might be left wounded and helpless. As he studied the wounded boar, he realized that this was even worse. It appeared that the creature's wounds had been inflicted by elven spears and arrows. The boar had been deliberately hurt, and left here. But why?
The faint sound of elven boots alerted him, and suggested that an answer might be soon in coming. Nevarth darted into the deep foliage, well beyond sight, and crouched down to listen.
'Is the trap in readiness?' inquired a melodious elven voice, a cultured voice belonging to a young male.
Nevarth shifted, trying to catch sight of the speaker, but the thick curtain of leaves blocked his view.
'All is as we discussed,' another male responded. 'King Zaor will come, and alone. Of that I am certain. When he passes between the twin oaks-as he must, to reach the lodge-the ropes will raise the net beneath the boar. The creature will be free of the pit, and in its pain and madness will attack anything within reach. No single elf, not even Zaor Moonflower, is a match for a wounded boar!'
'It is a fearsome animal, and in fine mettle for a fight,' the first elf said. 'You have done well, Fenian.'
'I hope the creature is too far gone in pain and rage to come under the king's spell,' the one called Fenian said in a worried tone. 'My father knew Zaor in Cormanthyr. He said that as a ranger, Zaor was without equal. Do you think he can tame that boar?'
The elf laughed. 'I doubt it. And even if Zaor should manage to tame or kill the beast, he will not find a smooth path back to Leuthilspar. Other traps await him. And if need arises, well, I'd be more than happy to do the deed myself. My mother bid me not to kill the Moon elf myself- since there is always the possibility of discovery-but I would relish the opportunity for battle. Have I not pledged to see every one of the Gray elf pretenders slain?'
Nevarth could bear no more. He exploded from his hiding place, drawing his sword as he rushed toward the traitorous elves.
The pair of them looked up, startled, as the Moon elf came at them. With a stab of surprise, Nevarth realized that he knew one of them. Fenian Ni'Tessine had left Evermeet with his Gold elf family years ago for the forests of Cormanthyr. The other, younger Gold elf was also familiar, but Nevarth could not place him.
Both elves drew their swords. In unspoken agreement, they whirled away from the onrushing elf, forcing Nevarth to chose a single target. The Moon elf settled on Fenian and came at him, sword held high for a slashing downward stroke.
As Nevarth hoped, Fenian countered, raising his blade to parry. The Moon elf swung down hard, meeting Fenian's sword with enough force to send sparks darting off into the forest shadows. Before the Gold elven traitor could recover from the blow and disengage his blade, Nevarth snatched a long knife from his belt and stepped in under the joined swords.
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
