Thus began Zaor and Amlaruil's new life together.
In the years that followed, four more children were born to them. First was Amnestria, who inherited her father's coloring and her mother's rare beauty-and something that came from neither. Alternately sunny and fierce, Amnestria possessed an intensity that seemed oddly out of place in the serene court of Leuthilspar.
Zandro and Finufaranell, the boys that followed, were cut more to the elven mold. They were diligent students both, and took to the Towers at a young age. And finally, there was Lamruil, the sunny, charming, spoiled baby of the family. By the time he was yet a lad, no more than thirty or forty, he had already taken up adventuring and wenching as avocations. Lamruil was much given to mischief; fortunately, his fierce love and admiration for his older sister Amnestria served to keep him somewhat in line. The year that he left the island in search of adventure and elven artifacts, many elves in the staid capital city-including Lamruil's tutors and swordmasters-breathed private sighs of relief.
The tenor of palace life changed yet again with the arrival of Thasitalia Moonflower. Near to the end of her mortal span, the adventurer had one task left to her before answering the call to Arvandor. As was the responsibility of every elf who wielded a moonblade, she needed to select a blade heir.
For weeks the sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued elf woman stayed in the palace, scandalizing the nobles and delighting the young with stories of her travels.
Amnestria, in particular, was enchanted by the tales of distant places and strange events. The king and queen watched their daughter as she listened to Thasitalia with shining eyes, and the fey Amlaruil felt a fear to which she could not give a name. She and Zaor were not pleased when Thasitalia proclaimed Amnestria to be the pick of Zaor's litter, and chose her as blade heir. Yet the honor of a moonblade was something that no one, especially a king and queen so chosen, could scorn. The choice was Amnestria's, and she embraced the sword with passion and joy: the sword of an adventurer, a solitary fighter. It was not an auspicious step for the daughter whom Amlaruil and Zaor fondly hoped to see upon the throne of Evermeet.
Even so, Amnestria seemed contented with life in Leuthilspar. The elf maid added a fierce regime of training for the moonblade's challenge to her studies of swordcraft and battle magic. But the girl's world shattered when her betrothed, Elaith Craulnober, left her and Evermeet without a breath of explanation.
For weeks after his departure, everyone in the palace tiptoed around the jilted princess, for Amnestria's fiery temper was legendary. Of all the royal elves, only Lamruil dared seek her out.
The prince found his sister in her chamber, her face set with determination as she flung clothes and valuables into a sea chest. When Lamruil entered the room, she looked up at him and grimaced.
"The door was locked and enspelled," she said pointedly. "I wouldn't have thought you knew magic enough to open it!" Lamruil shrugged, and then nodded to the overflowing chest. "What's this about?"
The princess slammed the lid. "I'm going after him."
"Who? Elaith?"
She shot her brother a derisive look. "He sent me word from Waterdeep-wasn't that nice of him? He has taken up with a band of adventurers. Humans, mostly. He's off to see the world. Well, I'm going to become part of the scenery he sees!"
"Oh."
"Oh? That's it? You're not going to try to convince me of my folly?"
"Would it help?"
A reluctant smile softened Amnestria's face, and her shoulders rose and fell with a long sigh. "Well, it's comforting to know that at least one person in this palace understands me."
"I understand more than you think," Lamruil said, suddenly grave. He reached out and touched the weapons belt at his sister's waist. The clasp had been loosened a notch, displaying the well-worn notch to the right of it.
Amnestria's gazed followed his gesture. She frowned and shrugged. Though beautiful almost beyond measure, there was nothing of vanity in her.
"So? One notch is as good as another, as long as it keeps my sword on and my trousers up."
"Speaking of which, what was the manner of your leave-taking with Elaith?"
The princess's face darkened, and she turned away to snap shut the clasps on the trunk with more force than was needed. "That's none of your business."
Her brother saw that she truly did not understand. "Four moons have passed since Elaith left the island," he said gently. "Before too many more pass, you will have to set aside that belt altogether."
