19

Towers of the Sun and Moon

Amlaruil sat alone in her chamber in the Tower of the Moon, staring at the framed picture in her hands. It was a small painting of Ilyrana as a child, done by one of the student mages not many years ago as a gift to the Lady of the Towers. The mage studied the face of her only daughter, looking, as she often did, for some visible link between herself and Zaor. But Ilyrana was ever and always nothing but her own person.

Never had Amlaruil seen such oddly beautiful coloring as Ilyrana's. The elf maid closely resembled the opal for which she had been named; pure white, but for hints of pale colors that almost seemed to be reflected from some other source. Palest blue clung to her angular features, a flush of pink lingered about her lips and in the hollows of her cheeks, and a hint of green glinted among her white curls. Ilyrana was as beautiful-and nearly as remote-as the gods themselves.

With a sigh, Amlaruil put aside the portrait, silently berating herself for the terrible, numbing loss she felt over her daughter's absence. Surely that was nothing but selfishness!

And yet, even as the thought formed, Amlaruil knew it was untrue. She would have missed Ilyrana had the girl gone to the groves of Corellon to study as a priestess, but she would be content knowing that her daughter was following her chosen path. There was no peace in the knowledge that Ilyrana had been taken away from her own desires to be raised as a princess in the court of Leuthilspar.

It seemed to Amlaruil that there was reason for concern. One thing had Ilyrana inherited from her mother; her connection with the Seldarine was deep and profound, so much so that the girl often seemed detached from the mortal elves around her. How would she fare among the shallow, petty concerns of the Leuthilspar court? In the palace of Queen Lydi'aleera, fey and uncanny Ilyrana would be like a penned unicorn, or a pixie captured beneath a glass!

A soft knock at her door interrupted the mage's bitter thoughts. "Lady? I am bidden to summon you for even-feast," came a tentative male voice from without.

Amlaruil started guiltily. Evenfeast, already? The day had slipped past unnoticed. It had not been the first.

She rose, smoothing the folds of her mantle about her, and bid the lad enter. Tanyl Evanara, a Gold elf boy whose slender limbs already held the promise of unusual grace and height, slipped into the room.

"Forgive the intrusion, Lady," he said, as his eyes darted to the portrait of Ilyrana.

"Not at all," Amlaruil said briskly, softening the words with a smile. "You merely did as you were bid, and well, as usual. Your studies are progressing, I trust?"

The boy's face lit up in a grin. "Shanyrria Alenuath says I will make a bladesinger, if that is my wish! I have both the sword and the voice for it, she says!"

"I am sure she is right," Amlaruil said, but she wondered if the fiery young bladesinger spoke more from impulse than wisdom. Shanyrria had that tendency. Yet truly, Tanyl showed promise in the use of both weapons and song magic, and perhaps the bladesinger's path was indeed his to follow. A bladesinger melded magic, music, and fighting into a uniquely elven technique, and was in many ways the epitome of an elven warrior. But bladesinging was not merely a fighting style, but a philosophy. Amlaruil could not picture the gregarious Tanyl as one of these self-contained warriors.

"I am sure that Shanyrria is right about your potential," Amlaruil repeated, "but remember that your path is your own to chose. Just because you can do a thing, it does not follow that you must."

The boy's forehead furrowed as he contemplated this advice. "I will remember," he said somberly. He bowed then, and offered his arm to Amlaruil with the grace of a courtier.

"I am to escort you to evenfeast. You must eat-Nakiasha said so," he added with a grin, suddenly appearing to be the boy he was. He clearly took delight in their implied fellowship; after all, even the beautiful Grand Mage of the Towers had to listen to someone!

Smothering her own smile, Amlaruil took the arm Tanyl offered and walked with him down the spiraling stairs that led to the dining hall.

As she did, she could not help but wonder if her well-meaning words to this talented boy were based in reality. Had she herself chosen the path she now trod? Had Ilyrana, or even Zaor? In truth, did anyone?

The soft murmur of conversation that filled the dining hall dwindled to near silence as the Grand Mage entered the room. Amlaruil smiled and nodded to the gathered elves, indicating that they should continue. At proud Tanyl's side, she made her way into the very center of the spiraling table. As she took her place in the midst of them, a terrible desolation swept over her in sudden, devastating waves. None of this felt real-not the gathered elves, or the food on her plate, not even her presence in this chamber.

Amlaruil speared a bit of venison and pretended to eat. As she did, she noted the disapproving eyes of Belstram Durothil upon her.

A troubling thought edged into her mind. The young nobleman was highly ranked in his clan, and had even held a seat on the Council until his recent decision to leave the court of Leuthilspar to study magic at the Towers. Belstram was also a near relative of Mylaerla Durothil, that too-perceptive matron who had seen what had passed between Zaor and Amlaruil on the day of Zaor's crowning. Lady Durothil was now one of Zaor's most trusted generals, but it was possible that she had spoken to her kin of the "nearly-averted disaster" that had threatened the kingmaking alliance between Moonflower and Amarillis. Perhaps it had been Belstram who had ferreted out the truth of Ilyrana's parentage, and had taken word of the royal heir to Moonstone Palace. His arrival at the Towers was certainly well timed.

Amlaruil dropped her gaze to her plate. It would not help matters if her bitterness were to creep into her eyes, and give further offense to any member of clan Durothil. There were many among the Durothils who believed that one of their members-or at the very least, another Gold elf-should rule the Towers in Amlaruil's stead.

"Is my lady well?" Belstram inquired politely.

"No, and well you know it."

A long, silent moment passed before Amlaruil realized that she had spoken the bitter words aloud. Amlaruil took a long, steadying breath and forced herself to meet the Gold elf's eyes.

"Forgive me, Lord Durothil, and all of you," she said in a clear voice that reached to the edges of the chamber. "That was spoken without thought or purpose. I have been too absorbed with my own affairs. It will not continue."

"I am glad to hear these words, Lady Amlaruil. Do you mean to say, then, that you will no longer remain in seclusion in these Towers?" Belstram pressed. "It is a matter that must be addressed," he continued heatedly, silencing the murmur of protest that rose from the assembled magi. "Lady Amlaruil has not left these Tower grounds for nearly fifteen years, not since the birth of her daughter. Indeed, until recently it was not known beyond these walls that she had a child."

Amlaruil rose in one swift movement. "And now that all the world knows?" she said in a choked voice. "What good has come of it?"

The Gold elf rose from his place and came to face the angry mage. "The royal house has an heir," Belstram said softly. "This was a needed thing. What Evermeet needs now, my lady, is a Grand Mage."

Several of the elves gasped at his effrontery, others rose in protest. The bladesinger Shanyrria, predictably enough, drew her sword in hot-tempered willingness to fight for the Lady of the Tower's honor.

Amlaruil gazed down at the Gold elf, astounded by his open challenge to her position before all the gathered magi. But to her astonishment, she read in Belstram's face not animosity, not even ambition, but deep and genuine concern. She saw, too, the truth in his accusation.