The second elf's sword thrust in hard, slashing a deep gash across the back of Nevarth's knife hand and spoiling his killing stroke. The Moon elf threw his arm wide and somehow managed to land a wild backhand punch to the attacker's face. He spun away, then faced the pair of Gold elves head on. They stalked in like hunting cats, swords before them.
Nevarth did what he could, but his two blades could not match the swords of the Gold elven traitors. Again and again they broke through his guard, their swords leaving long and bloody trails across his arms, his chest, his face.
Still Nevarth fought on, not only for his life, but for that of the king. He had to survive, or Zaor would walk into a traitor's snare.
A female voice called his name, and suddenly Nevarth knew the fight was won. "That is Amlaruil-the Grand Mage," he informed the elves, speaking the words between the rapid exchange of blows. "You are as good as dead."
A look of deep hatred swept the face of the younger elf, but he danced back beyond the reach of Nevarth's sword. "Fenian, to the trees! Let the king's whore find her slain champion. You can bring her down with an arrow while she mourns him!"
Nevarth thought this a bit presumptuous, considering that he was far from dead. Yet even as the thought formed, the Gold elf whirled forward, his sword flashing up and around so rapidly that its path seemed to linger as a solid, silvery circle. Nevarth did not feel the cut, but dimly he felt the blood-soaked ground rush up to meet him. In some distant, fading part of his mind he saw the Gold elf sheath his blade and melt into the forest.
He tried to warn Amlaruil, tried to wave her away, tried to bid her no when she knelt beside him. But his limbs were so terribly cold, and they would no longer answer his will. No words could rise through his torn throat.
He thought, briefly, of his Araushnee, but oddly enough he could not bring to mind an image of her face. The light faded from before his eyes, until all that was left to him was an image of the glowing ruby on his hand, and a deep, terrible sense of failure. Amlaruil would die because of him.
Yes, she will die, and all of Corellon's children with her, exulted a familiar dark-velvet voice in his mind.
Nevarth heard Amlaruil's startled intake of breath, and realized that she, too, heard the silent voice. And then he was gone, spinning away from his torn body.
Amlaruil stared in disbelief at the dead elf, her mind whirling as she tried to sort through what had happened. He had been in fierce battle-she had heard the clash of swords from the lodge nearby. His enemies could not have gone far. And what of that terrible, malevolent voice, the sense of dark and evil magic that hung about him like a miasma?
Answers she must have, no matter how they were gotten. Amlaruil took a deep breath and prepared to do what was anathema to any elf: interfere with the afterlife of another. To delay the passage to Arvandor, for any reason, was a terrible thing. But Amlaruil was certain that this she must do.
She was no priestess, yet her connection to the Seldarine was deep and direct. Amlaruil sent her thoughts along the path to Arvandor, the same path that Nevarth was surely taking.
In the gray mist between the mortal world and the immortal, she felt the uncertain spirit of the Moon elf agent. Urgently she demanded to know what had happened. Nevarth told her without words, transferring his thoughts, his fears and failures. He gave her the name he knew-Fenien-and warned her there were other traitors. He yielded his regrets, his hopes, his dearest dreams. As the information surged into her mind, one thing stood out-a name from the ancient mythos of her people. A sense of dread and terror filled Amlaruil as she realized what Nevarth had brought with him to Evermeet. Yet as his spirit drifted away, his final and most urgent message was not of the goddess Araushnee, but of an immediate and mortal danger.
Acting on instinct, Amlaruil thrust Nevarth's body aside and rolled away. Two arrows, in rapid succession, plunged into the dead Moon elf.
The High Mage sprang to her feet, her blue eyes blazing with battle light and her hands outstretched. A small pulse of power burst from her fingertips and sizzled upward along the path that the arrow had taken. A cry of pain rang out through the forest, and the trees overhead rustled as the hidden foes drew away.
For a moment, Amlaruil was tempted to pursue. Yet another, more pressing matter weighed upon her. Zaor was in grave danger. Nevarth did not know the location or the nature of all the traps these traitors had laid for the king, so Amlaruil could do little to forestall them. She did not know where Zaor himself might be, nor did she have any means of reaching him through magic.
But there was one who did. Amlaruil steeled herself for the confrontation ahead. Never, not once, had she faced Zaor's consort. Yet Lydi'aleera wore an elfrune attuned to the king, a gift from the Towers fashioned by Amlaruil herself.
The High Mage stooped and gathered Nevarth's torn body in her arms. Eyes closed, she murmured the phrase that would summon the silver threads of magic, and carry them both to the very heart of the elven court.
A jangle of harpstrings and a shriek of mixed terror and disgust was Amlaruil's welcome to the Moonstone Palace. She opened her eyes and looked up into the white, startled face of Zaor's queen.
The spell Amlaruil cast was designed to bring her to the presence of the elfrune's wearer. She had come upon Queen Lydi'aleera at a time when the queen was alone and at leisure, amusing herself in a chamber filled with artworks and with wondrous musical instruments. The queen had sprung to her feet, upending both the padded bench on which she had been sitting and the golden harp before her. Her wide, staring eyes were fixed upon the slain elf.
With all the dignity she could muster, Amlaruil rose to face Zaor's consort. She was keenly aware of the flare of resentment in Lydi'aleera's eyes as she recognized her visitor, and the disdain on the elf woman's face as she took in Amlaruil's disheveled appearance and bloodstained robes.
"Forgive me for this intrusion, my lady," Amlaruil began, "but this is a matter of great urgency. You must contact the king at once."
Lydi'aleera's chin came up. "Who are you, to tell me what I must do?" she said with a mixture of hatred and hauteur that might have been chilling, had Amlaruil not had far greater concerns.
The mage snatched up the queen's small, white hand and turned it so the elfrune was apparent. "With this ring you can speak to Zaor. Do so now, or he will die! There are traitors and traps awaiting him-I know not exactly how many or where they might be! But he must turn back at once. At once!"
The urgency in Amlaruil's voice finally began to pierce the cloud of resentment that seemed to enshroud the queen. A small, sly smile lifted the corners of her lips.
"Very well, I will do as you suggest," the queen agreed, "but at a price."
Amlaruil reeled back, staring in disbelief. "You would put a price upon Zaor's life?" she demanded.
"Is not my life of value?" Lydi'aleera returned in a shrill, tight voice. "What of me? Am I utterly without worth, that I must sit by and see another woman's child made my husband's heir?"
"If you do not act now then Ilyrana will inherit sooner than any of us would like," the mage pointed out, taking another tact.
"Do not place that little witch upon my conscience," the queen hissed. "She is none of my doing, and I swear that she will not have the throne! She will not!"
"That is in the hands of the gods. Zaor's life, however, is in your hands. Name your price, and quickly," Amlaruil said, willing to do anything to calm the queen.
Lydi'aleera seemed to sense this. A faint, feral smile lit her thin face. "Very well. I want you to give me a potion that will make Zaor hold no image in his heart but mine, and another that will enable me-me!-to conceive an heir to Evermeet's throne!"