beautiful, child,' she said, forgetting for the moment the formality due to Amlaruil's position. 'It's nearly time for the ceremony-you must take your place among the members of the Council.'
Amlaruil nodded, and followed the sorceress from the pavilion. In her heightened state of excitement, she was keenly aware of the eyes that followed her as she ascended the platform to her assigned place. This was the first time that she had appeared at any ceremony as Lady of the Towers, and the elves were understandably curious about the new Grand Mage.
But even without the mantle of office, Amlaruil would have drawn wondering stares. She was exceedingly tall-a full head taller than most elves, and she moved with an ethereal grace that lent her even more presence. Her red-gold hair was an unusual and striking shade, and she knew without vanity that she was accounted beautiful. Even Laeroth, her fellow mage and the most unromantic and practical elf of her acquaintance, once commented that her face tended to linger in memory like a haunting melody. Amlaruil found herself hoping that Zaor's memory had been thus afflicted.
She took her place next to the matron of the Nimesin clan, a Gold elf woman hugely rounded with child. A sympathetic smile curved Amlaruil's lips, but her words of congratulations died unborn as the elf woman met her friendly smile with a gaze icy enough to freeze the tides.
'Well. Now that I see you, I understand why a Gray elf wench rules in the Towers,' the elf said coldly. 'Jannalor Nierde always was a fool for a pretty face and a summer night's frolic! You, I take it, were his favorite plaything.'
A slow, hot flush spread over Amlaruil's face. 'You do not know me, Lady, yet Jannalor Nierde was widely revered for his wisdom and honor. Your words do him grave injustice.'
The bitter lines around the elf woman's mouth deepened, and she continued to regard the Grand Mage with the disdain usually reserved for the half-eaten offerings of a hunting house cat. 'Is it not enough to demand that the People endure a Moon elf royalty? Why must the honor of the Towers be sullied, as well?'
'I have done the Towers no dishonor, nor will I,' Amlaruil said. Her voice was calm and soft, yet full of power.
The animosity in the Gold elf's eyes faltered, as if she suddenly felt uncertain of an easy quarry. 'The ceremony is soon to begin,' the elf woman said grudgingly, but she sounded oddly grateful for the excuse to turn away from the conversation-and the young Moon elf's unshakable dignity.
As the heirs to the unclaimed moonblades stepped forward, Amlaruil forgot the Nimesin matron's bitter comments. Though her own brother possessed such a sword, Amlaruil had never seen the ceremony in which the swords were claimed.
It was beautiful, and it was terrible. The recent battles had left several swords unclaimed. Ten elves, all nobles of ancient house and good reputation, pledged themselves to the power of the swords and the service of the People. Of them, only six survived the ceremony.
For two of these survivors, there was no triumph. The magic in the blades they held went silent and dormant in their hands. They had been proved unequal to the task of wielding the powers within their family blades; as the last living descendant of the original wielders, they were spared a sudden death. The expression of stunned disbelief on the two elves' faces suggested that they would perhaps have preferred death to this living realization of their loss.
In the heavy silence that followed the first claiming, the four Moon elf houses who had lost their first and best hope of the future tried again, and yet again, to claim the honor of Evermeet's throne.
Amlaruil's eyes burned with tears of mingled pride and grief as she watched one young elf after another step forward to die, like so many moths flinging themselves against the seductive promise of a lantern's heat and light.
Yet not one of the elven houses yielded, not until the last surviving member of the clan stood alive, but defeated. Their moonblades, their task of selection completed, went dormant at last.
In the grim and reverent silence that followed the claiming, Lady Mylaerla Durothil rose to speak, the last time in her office of High Councilor of Evermeet.
'The Council of Elders honors all those who came this day to stand before the People and the gods of the Seldarine, and to dare the crucible of the moonblade's magic. No dishonor tarnishes the houses who were not selected, and a place in Arvandor awaits all those who had the courage to take up a moonblade. To those new moonfighters among us, we extend congratulations.'
The Gold elf's gaze swept the small group of Moon elves before her. 'The task ahead is more difficult still. There are yet five-and-twenty living moonblades. Legend says that when four-and-twenty remain, the king sword will announce itself and its wielder. We are one too many, and thus the royal family must be determined by its collective strength. Moonfighters, please gather by clans.'
The keepers of the magic swords shifted, each coming to stand beside his or her family standard. In all houses but two, there was but a single wielder. Of these, the Moonflower clan clearly possessed the stronger claim.
Three Moonflower fighters gathered under the banner of the blue rose. Giullio, Amlaruil's much-older brother, appeared greatly ill at ease in the center of so many eyes. Slight of stature and diffident in manner, the solitary, scholarly elf devoted himself to the veneration of Labelas Enoreth, the god of years. Giullio was a worthy claimant to his moonblade, which possessed magics of healing and inspiration, but he was no king. Only with great difficulty had he been persuaded to come to Drelagara at all. Thasitalia, a distant relative, was an adventuress who had never before stepped foot upon the elven isle. By her own words, she was eager to leave. Hers was a restless spirit, and her sword was fashioned for the fighting of solitary battles. Then there was Zaor, standing head and shoulders above every other elf in the field. The young warrior held himself with quiet confidence as he awaited the decision that had been set in motion centuries earlier.
The Amarillis clan possessed two living moonblades. One was a sword recently recovered from the ruins of ancient Aryvandaar, newly claimed by a flame-haired girl-child known as Echo. The other was wielded by a mage from the mainland settlement of Tangletrees.
'By the strength of numbers, Moonflower has proven a strong succession and thus has passed the first test given for the royal clan,' Lady Durothil began.
'With your permission, Lady, I must object,' interrupted a voice from the crowd.
A low murmur rippled through the crowd as Montagor Amarillis stepped forward to join his two kin. The Moon elf was strangely pale, and his face was the color of snow beneath the thick shock of bright red hair characteristic of his family. He unbuckled his weapons belt and held high a sheathed blade, turning slowly so that all might see the glowing moonstone in the hilt.
'This sword belonged to my grandmother. It was her will that it pass to me. There are therefore three living moonblades in House Amarillis, making us the equal of Moonflower.'
Lady Durothil stared, dumbfounded, at the young noble. 'Why did you not come forward for the claiming ceremony?'
'It is the right of every elf to decline his hereditary blade,' Montagor said in a steady tone. 'I claim the right to keep this sword in trust for my oldest child, as yet unborn.'
Montagor turned to his two kin. 'These worthy elves are not of Evermeet, and have told me they have no desire to stay or to rule. If there is to be an Amarillis king, he will be of my blood.' He looked over to the three elves who stood beneath the blue rose standard. 'Have the Moonflowers likewise come to an understanding?'
'I make no claim to royalty, and I would decline the throne if it were offered,' Thasitalia Moonflower announced in a clear, low voice.
'And you, Giullio?' Lady Durothil prompted.
In response, the cleric drew his moonblade and saluted Zaor.
'That is clear enough,' Montagor said, a smile of satisfaction playing about his lips. 'I, too, will pledge my support to Zaor Moonflower, provided that he agrees to honor and acknowledge the rights of clan Amarillis.'
Zaor stepped forward to face the red-haired noble. 'The honor of Amarillis is beyond question,' he said in a puzzled voice. 'But of what rights do you speak?'
'The rights of royalty,' Montagor said firmly. 'The swords of Myth Drannor declare that this right is ours as much as yours. If you deny this, know that the Moonflower family will not hold the throne uncontested.'
'You would have me divide the kingdom?' Zaor demanded.
'I would have you unite the two clans,' Montagor countered. 'Take my sister, Lydi'aleera, as your queen, and
