“What is it, Felael?” he asked the captain of his guard.
“The moonset, Seiveril,” Felael replied. Somber and serious for a wood elf, Felael had become the leader of Seiveril’s bodyguard after Adresin’s death. He was not quite serious enough to put much stock in titles and honorifics, though, and rarely called Seiveril by anything other than his given name. “Watch the waters across the lake.”
Selune’s silver light threw a soft, shining path leading toward the dark shore of the western side of the lake. It was a peaceful scene, and Seiveril wondered what was wrong with it. Then he saw what had caught Felael’s attention. A white-winged ship followed the moonlight’s path across the water, sailing gracefully through the silvery medium as if wind, water, and night were all one and the same.
“A ship of Evermeet,” he breathed.
The ship seemed to meet the lake’s waters, and its sails shifted to catch a breeze that rose up to greet it. Seiveril waited on the shore as the vessel glided toward him. As it drew closer he could make out the beautifully garbed lords and ladies of the court, so radiant it was hard to look on them.
Do we all look like that when we come so swiftly from the Emerald Isle? he wondered. Then he saw Amlaruil standing by the rail, dressed in silver and white, her long, dark hair untroubled by the ship’s passage. She saw him awaiting her, and raised a hand in greeting. The ship glided to a stop, and the elves who crewed it quickly set out a slender ramp to the shore.
“Welcome to Semberholme, my lady,” Seiveril said, bowing.
The Queen of Evermeet descended the silver ramp and set foot on Cormanthor’s soil. As her foot touched the ground, her radiance dimmed noticeably, and a faint frown flitted across her face. But she set it aside at once, and greeted Seiveril with a warm smile.
“Lord Miritar,’ she said, “I am glad I found you here. I am afraid I cannot tarry long.”
“Are you certain? I would like nothing better.”
Amlaruil smiled sadly. “Evermeet misses me already, Seiveril. I must return this night.”
So it is true in part, Seiveril thought. It was said that Amlaruil could not leave the isle. Though her appearance in Semberholme was proof that she could, it seemed that she could not remain away for very long.
“What can I do for you, then, my lady?”
“I have brought you a warning and a gift, Seiveril. First, the warning: A great and terrible battle draws near. I have seen it. Here in this ancient forest the fate of our people is to be decided, and it will be decided in a matter of days. You must not fail in your crusade, and yet I have also seen that you cannot triumph in Myth Drannor.”
The elflord shrugged. “I will make the attempt anyway.
I have to.”
“You hold all of our fates in your hands, my friend. If you should fail…”
“If I fail, you must destroy every gate remaining in Evermeet, Evereska, and any other realm of the People that you can find. And you will have to Retreat absolutely and forever from these lands. You will have no other choice.”
Amlaruil gazed on him for a long moment. “You have seen what I have seen, then,” she said.
“I have.”
“Then there is nothing more I can warn you against. You will succeed, or you will fail. But before you march on Myth Drannor, there is the gift I mentioned.”
She looked up at the ship and nodded. A moment later a young elf maiden descended to the shore, carrying a small silver sapling swaddled carefully in its own earth.
Seiveril looked on the tiny new tree, and his breath caught in his throat.
“Is that-?” he whispered.
“A sapling of the Tree of Souls, yes. Only one other exists in the world, and that one is in the keeping of my son in his hidden realm.” Amlaruil took the sapling from the girl and placed it in Seiveril’s hands. “It is my fondest hope that you will have the opportunity to plant this in Myth Drannor. Until that day, guard it carefully-for it will guard you in turn.”
“Guard us? How?”
“Carry it with your army as you march. It exerts a powerful influence for many hundreds of yards, keeping demons and other fiends at bay, guarding our own People against their attacks. The sapling will not utterly bar a demon’s approach, but it will not be able to teleport itself anywhere nearby.”
Seiveril looked at the fragile plant. He could feel something in the young tree, but he was not sure what. “This small sapling has such power?”
“In a way, it is a living mythal. But you must treat it with great care, Seiveril. No one can say when or if the Tree of Souls will bud again. Each sapling may be the last.”
“It seems far too precious to carry into battle, Amlaruil.”
“It is, Seiveril. But if you are to have any hope for victory, then I think you must have it. Guard it with all your care.”
“I will,” Seiveril promised.
“Good.” Amlaruil glanced over her shoulder at the setting moon. Its lower limb already touched the dark treetops across the lake. She sighed and looked back to him. “I must go now, Seiveril. I fear that we will not meet again.”
“That is not true,” he told her. “If we do not meet again in this world, then perhaps we will walk together in Arvandor.”
“In Arvandor.” The queen smiled again, and she leaned forward and kissed Seiveril’s cheek. She turned away and hurried back up to her ship. “Sweet water and light laughter for the rest of your days, Seiveril Miritar.”
“And to you,” he replied.
He watched as the white ship began to move away, its sails sighing as they caught a new breeze and filled out again. Dancing away across the silver moonpath, the shining hull rose higher and higher in the water until finally it broke clear altogether, speeding westward toward the moonset and far Evermeet beyond.
Seiveril watched the ship until it disappeared from sight. He looked down at the precious silver sapling, still in his cupped hands. So fragile a vessel for the hopes of our people, he mused. Then he carried it back into the warm shadows of the forest.
“Felael, send for Thilesin,” he said to his guard captain. “I have a task I cannot trust to anyone else.”
The wood elf gazed on the sapling, his eyes wide with wonder. “She is already here, Seiveril,” he finally said. “She arrived while you were speaking with Amlaruil. She said she has urgent tidings for you.”
Seiveril looked up, and found Thilesin waiting for him. A priestess of the Seldarine, she was a serious and quiet sun elf who had proved herself indispensable as Seiveril’s adjutant and secretary, helping him to keep track of the countless details and tasks necessary to wield the Crusade against the enemies of the People. He carried the young tree to her.
“I can think of no better steward for Amlaruil’s gift,” he told her. “You must see to it that this tree is well guarded at all times. Ask each of our companies for a true and faithful warrior to help you. This is an honor and a duty that all of our folk should have a hand in.”
Thilesin took the sapling, her eyes shining. “I will see to it,” she whispered.
“Now, what news did you have for me?”
The cleric lifted her gaze from the small sapling, the taut frown of worry returning to her face. “There has been an attempt on Ilsevele’s life, Lord Seiveril. She was not seriously injured, but several of our people died. No one knows more than that right now. There are whispers of drow assassins, Sembian conspiracies, and even treachery on the part of our own emissaries. In any event, Ilsevele and the others are now being held in the Sharburg under guard.”
Seiveril took a step back and threw out a hand to steady himself against the trunk of a shadowtop. Were the Sembians so full of hate that they could not abide the idea of sharing Cormanthor with elves? Or was this some machination of the daemonfey, an effort to make sure that Ilsevele’s mission failed? He felt his knees growing weak. Five years ago he had lost his wife, and he knew he did not have the strength to bear another loss. “Who died?” he managed.