoots of laughter.
Nakiasha's mirth was contagious, spreading throughout the dining hall and echoing long as the elves found in laughter a much-needed release. Even Belstram managed a self-conscious smile as he rose and made his way back to his place.
Both bolstered and shamed by the truth in Belstram's words, Amlaruil resumed her seat and made a real effort at downing some of the food. As the evening progressed, the lightened mood of the evenfeast spilled over into celebration, for the young High Mage was much loved, and great was the elves' relief to have their concerns for her given voice.
Much later, as the elves danced in the Tower gardens beneath a star-filled sky, Amlaruil slipped away into the forest to ponder the events and insights of the day. Following a sure instinct, she made her way to the clearing in which she had first met Zaor.
She stood in long silence, remembering her first meeting with Zaor and the vision which had come to her that day. She remembered also the night when the King-Killer star had appeared to her and Lamruil, and had ironically set in motion the events that led to the crowning of an elven monarch.
Much later that evening, Zaor found her there, as Nakiasha said he might. As the elven king gazed upon his lost love, he understood why the sorceress had sent for him.
The change in Amlaruil was appalling, and unmistakable. Once, Zaor had witnessed the passage of an elf to Arvandor. His own father, a ranger who spent his life in the defense of Myth Drannor's forests, had simply faded away, leaving behind like a final benediction a fleeting glimmer of silvery motes. Amlaruil was doing much the same thing. In the faint, fey light of the stars, her slender form looked almost translucent. Zaor could see the faint shadows of these glittering motes-not just silver, as he would expect, but also gold, blue, green and even a few tiny pinpricks of gleaming obsidian. Zaor did not wonder at this, for in his mind Amlaruil was the uncrowned queen of all the elven People. He felt a deep sadness, though, for the years of loss-not only the empty years he had spent in the Moonstone Palace, but the centuries that stretched before him, void of his one love, his true queen.
"Come back to us, Amlaruil," he said softly. The elf woman whirled at the sound of his voice, her blue eyes wide and startled and one hand at her throat. She stared at Zaor for a moment as if not entirely certain that she had not conjured him with a thought. Then her too-angular face relaxed into a smile. "You still walk with the silence of a ranger, my lord."
She made move to kneel, but Zaor was at her side in a few quick steps. He grasped her arms and pulled her fiercely to him.
"What are you doing?" he demanded in a raw, angry voice. Amlaruil blinked. "I had thought to do proper reverence to Evermeet's king," she said dryly.
"Not that! You are slipping away-you are leaving Evermeet behind. I will not permit it!"
The elf woman sighed, undone by the anguish in Zaor's voice and the truth in his words. Her head sank down to rest on Zaor's shoulder. His arms enfolded her.
"Promise me that you will stay," he said in softer tones. "Swear that you will remain on Evermeet for as long as you are needed."
Amlaruil lifted her head to look into his eyes. "That is a difficult pledge, my lord, and beyond the scope even of Evermeet's king to demand."
"Even so, I think it is within your power to keep." Even as he spoke the words, Zaor recognized the truth in them. All elves were slow to age, but time refused to touch Amlaruil with any but the kindest of hands. But for the fashion of her hair and the sadness in her eyes, she was still the lithesome elf maid he had glimpsed many years ago. And since the day that he had met Ilyrana, he had been beset by the suspicion that the girl was not entirely mortal. The gods had touched his daughter. Zaor could sense, if not fully understand, Ilyrana's deep communion and connection with the Seldarine. And through Ilyrana, he had come to better understand the nature of Ilyrana's mother. Whatever Amlaruil set her mind to, she could do.
Amlaruil was silent for a long moment, as if she, too, knew the truth of his words. "I swear it," she said at last.
With a faint smile, she eased out of Zaor's embrace. "How is Ilyrana?"
It was strangely comforting, to be discussing their child as if they were lovers wed, recently reunited after a small time apart. Zaor only wished he had more to tell Amlaruil.
"Ilyrana is hard to know," he admitted. "She is not a cold or rude girl, yet she remains aloof, distant."
"Has she taken well to court life?"
Zaor sighed. "On the face of it, well enough. Her manners are without flaw, and her beauty remarkable. Though she is not yet of age, already the young nobles are lining up to vie for her favors. But when not at her lessons or at court, she has little to do with anyone in the palace."