Amnestria spun back to him, her eyes wide with shock. She sank down on the bed and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, I feel such a fool! How could I not have known?"
The prince sat down beside her, hating what he must tell her next. "I know why Elaith left Evermeet. His grandfather passed to Arvandor, and the Craulnober blade passed to him. It went dormant in his hands, as there is no heir to Craulnober."
She sat up, abruptly. "There is now. Damnation! If only he had waited to draw the moonblade until after we-"
"If he had waited, he would be dead," Lamruil interrupted bluntly. "The sword did not accept him. If there had been an heir, it would have slain him and you would have kept the sword in trust for your babe."
They sat in silence for a moment as Amnestria tried to sort it through.
"There is more," Lamruil said reluctantly. He drew a letter from his tunic. "This came through the Relays, from a human ranger and a comrade of Elaith's. He says he feels he knows you a little, from Elaith's descriptions, and he urgently bids you not to come."
"I haven't told anyone I was coming," the princess muttered.
"Well, perhaps he does understand you. There is more. The adventuring group with whom Elaith has taken up has left the city. They seek to find the ancient burial grounds of Aryvandaar-and to despoil them."
Horror dulled Amnestria's eyes like mist, only to be rapidly burned off by the heat of her wrath. "And this human?"
"He does not approve. He will try to stop them, by whatever means needed."
The princess nodded, grimly approving. "And I will help."
"But what of the child?"
"I can still travel for a while, and I can still fight. When I cannot, I will find a place where I am not known, and bear the child in secrecy. For I swear to you before all the gods of the Seldarine, Elaith will never know of this child! I will give the babe up into the hands of another to raise, before I would link my house with a traitor and a rogue!"
She glared at Lamruil, daring him to gainsay her.
"That is your right," he said. "I will help you all I can, but you must promise me two things. First, you must tell me where the child is. Second, he must be raised in the skills and knowledge required of a potential king. Evermeet may have need of him."
Amnestria glared. "Damn it, Lamruil, that's the sort of thing our mother would think of. You're starting to talk like a king yourself."
A wide grin split Lamruil's face. "Not a chance," he said, genuinely amused by the idea. He rose and extended a hand to help her to her feet. "I'll help you slip away," he said softly. "Bran Skorlsun was not the only one to suspect that you would come storming after Elaith. There's a ship waiting for you off the shore of Ruith, and I've bribed enough of the palace servants that you can slip away in secrecy."
The princess thanked him with a brief, fierce hug, and then drew away. "Who is Bran Skorlsun?"
"The human ranger. I have sent word, and told him where to expect you. He seems a fine man, and I think you and he will do well together."
Lamruil was long to remember these words, and oft to rue them. Amnestria did indeed join with Bran Skorlsun, and they were successful in thwarting the efforts of Elaith and his comrades. The ancient burial grounds of Aryvandaar, the resting place of the mortal remains of those who died in defense of that wondrous land, remained sacred.
Elaith was never to learn of his son. The babe was born into the hands of a human, and hidden away to be raised in secret fosterage. Amnestria did all that she promised.
But she did not return to the island. The elven princess found a deeper love than that which she had lost, and she wed Bran Skorlsun. With him she established a rapport as deep as that shared by her royal parents. And in so doing, she inadvertently set in motion events that were to have grim consequences for her family, and for all of Evermeet.
24
The Elite
2nd day of Ches, 1321 DR
The elf emerged in a glade, a small verdant meadow ringed by a tight circle of vast, ancient oaks. His path had brought him to a spot of rare beauty that, to the untrained eye, appeared to be utterly untouched. Never had the elf seen a place more deeply green; a few determined shafts of early morning sunlight filtered through leaves and vines until even the air around him seemed dense and alive. At his feet, emerald droplets clung to the grass. The elf's seeking eyes narrowed in speculation. Dropping to his knees, he studied the grass until he found it-an almost imperceptible path where the dew had been shaken loose from the ankle-high grass. Yes, his prey had come this way. Quickly he followed the dew trail to where it slipped between two of the giant oaks. He parted a curtain of vines and stepped out of the glade, blinking away the bright morning sun. Once his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a narrow dirt path winding through the trees.
