"Get out," Lydi'aleera gritted from between clenched teeth. She snatched up a gem-encrusted vase and brandished it.
But Montagor was not quite finished. "A word of advice, my sister. Save a few drops of that potion for Zaor's return. You'll need to bed him to complete this farce. And without Amlaruil's magic-even that which comes in a vial-you haven't a chance."
The queen hurled the vase at her brother. It missed him with room to spare and shattered against the wall. The tinkle of falling crystal mingled with the sound of Montagor's mocking, and triumphant laughter. He would have what he wanted at last, and why should he care that she had to pay the price for it?
Despite her anger, Lydi'aleera understood her brother's mind. He had worked long and hard for this, and would get what he desired: an Amarillis heir to the throne of Evermeet. Lydi'aleera would also have her due: a child of her own, the regard of her lawful husband, the esteem of Evermeet. What was a small, needed deception compared to such gain?
Under the command of King Zaor, the drow were driven from the island of Tilrith and the tunnels sealed. The king also sent warriors and mages into the caves of Sumbrar and the Eagle Hills to explore and to seal off any possible openings to the world below. The only tunnels left undisturbed were those that led to the sleeping places of Evermeet's dragon guardians. If by chance the drow should ever find their way into those caverns, they would be well met indeed.
Within a year of the battle, a boychild was born to the royal family. If there were those who wondered at the begetting, they kept their suspicions to themselves. Zaor did not speak of the matter even to his closest friends, but he proclaimed Rhenalyrr his heir, and raised the young elf to be king after him.
Time passed, and Rhenalyrr reached the age of accountability. All the elves of Evermeet were to attend the ceremony that named him heir to the throne, and to stand witness as the young prince took an oath upon his father's sword, which he would one day wield as king.
As that day neared, not all of Evermeet's people rejoiced in the honor due to their prince. Lydi'aleera withdrew into silence whenever the ceremony was mentioned. And what the Grand Mage thought of Rhenalyrr, no one knew, for Amlaruil never spoke a word against Zaor's son or denied his claim to the throne.
Along with all of Evermeet, Amlaruil prepared to attend the high ceremony. She dismissed all the Towers' elves from their duties so that they might attend as well.
Shanyrria Alenuath, the bladesinger who taught this uniquely elven blend of swordcraft and magic at the Towers, was reluctant to go. She was a solitary elf by nature, and not at all fond of state gatherings or the gaiety of festivals. Indeed, she had not even stepped foot in her family mansion for many years. Yet her sense of clan was strong, and she stopped in Leuthilspar on her way southward so that she might attend the ceremony with the rest of her clan.
She walked into her childhood home to find it strangely silent. The mansion was deserted, but for one elf: her father Shanyrria could feel his presence. She had always been close to Adamar, and she loved her father with an intensity that bordered on rapport.
Thus it was that she felt the weight of his despair, and the sharp, bright pain that promised release. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat, fluttering like a caged lark as she ran up the curving stairway to her father's chamber.
Shanyrria found Adamar there, his hands clenched around the grip of the family's moonblade-which protruded from below his ribs. She stared in horror. This was beyond imagining! Never did an elf take his own life, and certainly not with the weapon that symbolized the family's honor!
"Why?" she asked simply.
In a few words, with the scant time remaining to him, Adamar told her.
The bladesinger listened in stunned, grieving disbelief as her father confessed his own dishonor, and told at last the terrible secret that he had never been able to bring himself to reveaclass="underline" that he would be the cause of his own son's death. Prince Rhenalyrr was not of Zaor's blood. The king's moonblade, the sword of Zaor, was not his to claim, and soon all of Evermeet would bear witness to the disgrace of House Alenuath.
When Adamar fell into final silence, Shanyrria raced from the mansion and leaped upon her waiting moon-horse. Rhenalyrr might not be a true prince, but he was her own half-brother. She owed him the loyalty and protection due any member of the clan.
But when her lathered moon-horse pulled up in the valley of Drelagara, the bladesinger was greeted by a chorus of keening elven voices. She did not need to ask to know that Rhenalyrr had not survived the ritual.
Her face set with wrath, Shanyrria swung down from her mount and went off in search of vengeance.
She slipped into the pavilion where the queen sat alone, weeping silent, helpless tears. Quietly she walked up to the grieving elf woman. With a quick, smooth movement, she drew her sword and thrust the tip against Lydi'aleera's throat.
"I name you, Lydi'aleera Amarillis, false queen of Evermeet, to be a coward, a liar, a whore, and the murderer of my father Adamar Alenuath-and of my half-brother Rhenalyrr."
The queen stared up at the fierce bladesinger like a mouse awaiting the claws of a striking owl. "I did not know-"
"You knew," Shanyrria said vehemently. "You knew that Rhenalyrr was not of Zaor's blood, yet you remained silent while he took the trial of the moonblade! Surely you knew that he would not survive."
"He was a fine, noble young elf," she persisted. "There was a chance that he might succeed. And if the moonblades are to be held as sole measure, Amarillis is as worthy of royalty as Moonflower!"
Shanyrria stared at the queen through narrowed eyes. "It is said that only those truly worthy of ruling can bear the sword of Zaor. Very well then. Come."
She put away her sword with a quick thrust and snatched a small knife from her belt. With one hand she grasped a handful of Lydi'aleera's hair and jerked her to her feet. She put one arm firmly around the queen's shoulder, and pressed the knife hard into the elf woman's ribs.
"I will support you in your grief, my queen," the bladesinger said with heavy irony, "and take you where you must go."
The elf woman struggled to pull away, but Shanyrria was strong and held her fast. "What are you going to do?" Lydi'aleera demanded.
"No more than what you did to my brother. You will draw the sword of Zaor and test your worthiness to rule Evermeet. You are Amarillis born, so your chances are as good as Rhenalyrr's!"
"I will not do it!" gasped Lydi'aleera.
"You will," Shanyrria asserted. "If you do not, I will proclaim before all of Evermeet what you have done. Zaor will put you away, and you and all your clan will be shamed. Or, if you prefer, I will kill you now, and then speak."
The queen stared at her, all hope draining from her eyes. "And if I draw, and succeed? Will you keep silent concerning all of this?"
"Whether you live or die is for the moonblade to decide. I will content myself with that. Either way, you will win: a kingdom or an honorable death. It is more than you deserve."
Since she had no recourse, the queen walked with Shanyrria toward the place where Zaor's sword lay, gleaming still with faint blue magic, upon the ceremonial pedestal. Before any could divine her intent, Lydi'aleera stepped forward and grasped the sword in her two hands and began to slide it from the scabbard.
A flash of terrible blue light lit the plain. When it faded, the elf woman was gone, but for a pile of pale, drifting ash.
Shanyrria nodded in grim agreement to the sentence that the moonblade had pronounced. The bladesinger felt no guilt over her part in the queen's death. She considered Lydi'aleera guilty, not only of her brother's death and her father's, but also of treason against the crown. It felt right to her that Lydi'aleera's fate was one that she had chosen, though her pride, ambition, and cowardly silence, for her own son.