Lloth hated Evermeet's Grand Mage with a passion that rivalled her loathing for Corellon himself. And yet, she was almost grateful to the Moon elf female. It was Amlaruil, after all, who was opening windows between Evermeet and the rest of Aber-toril.

Windows, that if properly used, could look both ways.

It had been no small thing for Lloth to take on an avatar form so different from her nature, no small thing to play the part of a Moon elf seductress. But if her gambit succeeded, the prize would be worth all the aggravation.

And when Nevarth returned to claim his "beloved," Lloth would take the small, added pleasure of killing the elf, slowly and with exquisite attention to every possible nuance of pain.

A smile of near-contentment crossed the goddess's dark face. Even when compared to her ruling passions-a consuming hatred of elves, a love of power, and an implacable thirst for vengeance-Nevarth's devotion to his precious Amlaruil was a powerful thing. It would give Lloth great pleasure to let him know that not only had he been betrayed, but that he had in turn betrayed Evermeet.

The white whirl and rush of magical travel faded away to be replaced by a deep green haze. As the verdant mist sharpened, Nevarth Ahmaquissar felt the familiar magic of Evermeet's forest reach out to enfold him as if in welcome.

And yet, something did not seem quite right. The elf heard a faint sound, squeals and cries that suggested a wounded animal. He followed the sounds until he stood at the lip of a deep, broad pit. Within the pit, bleeding from a dozen wounds and nearly frantic with pain and terror, was an enormous wild boar.

Nevarth frowned. It was not elven custom to dig pits for hunting, for there was a possibility that an animal 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.