The golden light of late afternoon lit the sky as she turned her horse toward the city. After the enspelled griffon, her fleet mare seemed to move far too slowly, and her progress was hampered by the seemingly endless merchant caravans that monopolized the tree-lined road. As she wove her way through the swarm of wagons and riders, she took no note of the two riders on Amnish stallions who followed her through the crowd, tracing her steps toward the elfgate.
An insistent flurry of coos erupted outside the window of Erlan Duirsar’s study. The elflord’s face betrayed his apprehension as he turned to an aid. “Let the messenger in,” he commanded sharply.
The young elf threw open the window sash to admit the messenger. Onto the window sill hopped a gray dove, which tilted its head as if politely requesting admittance. A small scroll was tied to one leg with a bit of silver ribbon.
“Lord Duirsar will see you,” the aid told the bird. The tiny messenger flew directly to the elven lord of the Greycloak Hills and perched expectantly before him.
A wave of trepidation swept through Erlan Duirsar. It had been some time since he had received a message from the western outpost. Myrin Silverspear was a proud elven warrior who preferred to take care of most problems himself. A matter had to be grave indeed before the “innkeeper” would pass it on to Evereska. Erlan untied the scroll. As he read it, his face grew troubled.
A polite chirp, the avian version of a cleared throat, drew Erlan’s attention back to the messenger. The bird awaited his reply, its tiny head cocked at an inquisitive angle.
“No, there will be no response,” Erlan told it. “You may go.” The bird bowed its head and chirped an unmistakably respectful farewell, then it dissipated into a scattering of tiny lights.
“My lord?” questioned the aid.
“Summon the council immediately. Make it clear that we are to meet at once and in the utmost secrecy.”
“Yes, Lord Duirsar.” The urgency in the lord’s voice was not lost on the aid. He bowed and hurried to the silver globe that would send the silent summons. Each council member wore an earring that was magically attuned to provide transport directly to Lord Duirsar’s halls.
Erlan Duirsar gazed out the window to the courtyard below, a vast square ringed by buildings of enspelled pink crystal. Elvencrafted with the whimsical asymmetry and solid practicality that characterized the work of moon elves, the buildings housed most of the lords and ladies who sat on the council. Both the duties and privileges of government were shared by all in Evereska, and the common elves frequently gathered in the square for ritual, festivity, or contentious town meetings.
It was his voice, however, that issued the final word on such matters as now confronted the city. Erlan Duirsar kept this thought before him as he strode into the meeting hall to address the council. A powerful and proud group, the elves studied him with varied degrees of curiosity and impatience.
“I know that you all have important business elsewhere, but I must ask that you remain here in counsel this night. Evereska may need the special talents of each elf here.”
“What’s going on?” demanded the head of the College of Magic.
“Bran Skorlsun has come to the Greycloak Hills,” said Erlan Duirsar simply.
It was explanation enough.
The stars were beginning to wink into light as Arilyn entered the central garden through its maze of rose-entwined boxwood. Before her stood the statue of the Hannali Celanil, as radiantly beautiful as Arilyn remembered.
The half-elf drew a small parchment scroll from her pocket and held it aloft. “You told me to meet you at my mother’s statue. Let’s get this over with.”
Arilyn’s voice rang out through the empty garden. There was a moment’s pause, then Kymil Nimesin stepped out from behind the statue.
“Arilyn. You cannot know how delighted I am to see you,” he said, his patrician tones rounded with satisfaction.
“Let’s see how quickly I can change your opinion on that matter,” Arilyn said, as she drew Danilo’s sword in challenge.
Before the steel had scraped free of its scabbard, several elven warriors emerged from their hiding places amid the boxwood hedges. Weapons in hand, they formed a semicircle behind Kymil, ready for his signal to attack.
“Need help these days, do you?” Arilyn asked.
Kymil regarded her weapon with dismay. “Where is the moonblade?” he demanded.
“If you’re here, the elfgate must be nearby. Surely you didn’t think I’d bring the moonblade with me.”
Kymil stared at her, not sure whether to believe her or not. His noble plan, his grand design, could not be thwarted by a mere halfbreed. It was impossible. His handsome bronze face gleamed with righteous wrath. “Where is the sword?” he repeated.
“Where you cannot get it,” Arilyn responded, smiling.
The gold elf’s narrowed eyes glittered with malevolence as he changed his tactics. “This is a surprise. You’ve been so malleable all these years. Who would have thought that you could be as stubborn and stupid as Z’beryl?”
The comment caught Arilyn off guard, just as Kymil had intended it to do. A cold hand of sorrow clutched at her heart. “What do you mean?”
“What else could I mean?” he taunted. “After I learned the secret of the moonblade, it took me fifteen years—fifteen years!—to discover that Amnestria and the elfgate were in Evereska. I might still be looking, had I not encountered some students who had studied under Z’beryl of Evereska.”
“I doubt any of Mother’s students knew her identity. I can’t believe any of them would betray her,” Arilyn said.
“Not intentionally, perhaps. In their admiration for your departed mother, they tried to mimic her unusual two-handed fighting technique.” He spread his arms wide. “Imagine my chagrin to finally find elf and sword, only to learn that the moonstone was gone and the elfgate still denied me. Naturally, your mother refused to tell me where the stone was, so I ensured that the blade would pass to someone who promised to be more reasonable.”
The color drained from Arilyn’s face. “You killed her.”
“Of course not,” Kymil retorted, his voice tight with self-righteous scorn. “She was, as the watch reported, killed by a couple of cutpurses, though perhaps I sold the men some enspelled weapons. Perhaps I also informed them that she carried a heavy purse.”
Arilyn hurled an elven curse at Kymil Nimesin like a javelin. He curled his lip in a show of disdain. “If you must be vulgar, by all means speak in Common and do not sully the elven language.”
“You filthy murderer,” she spat. “Now I have one reason more to kill you.”
“Don’t be tiresome. I did not kill Z’beryl,” Kymil reiterated calmly. “I merely passed on some information to the cutpurses who did. Of course, I don’t mourn the use they made of that information.” Kymil paused and swept a hand toward the gold elven fighters behind them. “Soon you will join her in whatever afterlife awaited her.”
Arilyn saw a familiar face among the elves. “Hello, Tintagel. Still Kymil’s shadow after all these years?”
“I follow Lord Nimesin,” Tintagel Ni’Tessine corrected her with cold disdain, “as did my father before me.”
“Making a family business out of being assassins, are you?”
“Can one use the term assassination to refer to eradication of gray elves? Extermination would be a more likely term,” he sneered.
“That is apt,” Kymil agreed. “Once we open the gate, my Elite will slip in and kill every member of the so-called royal family. With the moon elf usurpers gone, the proper order and balance will be restored.”
“I see,” said Arilyn slowly. “And Kymil Nimesin will reign in their stead, I imagine.”