high.
As the blade slashed toward the captain's throat, the elf spoke a strange syllable and moved one golden hand in a flickering gesture. Instantly the knife glowed from tip to hilt with fierce red heat. The mate jerked back, his aim spoiled. Then, howling with pain, he dropped the ensorcelled weapon and shook his singed fingers.
Blethis drove his fist into the traitorous sailor's face, and was rewarded with a satisfying crunch of bone. He hit him again, lower this time, with a sweeping upward hook that drove the broken bones of the mate's nose deep into his skull.
Instantly dead, the man dropped to the deck. Blethis was tempted to kick him a couple of times for good measure, but the ship was starting to pitch and roll, and he wasn't certain he could do so without falling on his backside.
'The storm will not harm us,' the elf said, as calmly as if the mutinous confrontation had not occurred. 'This is the hand of a goddess, a manifestation of Aerdrie Faenya, Lady of Air and Wind. Elven ships may pass through unharmed.'
As if to belie these assurances, lightning seared the sky, and a booming crash rumbled over the roar of the gathering winds. Blethis raised his glass in time to see the mast of a distant ship splinter and fall. The oiled sails, which had been dropped at first sign of the approaching storm, were already smoldering. In moments the ship would be a torch. Blethis shot an inquiring glare at the ship's owner.
The elf lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. 'The human-made vessels were useful in bringing us this far- not even the most voracious of Nimbral's pirates would attack a fleet of such size. Some of the humans have fed the hungry creatures of the sea; some ships were given as Umberlee's toll. But we near our goal; it is time to cull the fleet. Most of the human ships will be destroyed long before we reach Evermeet.'
Blethis clung to the rail and struggled to absorb this callous pronouncement, and the fact that the vast fleet would be cut nearly in half. 'But nearly threescore elven ships will remain,' the captain persisted, raising his voice to be heard over the gathering tempest. 'That's an invasion force! Whether the ships are elven or not, Evermeet's elves will figure out your intent. Suddenly, our chances look about half as good as they did when I signed on!'
The elf's oddly cold smile returned. 'You are more cunning than you appear, Captain Blethis. But do not concern yourself. Not all ships sail to one port; Rightful Place will be one of three ships docking at Leuthilspar. And I assure you, Queen Amlaruil will receive us.'
'This fool was not far wrong,' Blethis said hotly, nudging the downed first mate with his boot. 'And he won't be the last to take up arms to end this trip. If you've got some good news, this is the time to speak.'
'Listen, then, so you can calm your crew's fears and set your own mind fully to the task ahead,' the elf conceded. 'One of the elves aboard this ship is Lamruil, youngest son of Queen Amlaruil and the late King Zaor. The only surviving royal offspring, if all has gone as our allies planned, and therefore sole heir to the throne of Evermeet.' The elf paused, and a flicker of distaste crossed his golden face. 'Though Prince Lamruil himself is not particularly impressive, his presence on this ship gives us tremendous power.
'And so,' the elf concluded with grim satisfaction, 'the queen has little choice but to receive us. Evermeet's future, one way or another, is in the hands of her worthless brat.'
'Your advisors have assembled in the throne room, Your Majesty.'
Queen Amlaruil nodded, not lifting her gaze from the too-still face of her firstborn daughter. 'I shall be along directly,' she said in a voice that bore no hint of her weariness or her grief.
The courtier bowed deeply and left the queen alone with the fallen princess.
Ilyrana-that was the name Amlaruil had given her daughter those many years ago, a name taken from the High Elven word meaning 'an opal of rare beauty.' Ilyrana had been so lovely as a babe, so like the precious stone for which she was named: milky white hair highlighted with the palest of greens, luminous skin so white that it blushed blue tints, and large grave eyes that could change with light and mood from the color of spring leaves to the deep blue of a summer sea. Ilyrana was lovely still, Amlaruil noted wistfully, even in the deathlike slumber that had claimed her since the battle two nights past.
Like most of the Seldarine's clerics, Ilyrana had gone to do battle against the fearful creature unleashed upon the elven island by the evil god Malar, the Beastlord. By battle's end, many priests and priestesses had fallen: Ilyrana was simply gone, although her body remained behind. Amlaruil had not been surprised by this, for there had always been something otherworldly about her oldest child. Knowing Ilyrana's utter dedication to Angharradh, the goddess she served, Amlaruil suspected that her daughter had followed the fight to its ultimate source and was even now standing firm at Angharradh's side. If that were so, then the goddess was well served indeed.
And if it were so, then Ilyrana was unlikely to return. Few elves who glimpsed the wonders of Arvandor, even in such dire circumstances, could ever reconcile themselves to the mortal world.
Amlaruil whispered a prayer-and a farewell-and then rose from her daughter's bedside. All of Evermeet awaited her. There was little time to spare for her own personal tragedies.
The queen swiftly made her way to the throne room. A large assembly awaited her: the surviving members of the Council of Matrons, representatives from each of the noble clans, leaders from among the elven warriors, even a few of the other fey creatures who made Evermeet their home and who fought alongside the elves. As one, they knelt in the presence of the elven queen.
As was her custom, Amlaruil bowed deeply to the People she served, then bade them all rise to tend to the matter at hand. She took the throne and called upon Keryth Blackhelm, the Moon-elven warrior who commanded the island's defenses, to give his report.
But Keryth was not fated to speak this day.
The explosion was sudden, silent-and utterly devastating. There was no thrumming crash, no vibration to set the crystal towers of the city keening in sympathy, not even a tremor to shake the gemstone mosaic floor beneath their feet. Yet there was not an elf in that chamber-not an elf upon all of Evermeet-who did not feel it or who failed to understand what it meant.
The Circles had been shattered. Evermeet's unique magic was gone.
For nearly five days the battle for the elven homeland had raged. Armies of monsters had arisen from the sea and descended from the skies, human wizards of unspeakable power had challenged the Weave of elven magic, ships bearing mounted warriors had swept in upon the island from every side. Worse, creatures from Below had found a path to the island, had sullied the haven that was Evermeet, and had slain many of the island's best defenders. Although the besieged People were unspeakably weary, they had not grown dispirited.
But this blow was surely more than they could bear.
Moving as if in a dream, Queen Amlaruil rose from her throne and made her way over to the open window. Below her was laid out a strange tableau: The teeming streets of Leuthilspar, which moments before had been alive with elven warriors rallying in response to yet another threat from the coast, were utterly silent. The elves stood motionless, frozen in a paroxysm of anguish.
Amlaruil lifted her eyes toward the north. Far away, in the deepest and most ancient forests of Evermeet, the twin spires of the Towers of the Sun and the Moon had reached to the sky. Now they were gone, and the High Magi of Evermeet with them. Amlaruil allowed herself a moment's grief for the loss of friends she had cherished for centuries.
The queen turned to her advisors, who for once were beyond speech. All of them knew what this meant. The only thing that could possibly destroy the Towers was another powerful circle of High Magi. And in these days of diminished power and fading magic, only on Evermeet could such magic be cast. Beset on all sides by invaders, they had nevertheless stood firm. The devastating blow, the only one for which they had not prepared, was this betrayal from within.
Finally Zaltarish, the queen's ancient scribe, gave words to the tragedy.
'Evermeet is lost, your Majesty,' he whispered. 'The twilight of the elves has come.'
Book One
