'The sword must be drawn. If its magic cannot be altered, we'll know.'
The elf's eyebrows rose. 'Yes, it's rather difficult to miss the lesson presented by a blackened, smoking corpse. But let us return to this notion of testing. Have you given any thought to what will happen if the magic can be altered?'
It was Oltennius's turn to be puzzled. 'Wasn't that the entire point?'
'Of course,' Elaith said impatiently, 'but obviously Azariah cannot be allowed to take this risk. Another must take the test, but what if he who first attempts to draw the sword claims it?'
The Lantanna considered this for a several moments. 'Well, that is a bit of a conundrum, isn't it?'
The soft whisper of metal on wood drew Elaith's attention to the worktable where the Craulnober blade rested, carefully sheathed. What he saw there froze him for one heart-stopping moment.
Azariah had crept into the room, and she was slowly turning the metal scabbard so that she might take the hilt. The girl had heard them talking, and in her child's mind, one solution seemed clear: if her moonblade was ready to be drawn, it was ready for her.
She would die, that was a certainly. Even if the Lantanna's art proved effective-or even if Azariah herself might eventually prove worthy of a Moonblade-she was a child, and a child was far too fragile a vessel for such power. And since there were two living Craulnobers, the sword would slay an unfit wielder before it went dormant in the hands of the last in the clan.
All of this flashed through Elaith's mind in one fleeting, horror-struck instant. Then he let out a roar and exploded into action. He dived across the table, knocking the sword away from the child's grasping hands.
The sheath clattered to the floor and the naked sword spun on the table, blade slicing toward the wide-eyed child. Without thinking, Elaith seized the hilt.
Azure light surrounded him, and he stared in astonishment at the sword in his hand-the living sword-glowing with faint silvery light, marked with strange sigils that combined Espruar script with something that looked like draconic runes.
Numbly, Elaith conceded that this made sense. Some of the Craulnobers had been dragon riders-for that matter, he and Tincheron shared a common ancestor.
'Mine,' implored Azariah, holding out her hands for the sword.
Anger rose in Elaith unbidden, darker and more powerful than any he had ever known. Foolish child! Even now, she had not the slightest understanding of the power she hoped to grasp!
He turned to give her a well-deserved scolding and found himself facing a tiny statue. Azariah stood wild- eyed and frozen, staring at him like a rabbit caught in a raptor's gaze.
Before Elaith could make sense of this, the clattering approaching of servants and guards, coming in swift response to their master's shout, suddenly stopped.
The elf turned toward the open door. In the hall beyond, a score of armed men stood like statues, as pale and terror-frozen as the child.
One of the figures shook himself and crept into the room, his scaly face both awestruck and wary. 'Elaith? Cousin? Put the sword down before you kill them all,' Tincheron said softly. 'They're struck with a dragonfear, and a bad one at that.'
But Elaith did not want to put aside the blade. It fit his hand so well, as if fashioned solely for his grasp. The dragonfear, too, was familiar-a natural extension of the rage that was his constant companion, hidden though it usually was by the fragile sheath of power, wealth, and dry wit.
The elf slowly turned toward the immobile Oltennius, whose plump face was frozen in an expression of that mingled terror and triumph. Oltennius Gondblessed had succeeded-and Elaith had failed once again.
With great difficulty, the elf sheathed his anger and dismissed the dragonfear it had summoned. When the Lantanna shook off the effects of the spell, Elaith drew his second sword and handed it to the human.
'Arm yourself,' he said quietly, 'and face the justice dealt to all those who dishonor the moonblade.'
The deed was done quickly. Elaith pried the box-the achievement of a thousand years of ceaseless effort- from Oltennius Gondblessed's dead hand and hurled it against the far wall. The device shattered, showering the floor with splinters of wood and fragments of metal and wire.
Moonblade still in hand, Elaith turned toward Evermeet and waited to die. Of course he would die, for who had dishonored this sword more than he? He had sought to twist ancient elven magic to suit his own pride. Volo's tall tales, Melshimber's presumption-such things were but a mooncast shadow of his misdeeds.
Yes, even now the device's mysterious effect was fading. Elaith could feel the gathering power in the sword, the killing heat starting to sear his hands.
A strong, scaly hand settled on his shoulder, and Tincheron held out the metal scabbard. His golden eyes held entreaty. 'Lord Craulnober,' he said simply, but those words held a world of meaning: honor, responsibility, family.
Despair slipped away to some hidden place in Elaith's heart, where it would no doubt regroup with rage to plot their next return. Elaith slid the moonblade back into its sheath, where it would await its rightful wielder.
The half-dragon gently set the sheathed blade aside and gazed regretfully at the shattered device. 'Was that truly a needed thing? What of the Craulnober moonblade, and the Lady Azariah?'
What indeed? Who could say, but the gods who had decreed this particular deadly game?
Elaith gave the child a reassuring smile. 'When she comes of age,' he said quietly, 'she will take her chances.'
TRIBUTE
In a time long past, many generations before men and elves raised a stone in the Dalelands to begin anew the reckoning of years, small bands of barbarians made themselves a home beside a deep water harbor. It was a good place, with fine hunting to be had in the surrounding meadows and forests. So many fish filled the seas that the water could hardly hold them all. Indeed, during each full moon of summer, small silver runchion wriggled ashore to lay eggs in the sand. Gathering these swift and slippery fish was considered great sport, an occasion for merriment and song. No one enjoyed these moonlit hunts more than Sima, one of two daughters born to the village cooper.
Sima was a merry lass, round as a berry and brown as a wren. But her sister, Erlean, was tall and fair, with hair the color of red wheat, and it was Erlean who caught the eye of Brog the chieftain. Bitter were his tears when the lot for the dragon's tribute was cast, and a stone redder than red wheat fell nearest the altar of sacrifice.
In those days, the lands from sea to sea were ruled by dragons, and each summer they came to claim tribute: one maiden, slain upon an altar stone, and carried off to tempt the palate of some distant dragon king. Each year the chieftain cast a handful of stones at the altar: river pebbles of red and white, coal-black stone, lumps of golden amber in every shade from palest blond to brown. The will of the gods decided which stone came to rest closest to the altar. The maiden whose hair was closest in color to that unlucky stone became the summer sacrifice.
Not a single maid in the village, save for Erlean, could boast of hair the color of red wheat.
So fierce was the love of Brog the chieftain for Erlean that he would not give her up. With dark words and soft promises he won the village cooper to his cause. The day of the first full moon of summer, the night when runchions ran, Brog proclaimed a feast. It was an easy thing for the cooper to add to the mead herbs that would send the villagers into early slumber. All drank but Brog and the cooper, and when Sima slept, they rubbed berry juice into her hair until it was redder than red wheat, and they bound her to the altar stone.
The villagers awakened in full moonlight to the thunder of wings as two red dragons came for the tribute: a warrior wyrm known as Hysta'kiamarh and his mate, a priestess whose name was nothing a human tongue could shape. Fearsome they were, and great was Sima's fear when she found herself upon the altar in her sister's place.
'I am betrayed!' she shrieked. 'I am not the chosen sacrifice! Another should die, and not me!'
The warrior wyrm looked down at her, and his great fanged mouth curved into a sly and terrible smile. 'I have always found a little treachery in a human to be a fine spice. Name your betrayers, loud morsel, and you shall go free.'
