As she fled from the palace, Amlaruil's first desire was to return at once to Craulnober Keep, and see once again with her own eyes that her sons were indeed safe from the Gold elf conspirators. She knew they awaited her there, hale and happy and dirty as a pair of piglets from their rowdy play, and that such a trip would avail nothing. It would be a personal indulgence, no more.
But she had a pledge to keep, whatever the keeping cost her. In a locked tower room, she consulted ancient books of folklore and herb craft, blending the old tales with the power of her own High Magic. She worked all through that night and well into the next morning. Finally she held in her hands two small vials which promised to be the fulfillment of Lydi'aleera's dreams-and the death of her own.
Amlaruil's heart was leaden as she called forth the magic that would once again bring her to the moonstone palace. This time, she found Lydi'aleera in the company of her brother, walking arm and arm with him in the wondrous gardens that surrounded the palace.
It struck Amlaruil that once Zaor was magically enthralled by the queen, Montagor Amarillis would have considerable power in the court. In all things, it was rumored, the queen deferred to her brother.
Well, it was not something that could be helped. Amlaruil gave the potions to the queen and left as quickly as she came. And when she left, she took Ilyrana with her-she did not trust Lydi'aleera with her daughter's safety. If the queen was willing to risk her own husband to bargain for an heir of her own begetting, what lengths might she take to remove any possible contenders for her child's throne?
With all possible haste, Amlaruil gathered her three children and entrusted them once again to her agent Rennyn. Before that day waned, she stood atop the walls of Craulnober Keep and watched as the ship bearing them to the safety of the Moonshae Islands disappeared from sight.
The mage's heart was heavy indeed as she returned to the Towers. Not only had she lost Zaor's love this day by magic she herself had fashioned, not only was she parted from her three children, but she felt estranged from Evermeet itself. The dire events in the forest glade had sundered her forever from the sense of security that she had always considered her birthright.
It seemed inconceivable that an elf would act the part of an assassin, or that her own children might have to take refuge elsewhere. It was a reversal of all that she held to be true-for was not Evermeet created by the gods as the ultimate refuge of all elves?
That night, as she sought rest in exhausted revery, Amlaruil had a terrible dream. In revery she stood once again upon the walls of Craulnober Keep, but the scene she gazed upon was not a white-winged elven vessel and a tranquil sea. The castle was scorched and blackened, utterly silent and eerily devoid of life, and the seas beyond were littered with the flotsam of a dozen shattered elven ships.
Amlaruil awoke from revery with a start, beset by the horrible conviction that there was more to her dream than her own troubled thoughts. Quickly she dressed herself and summoned the magic that would carry her to her kinsman's keep.
Dawn was breaking as she stepped out of the magic pathway and into the courtyard of the ancient Craulnober castle. Amlaruil had the oddest feeling that she was stepping into a waking dream.
All was exactly as she had pictured it. The ancient walls were blackened, crumbling. No sign of life greeted her. It was as if the entire thriving, vital community had been swept away by a burst of dragonfire.
A thin, piercing cry cut through the chill morning air. Amlaruil hurried toward the sound, which seemed to come from somewhere below the ground. She tugged at the heavy door that sealed the entrance to the castle's lowest level, then ran down a long, curving stairway. In a small room in the farthest reaches of the castle she found two living souls: an old elf, long past the age of warriors, and a small, squalling babe.
The elf looked up when Amlaruil entered the room, his eyes red in his soot-darkened face. A moment passed before she recognized him as Elanjar, the patriarch of the Craulnober clan and the swordmaster who had endeavored to teach the discipline to her own unruly sons.
'What happened here?' she asked, coming to kneel at the elf s side.
Elanjar's eyes hardened. 'We were overrun by creatures from Below.'
'No,' Amlaruil said in disbelief. 'How is that possible? Never have the people of the Underdark set foot on the island!'
