Before Zaor could speak, Amlaruil disappeared. Only a faint silver sparkle of magic in the air, and the tiny mark of two fallen tears upon the earthen floor of the pavilion, betrayed that she had ever been there at all.
The Moon elf warrior dashed from the tent, looking frantically about for a glimpse of Amlaruil's beautiful red-gold hair among the crowds of elves. She was nowhere to be seen.
Lady Durothil came forward and grasped him by his forearms, her eyes searching his stricken face. Relief and sympathy mingled on her countenance. "You have chosen well," she said gently.
"I did not choose at all!" he blurted out. For a moment, the Moon elf's loss and heartache was naked in his eyes.
"The Lady of the Towers has acted with honor," Lady Durothil said softly. "And she has taken the worst burden-the burden of choice-from your shoulders. She did what she must, and now so must you."
Zaor was silent for a long moment. "I have always heard that the sacrifices demanded of those who would lead can be great. Had I any idea of what would be required of me, I would have wanted no part of this!" he said passionately.
The matron sighed. "If the gods are kind, it might be that you've already endured the worst! But come, my lord-the others are waiting."
For the remainder of that summer, the High Magi of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon lavished their magic upon the creation of Evermeet's court. The Moonstone Palace, a wondrous structure fashioned from marble and moonstone and roofed with gold, rose from the heart of Evermeet.
The labor was bittersweet for Amlaruil. Though she rejoiced to see Zaor as king, her part in his kingmaking was hardly what she had dreamed it might be.
As the summer passed and the brilliant colors of autumn faded from the land, Amlaruil went into seclusion to prepare for the birth of her daughter. Only Nakiasha attended her on the night that Zaor's heir drew breath, and stood witness to the elf woman's tears of mingled joy and loss.
In the months that followed, Amlaruil found immense comfort in her daughter. But she could not escape the feeling that this child was merely loaned to her. Amlaruil's ties to the Seldarine were deep and mystical, but it seemed to her that this babe was more a child of the gods than of mortal elves.
From birth Ilyrana was oddly silent, and her large, sea-blue eyes were grave and ancient. Nor did the babe resemble either of her parents. Tiny and ethereally pale, her white skin seemed tinged with blue, and her snow-colored baby curls held a touch of palest green. Amlaruil named her Ilyrana, from the Elvish word for opal.
Never once did Amlaruil speak the name of her baby's father. As an elf woman of noble birth, a High Mage, and Grand Mage of the Towers, she was beyond reproach in such matters. The child was hers, and if any of the elves of the Tower cared to speculate further, they did so with unusual discretion. Amlaruil had already won the respect and love of most of the young magi. Most of them grasped that it was her wish to keep the child from common sight and knowledge, and they protected their lady and her child as they did any of the Towers' other legacies.
What none of the magi understood, however, was that Amlaruil's reticence was based on something far darker than discretion and a desire for privacy.
The machinations displayed during the kingmaking at the previous summer solstice had opened her eyes to the nobles of Evermeet. The Lady of the Towers kept a careful watch on the multilayered affairs of the court. The more she learned, the deeper became her concern, not only for Zaor, but for all of Evermeet.
"Really, Montagor, I find your offer singularly ignorant, even considering that it came from a Gray elf," sneered Vashti Nimesin. "You are of less use to me than Lydi'aleera is to clan Amarillis! Surely you know that any offspring of Zaor will be accounted part of clan Moonflower. You can evoke every long-dead Amarillis hero whose name you can recall, and it will not change that fact!"
The Amarillis heir sipped at his goblet of feywine, buying time to collect his thoughts. He had spent many days currying the favor of the wealthy and increasingly powerful Nimesin clan. Finally, he had finagled an invitation to one of Vashti's elite parties. Judging from her disdainful tone, it would clearly be a mistake to count his successes too soon.
"Perhaps my sister's child will be a Moonflower," he allowed, "but Lydi'aleera is still of House Amarillis! There is much that a queen can do to influence royal policy."
Lady Nimesin snickered. "And you're claiming she has the wit to do so, I suppose? That little twit?"
"Lydi'aleera has always been guided by me," Montagor said stoutly. "I tell you, there is much that can be gained from an alliance with Amarillis."
The matron's appraising gaze slid over the young Moon elf. Vashti Nimesin was well aware of Montagor's ambitions, and in fact she approved of most of the steps he had taken to consolidate his clan's influence and power in the newly established court. Foisting that insipid little wench upon Zaor Moonflower had been a masterful stroke. It was to Montagor's credit that he also sought out ties with the members of powerful Gold elf clans.
But it was patently clear to Lady Nimesin that Montagor was not quite up to the standard of his illustrious ancestors. In his naked desire for power, he was vulnerable-and more of a willing tool even than his insipid little sister.
Vashti Nimesin smiled. "There is in fact a service you can do for me. My son, Kymil, shows great promise in both magic and arms. I would have him trained at the Towers of the Sun and Moon. Perhaps you could escort him there, and present him to the ruling mage?"
Montagor bowed deeply. "It would be my great pleasure," he said sincerely, though he had little illusion about the reason for Lady Nimesin's request. She clearly disliked the fact that a Moon elf ruled in the Towers and was unwilling to submit herself in the position of supplicant to Amlaruil Moonflower. In sending the Amarillis heir as an errand boy, Vashti would make a statement of her high position and her contempt for Moon elves.
So be it. It was a price worth paying for Nimesin's favor. Montagor turned his gaze upon Kymil Nimesin, who stood talking with a small group of young Gold elves. He was a singularly handsome youth, with the golden skin of his race contrasting with the ebony luster of his black hair and eyes. Yet he was still a child, far too young for admittance to the tower.
At that moment, Kymil turned and met Montagor's curious gaze. The Moon elf recoiled, stunned by the sheer malevolence of those eyes. But the moment passed, so swiftly that Montagor was left wondering if he'd imagined that hate-filled stare. Young Kymil came willingly enough to his mother's beckoning, and his handsome face was a model of civility as he greeted the Amarillis heir.
"Montagor Amarillis will escort you to the Towers, my son," Lady Nimesin said in a satisfied voice. "You will leave at first light. See that you are a credit to your people and your house."
"Yes, mother," the boy said automatically. There was nothing in his face or voice to suggest he was other than a dutiful son, and there was no mockery in the bow he gave the Moon elf noble. Yet Montagor felt deeply uneasy as he contemplated the young elf.
From time to time, Montagor caught a glimpse of what might yet be. He had not claimed the moonblade because he suspected that he would not survive the attempt. Now, looking at young Kymil Nimesin, he had the same feeling of impending death. There was something stirring in the mists of this boy's future, something that Montagor could neither see nor grasp. It reached out to him, all the same, taunting him with dire possibilities.