His quarry did not know that they were being followed, so why wouldn't they take the easiest way through the forest? The elf slipped through the underbrush and set off down the path. There was little to indicate that other footsteps had preceded him, but the elf was not concerned. The two he sought were, despite their deplorable origins, among the best rangers he had encountered. Very few could walk through the thick, deep grass of that sheltered glade and leave behind no more than a dew trail.
The elf glided silently along the path, his blood quickening at the thought of the victory that lay ahead, so long awaited and now so close at hand. Elves, particularly Gold elves, were not hasty people, and behind this morning's mission lay years of planning, decades of discussion, and almost four centuries of waiting for the proper means and moment. The time to strike had come, and his would be the first blow.
The path ended at the stone wall, and again the elf paused, alert and observant. He crouched in the shadow of the wall and examined the scene spread out before him. Beyond the wall was a garden, as lovely as anything he had ever seen.
Peacocks strutted about an expanse of lawn, some with tail feathers spread to flaunt dozens of iridescent blue-green eyes. Brilliantly colored kotala birds chattered in the spring-flowering trees that ringed a reflecting pond. The elf's innate love of beauty welled up within him, pushing aside for a moment the urgency of his mission. It would be easy, he mused as he observed the garden scene, for elves to be seduced by such splendor.
As indeed they had been, he concluded as his gaze lifted above the garden to a distant castle, a marvel of enspelled moonstone and marble. His golden eyes glittered with hate and triumph as he realized that the trail had led him to the very center of Gray elf power. The ancient Gold elf race had succumbed to the rule of their inferiors for far too long. With renewed purpose the elf began to plan his attack.
His situation could hardly be better; no guards patrolled the outer palace gardens. If he could catch his prey before they got close to the palace, he would be able to strike and withdraw undetected, and return another day to strike again.
Between him and the palace was an enormous maze fashioned of boxwood hedges. Perfect! The elf flashed a private, evil smile. The Gray wench and her pet human had walked into their own tomb. Days could pass before the bodies would be discovered in that labyrinth.
The arrangement did have its disadvantages. The maze itself did not worry him, but its entrance could be reached only through a garden of bellflowers. Cultivated for sound as well as scent, the flowers sent faint music drifting toward him in the still morning air. The elf listened for a moment, and his jaw tightened. He'd seen such gardens before. The flower beds and statuary were arranged to catch and channel the slightest breath of wind, so that the flowers constantly chimed one of several melodies. Any disruption of the air flow, however, faint, would change their song. In effect, the garden was a beautiful but effective alarm system.
Since his quarry was undoubtedly in the maze and heading for the palace, the elf knew he would have to take a chance. He vaulted easily over the low stone wall and raced past the inquisitive peacocks, then glided through the bellflower garden with an economy of motion only the best elven rangers could achieve. As he had feared, the tinkling song subtly altered with his passing. To his sensitive ear, the disruption was as glaring as a trumpet's blast, and he ducked behind a statue and steeled himself for the approach of the palace guard.
Several silent minutes passed, and eventually the elf relaxed. His lips twisted in derision as he pictured the palace guards-oafs too stupid and common to recognize their own musical alarm. Tone deaf, as were all Gray elves. The elf deliberately ignored the fact that few elves, be they Gold or Silver or Green by birth, had his keen ear for the subtle blend of music and magic. After all, he was a bladesinger, and one of the elite trained in the ancient art of spell song. With a silent chuckle, the elf slipped into the maze.
Garden mazes, he knew, tended to follow a common pattern. After a few confident turns, the elf began to suspect that this one was an exception. This maze was like nothing he had seen before. Vast and whimsical, its convoluted paths wandered from one small garden to another, each one more fantastic than the last. With a growing sense of dismay the elf passed exotic fruit trees, fountains, arbors, berry patches, tiny ponds filled with bright fish, and hummingbirds breakfasting amid vines of red trumpet flowers. Most striking were the magical displays depicting familiar episodes from elven folklore: the birth of the Sea elves, the flight of the dragons, the Starwing ship landfall.
