“Hardly.” Kymil gave a patrician sniff of scorn. “The high elves, the true Tel’Quessir, do not require the vulgar trappings of royalty. I will restore the ruling council of elders, as it was in the days of Myth Drannor.”
“Will you, now?” Arilyn taunted him. “It seems to me that you’ll have to get to the moonblade first. How you’re going to remove it from Khelben Arunsun’s safe is a marvel to me.”
“That is a lie,” the quessir snapped. “You cannot lay aside the moonblade on a whim. With the sword whole once more, you are tied to it like mother and newborn. If the sword were truly so far away, you would be dead.”
“What can I say?” Arilyn returned with a flippant shrug. “It’s amazing what one can do when properly motivated. I refuse to die while you still draw breath.” Her face hardened.
“Maybe you’re right about the moonblade, and it could be that neither of us has long to live. I challenge you, Kymil Nimesin, to single combat. May the gods judge between us.”
“Your pretension is almost amusing,” said Kymil. “The student cannot possibly hope to vanquish the master.”
“It has been known to happen.”
The elf regarded her for a moment, then he noted in a condescending manner, “My dear Arilyn, you cannot fight a duel with that lifeless blade.”
In reply, the half-elf raised Danilo’s sword to her forehead in challenge.
Kymil merely laughed and turned to the Elite. “Kill her.”
Khelben Arunsun stood by a window of Blackstaff Tower, gazing out into the gathering night. Try as he might, he could not rid his mind of Danilo’s words. In the matter of the elfgate, the wizard had done what he thought best. The Harper council had decided that secrecy was the only real protection for the elven kingdom, and they had guarded the secret by dividing it up like so many chunks of bread. At the time, it had seemed to be the most prudent course to take.
Now Khelben was not so sure. Harpers worked in secret, always collecting information and using their talented members to subtly thwart evil or correct imbalance. In the matter of the elfgate, the very veil of secrecy that the Harpers employed, usually with great success, had been turned against them by an elf they trusted. Therein, Khelben knew, lay the dilemma. Bran Skorlsun had been kept busy for almost forty years tracking down pretended Harpers and an occasional renegade Harper. What other disasters could occur if these false Harpers had access to Harpers’ secrets?
Danilo had been right about many things, Khelben acknowledged silently. The archmage had knowingly and deliberately endangered Arilyn’s life. Without the moonblade, she was unlikely to live through the night. Khelben’s heart ached for his nephew, who obviously cared deeply for the half-elf.
The archmage abruptly left the window and walked to the corner of the room where the moonblade still lay. To his knowledge, Arilyn had not named a successor. To whom, then, should he send the blade? Absently he reached for the ancient scabbard, and his hand closed on air.
“What!” Snapped from his introspection, Khelben sped through the words of a cantrip to dispel magic. The moonblade faded, although its faint outline hung in the air a moment longer as if silently mocking him.
“An illusion,” he murmured. “Danilo took the sword and left an illusion.” The boy’s getting too good to keep under wraps, the wizard thought, unable to suppress a small smile of pride.
He passed a hand over his forehead. His sympathies were with Danilo, but how could the boy be foolish enough to endanger the elfgate? Both Danilo and Bran Skorlsun were risking their lives to help Arilyn. Khelben was not sure whether he ought to be angry or ashamed. Perhaps they could do it. Perhaps Danilo could move the gate without a problem, and perhaps Arilyn could defeat Kymil Nimesin. Perhaps I should let them try, the archmage mused.
The weight of responsibility pressed upon Khelben Arunsun, and suddenly he felt very old. He walked the staircase to his spellcasting chamber to alert Erlan Duirsar. The elven lord of Evereska would not be pleased to learn that the moonblade was again whole and on its way to the site of the elfgate.
The sounds of battle rang through the temple gardens, drifting down the labyrinth of footpaths that wove their way to the top of Evereska’s highest mountain. Two men broke into a run, the taller of them leading the way. Swiftly and surely the aging Harper raced to the top of the mountain. There, in the very center of the garden, was a sight that chilled him to the soul.
Before the statue of a beautiful elven goddess stood his daughter, fighting for her life against four gold elves. The rising moon reflected from their flashing blades.
Awe filled both Bran and Danilo, who had now reached the garden. It held them, immobile, in its spell. Never had they seen such fighting. In any company, each of the agile gold elves would be considered a rare champion. Although two of their number had fallen to Arilyn’s sword, the remaining four wove a dance of death around the half-elf. Off to one side stood another gold elf, a tall slender quessir who awaited the battle’s outcome with an expression of self-righteous confidence.
At that moment, one of the fighters managed to knock Arilyn’s borrowed sword from her hand. In the bright moonlight, Danilo could see the triumphant sneer on the face of Tintagel Ni’Tessine. Panic struck the nobleman, and with it a moment of indecision. He had not intended to reveal the moonblade until he’d found the elfgate and moved it to safety.
Tintagel Ni’Tessine raised his sword arm across his chest, preparing to deliver a backhanded strike to Arilyn’s throat. Danilo made his decision swiftly.
“Arilyn!” he shouted, thrusting his wounded hand into the magic sack. A second blast of pain ripped through his arm as his fingers closed around the magic sword. The startled elves looked toward him, and Danilo hurled the sheathed blade toward Arilyn.
A flash of blue lightning ripped through the garden like an explosion. Magic thunder shook the ground, and the gold elves were knocked to the ground by its force.
Arilyn stood at base of the statue with a glowing sword in her hand, a powerful figure of magic and vengeance. Smoke from the explosion flowed toward her. Before Danilo’s stunned gaze, the writhing smoke swirled and twisted, forming a faint circle behind the half-elf that glowed with an eerie blue light.
“The elfgate!” shouted Kymil Nimesin, pointing. “You must get past her and into the elfgate!”
The elven fighters rose to their feet and exchanged uneasy glances. Danilo took one look at Bran Skorlsun’s puzzled face and immediately understood what troubled the elves. They could not see the gate.
Some dimensional doors were visible only to powerful mages. Of all the people gathered in the garden, only Danilo could see what Kymil Nimesin was pointing to.
The nobleman grabbed the spell scroll from his bag and prepared to move the elfgate. With a start, he realized that Khelben had not told him where the gate should be moved. An ephemeral smile touched his lips when an answer presented itself. Conjuring a mental picture of the elfgate’s new location, the young mage began the lengthy chant and gestures of the spell.
“For the honor of Myth Drannor!” shrieked Kymil, galvanizing the elves into battle. Three of them circled Arilyn. Wielding his staff, Bran raced to aid his daughter, but was stopped by Filauria Ni’Tessine. The tall Harper and the elven circle-singer made strange opponents, but Filauria held him back with astounding skill.
“Your sword cannot shed innocent blood,” Tintagel reminded Arilyn smugly. “It is worthless against me.”
“Times have changed. Care to chance it?” she asked. Tintagel confidently advanced, and in three strokes Arilyn’s moonblade had found his heart. The elf’s eyes widened in disbelief as he slumped to the ground. With a keening wail, Filauria fled the battle and dropped to her knees beside her brother’s body.