"The queen is kind to her?" Amlaruil said tentatively, hating to ask but needing to know.
"Lydi'aleera is not unkind. She does not know what to do with Ilyrana, though. She has no understanding of the girl. Not that I am much better," he added.
Amlaruil heard the guilt in his voice. "You cannot blame yourself. Ilyrana is a stranger to you. That choice was mine, for good or ill."
"You should have told me," Zaor said softly. The elf woman shook her head, understanding what he meant. "If I had told you on the day of your kingmaking that I carried your child, you would never have agreed to the alliance with Amarillis. As things stand, the kingdom is secure, Evermeet's defenses have never been stronger, and even the most contentious Gold elves speak with grudging pride of their king. Would any of this have come to pass, had you passed over Lydi'aleera to wed your cousin?"
"But does it truly matter, compared to what we have lost?"
"It matters!" Amlaruil said with sudden passion. "Do not dismiss what we have accomplished, or demean the sacrifices that we have made! If I did not believe that what I did was for the good of Evermeet, I could not bear this life!"
Zaor again took the angry elf woman in his arms, soothing her with soft words and gentle hands. The years fell away from them both, and with joy he felt the familiar kindling of their shared flame. When he thought he could bear no more, Amlaruil broke away. Her eyes searched his.
"How is it that you have no heir within marriage?" she asked softly.
The elf grimaced but did not flinch away from the question. "Perhaps I have not your dedication to Evermeet, Amlaruil. But there are some duties that I cannot countenance. If that makes me less the king, so be it. Lydi'aleera agreed to this alliance for what it was-a political convenience and no more. Before we were wed, I told her in all honesty what would be between her and me, and what would not. I cannot be other than I am."
"And what is that?" murmured Amlaruil, reading the answer in his eyes but needing to hear the words.
"Yours," he replied. "Only yours."
"For this night," she agreed, taking his hands and drawing him down with her to the forest bed of deep, green-velvet moss.
"No," Zaor said softly. "For all time."
In the months that followed, Amlaruil fulfilled her promises of that night in ways that astounded even her most avid supporters.
She left the Towers at last, traveling Evermeet with a small Circle of magi and testing the sons and daughters of both noble and common houses. Those who showed talent were accepted for training, regardless of birth.
This did not please all the elves, particularly those scions of the powerful Gold elf families who felt that they had already lost enough. Amlaruil had a ready answer for these restless and disgruntled young elves. In a planned confrontation, during the midsummer gathering at the Drelagara meadows, she brought a Circle of magi in mock spell battle against the powerful war wizard Yalathanil Symbaern.
Though all understood that the magical jousting was meant as entertainment, the power of Yalathanil's magic staff, demonstrated before a large
gathering of wizards, magi, and nobles, had the effect that Amlaruil desired.
Magic items, she insisted, were not merely family treasures to be hoarded. They were an important part of elven culture, a legacy of all elves. She pledged the support of the Towers to any adventurers who wished to recover elven artifacts from the ruins of lost elven civilizations, and to artisans who would create new ones. The result was a flurry of activity, and the harbors of Leuthilspar bloomed with ships sailing eastward to reclaim the glories of times past.
Inspired by the High Mage's example, the elves began to pursue the magical arts with renewed fervor. But as Amlaruil was soon to learn, nurturing the strengths of the elves was an easy matter. Dealing with their failures was quite another.
As the clans vied with each other for power in magical matters, the children of noble houses were increasingly urged to excel. There were some children sent to the Tower who, in less enthusiastic times, would not have been there. Chief among these was Rennyn Aelorothi.
The young Gold elf was rapidly becoming a problem. Like many of his kin, Rennyn was proud and even arrogant about his high birth. But unlike most elves, he had a barrier about his heart that kept him apart from any sort of deep communion. The Aelorothi clan was determined that their son become a High Mage, yet the intense sharing of the Circle magic was utterly beyond him.
For a while, Amlaruil tried to occupy Rennyn's talents elsewhere. But he disdained to learn the bladesinger's art from Shanyrria Alenuath, claiming he would not apprentice himself to a Moon elf. He showed some promise with battle spells and simple illusions, but as his training progressed it became clear that he simply possessed an unusually small amount of talent for any sort of magic.
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