He pressed on, running to the entrance of yet another garden clearing. One glance inside, and he skidded to a stop. Before him was a marble pedestal topped with a large, water-filled globe. Surely he couldn't have passed that globe before! He crept closer for a better look. A magical illusion raged within the sphere, a terrible sea storm that tossed tiny elven vessels about. Before his horrified eyes the sea goddess Umberlee rose from the waves, her white hair flying in the gale like flashes of lightning. By the gods, it was the birth of the Sea elves again!
There could be no doubt. Surely not even this ridiculous maze could have two such displays. The elf raked both hands through his golden hair, tugging at it in self-disgust. He, an elf as renown for his ranger's skills as his talents with sword and song-spell, had been running around in circles!
Before he could castigate himself further, the elf heard a faint clicking sound not far away. He trailed it to a large, circular garden ringed with flowers that attracted clouds of bright butterflies. Many paths led out of the garden, which was dominated by pale blue roses in a bed shaped like a crescent moon. At one tip of the blue-rose moon stood an elderly elven gardener, snipping away at the rosebushes with more vigor than expertise.
Again the elven intruder smiled. By all appearances, this was the maze's center and surely his quarry had passed through. The old gardener would tell him, at knife point if need be, which path the wench had taken.
The elf edged into the garden. As he entered a flock of the butterflies took flight, and the gardener looked up, his silver-blue eyes lit with gentle inquiry at the disruption.
His gaze fell upon the intruder, but he merely waved and cleared his throat as if to call out a greeting.
No, not that! thought the intruder in a moment of panic. He could not alert his quarry now!
A dagger flew, and a look of surprise crossed the gardener's face. The old elf's hand came up to fumble with the blade in his chest, and he fell heavily to the ground. His rough cap tumbled off. From it spilled an abundance of long, dark blue hair shot through with silver threads.
Blue hair!
Excitement gripped the assassin, and he sped across the distance between
him and the fallen elf. As he crouched beside the corpse, a flash of gold caught his eye. He reached for it. From beneath the gardener's rough linen tunic he drew a medallion bearing the royal crest. The elf felt a clasp and flipped the medallion open. Within was a tiny painting. The exquisite, unmistakable face of Queen Amlaruil gazed up at him, a tender, very personal smile upon her lips.
It was true! The assassin dropped the medallion and sat back on his heels, dizzy with elation. Through the most fortunate of errors, he had killed King Zaor!
A keening scream, anguished and female, interrupted his private celebration. In one quick motion the elven assassin leaped to his feet and whirled, twin swords in his hands. He found himself facing his original quarry. So white and still was she, that for a moment she seemed carved from marble. No sculptor, however, could have captured the grief and guilt that twisted her pale face. The knuckles of one hand pressed against her mouth, and with her other hand she clung to the arm of the tall man at her side.
Ah, the fates were kind today, the elven assassin gloated. Swiftly and confidently he advanced on the pair, blades leading. To his surprise, the wench's oversized companion had the presence of mind to snatch a small hunting bow from his shoulder and let fly an arrow.
The elven assassin felt the stunning impact first, and then a burning flash of pain as the arrow pierced his leather armor and buried itself in his side, just below the rib cage. He glanced down at the shaft and saw that the arrow was neither deeply imbedded nor in a vital spot. Summoning all his austere self discipline, he willed aside the pain and raised his swords. He could still kill the wench-kill them both-before making his escape. It would be a fine day's work, indeed.
"This way!"
A vibrant contralto voice rang out, very near. The female's scream had alerted the palace guard. The assassin could hear the rapidly approaching footsteps of at least a dozen guards. He must not be captured and questioned! He would die for the cause and do so gladly, but the Gray rulers would surely not grant him the dignity of death. With her foul magic, the Gray queen would surely pry from his mind the name of his master, and the names of the spell-singers lying in wait-here, in Evermeet itself-with Gold elven patience as they anticipated the signal to strike.
Evermeet: Island of Elves (single books) Page 43