'Nor have they-yet,' the elf replied. 'You know the island of Tilrith, do you not?'
The mage nodded. The tiny island, which lay just north of the Craulnober holdings, was much like northern Evermeet in terrain. It was a wild place, with rocky hills honeycombed with caves. The Craulnober and their retainers kept sheep on the island, and a few servants lived there year-round to tend the flocks. With a sudden jolt, Amlaruil realized that this was the season when spring lambs were born, and the sheep sheered of their winter coats. Most of the villagers and nobles would be on Tilrith for the work and the festivities that followed.
'They were attacked on the island,' she murmured, aghast.
'Most were slaughtered along with the sheep,' Elanjar said with deep bitterness. 'A few escaped. The drow followed-not in ships, but with magic. They sent a firestorm upon the ships and upon this castle such as I had never imagined possible. Those few elves who remained behind were reduced to ash. I survived only through the magic of the sword I carry,' he added, touching the glowing hilt of the Craulnober moonblade. 'This babe, my grandson Elaith, was in my arms when the firestorm struck. He and I are all that remain of this clan.' The elf's singed head sagged forward, as if this revelation had taken the last of his remaining strength.
Amlaruil lay a comforting hand on his shoulder, and then reached out to take the baby from his arms. She folded back the charred blanket to look at the infant. An involuntary smile curved her lips. Little Elaith was a beautiful boy, with large solemn eyes the color of amber and a cap of short, silvery curls.
'This child is kin to me,' she said softly. 'His parents sheltered my sons; I will do the same for theirs. Elaith will be my fosterling, and I swear before all the gods that I will hold him as dear as any child of my own body. He will be taught magic in the towers, and raised in the courts of Leuthilspar in a manner that befits a noble elf, and the heir to Craulnober.'
She looked up at Elanjar. 'Come. I must get the two of you to the safety of the Towers. The drow will be back with the coming of night.'
'Craulnober Keep is well-nigh impregnable,' Elanjar said, a frown of worry deepening the furrows of his forehead. 'If the drow gain control of this keep, they will have a stronghold from which to strike at the whole island!'
'They will not set foot on Evermeet,' Amlaruil assured him as she helped him to his feet. 'If it takes every warrior and every mage on Evermeet to complete the task, we will stop them on Tilrith and seal their tunnels forever!'
Alone and on foot, Zaor walked through the northern gates of Leuthilspar and set a brisk pace for the palace. He had not gone far before Myronthilar Silverspear appeared at his side like a small gray shadow.
'I told you to await me,' the king grumbled.
'And so I have,' his friend asserted. 'This business that took you off alone, that which was so important that none could accompany you-it is completed?'
Zaor's face set into grim lines. 'It seems it is just beginning. Is Amlaruil still at the palace?'
The warrior hesitated. 'She has been and gone more than once since you left, and since she came bringing news that you were endangered, the queen's brother has been very much in attendance. He eyes the palace maids as if he were selecting his evening's entertainment, and he studies the chests as if contemplating which one would best hold his spare cloaks and boots. I tell you, my lord, I like it not.'
'You were always cautious of Montagor Amarillis,' Zaor said. 'If he wished to lay claim to the throne, he would have done so twenty-five years before.'
'Montagor is no king, and he knows it. But perhaps he desires a regency,' Myron told him gravely. 'His hope for an Amarillis heir is nearly gone, for the Princess Ilyrana nears the age of accountability. She will be crowned as your heir before the year is through.'
Zaor stopped dead. 'Do you think the princess is in danger?'
'The lady Amlaruil does,' Myron said. 'She took the princess and sent her and the twins away to safety. And she bid me meet you as soon as I could do so without breaking my word.' His face turned grave. 'Is it true? There was an attempt upon your life, here on Evermeet itself?'
'Do you doubt the lady mage?' Zaor said dryly.
As he expected, Myronthilar's face took on a look of near reverence. 'Not in this or anything,' he said quietly.
