"You really did see something, didn't you?" he asked, intrigued.
The girl nodded, her face grave. "This is the king sword. Who rules this sword, will also rule Evermeet."
Zaor stared at her, not wanting to believe the words she spoke with such uncanny certainty. Yet there was something about the girl that lent weight to her words. He believed her, even if he did not wish to do so.
"There is nothing of the king about me," he said dully. How could there be? It was the final duty of any elven king to die for his people. Myth Drannor lay dead, and he stood hale and unblemished, half a world away in the glades of Evermeet. "My children, perhaps, might someday serve- that is, if their mother can make up for my lacks."
"Perhaps," she echoed in a tone that gave away nothing of her thoughts.
Zaor shook aside the girl's troubling pronouncement and turned to something that lay closer to his ken. "You touched the sword without harm. How can that be?"
Suddenly, Amlaruil did not look so much a child as she had a moment before. A faint flush stained the snow of her cheeks. "As to that, I cannot say," she murmured.
"Cannot, or will not?" Zaor pressed.
Again, that incandescent smile. "Yes," was all she said.
The elves joined in a burst of laughter. It seemed to Zaor that suddenly the burden that had weighed down his heart for so long was easier to bear.
After the shared laughter faded, they stood gazing at each other for a long moment. Amlaruil was first to break the silence. "I must return to the Towers. I have been away too long."
"We will meet again, though?"
The girl hesitated, as if not sure how to answer. Then slowly, deliberately, she reached out and curled her fingers around the hilt of Zaor's sword.
And then she was gone, disappearing into the forest as quickly and silently as the elusive unicorns.
In the white silence of the woodland glade, Zaor bowed his head and struggled to absorb what had just happened. In the passing of a few moments, his life had been utterly changed. One burden-the terrible load of guilt and grief-had been lifted; another, still greater burden had taken its place.
Amlaruil's vision for him was beyond anything Zaor had ever imagined. Even so, he found he had no desire to shy away from it.
The ranger turned and headed southward with a swift and determined stride. All that he had seen and suffered, all the lessons he had learned to his sorrow, he would share. He would find a way to make the complacent elves of Leuthilspar hear what he had to say. Evermeet would not suffer the same fate as Myth Drannor, not while Zaor Moonflower lived.
Even as he made this silent vow, Zaor drew the moonblade-the king sword-from its sheath. He was not surprised to note that a new rune was etched upon the blade. Amlaruil's vision was now his own, and the magical sword he carried had responded with the needed power. No longer did he fear or doubt the destiny before him.
Who ruled the sword, would also rule Evermeet.
Keryth Blackhelm shook his head. "It won't work, Zaor," he said ruefully. "I'm too young-I've yet to reach my first centennial! Nor am I nobly born. By the gods, I can't even name my father, much less trace my ancestors back into Faerie and beyond! The Leuthilspar guard will have nothing to do with the likes of me, and you know it well."
"I know that you possess the finest mind of any battlemaster I've met," the ranger insisted.
With a wry grin, Keryth lifted his cup as if to toast himself. "And the strongest sword arm, too."
"We'll contest that matter another day," Zaor retorted good-naturedly. "But if you haven't the sense to pick a battle you've a hope of winning, perhaps I will have to revise my opinion of your skills as battlemaster!"
The friends joined in a brief chuckle. The third member of their trio, a slight, silver-haired Moon elf about Keryth's age, fixed a thoughtful gaze upon Zaor. "You have a plan," he observed.
"A plan? I wouldn't put it quite that high," Zaor said in a dry tone. "A notion, perhaps. If it works, then we'll call it a plan."
"Agreed. What's your notion, then?"
"It seems to me that an elf's worth must be proven, and that there is no time like the moment at hand."
Myronthilar Silverspear nodded, as if this made perfect sense. He put down his cup and swept the tavern with his calm silver gaze. "By Corellon, it looks as if half the city guard drinks in this place!"
"The half that's on duty, no doubt," Keryth put in.
"All the better." Zaor turned to Myronthilar. "You first?"
The small elf lifted a silver brow. "But of course."
Myron hopped lightly from his stool and strolled over to where a cluster of guards, Gold elves all, lolled indolently over a table littered with bottles and goblets. One of them eyed the Moon elf with a supercilious smile, then elbowed his neighbor. He said something that sent a ripple of laughter through the group.
Watching this, Zaor lifted a hand to his lips to hide a smirk. The haughty elves were due for a lesson in the importance of open minds and keen observation. Had they the wit to look beyond their first impression, they would never have discounted the small Moon elf.
There was a remarkable economy about Myronthilar's every movement, a precision and purpose to each step and gesture. He was like a dagger: slender, finely honed, perfectly balanced-and deadly. The results of this encounter, Zaor mused, would be a good start to the necessary reeducation of Evermeet's elves.
Myronthilar stopped and regarded the assembly soberly. "Well met, Saida Evanara," he said politely, regarding a suddenly wary Gold elf female. "I'm afraid I must be the bearer of ill news. Myth Drannor has fallen."
The female's eyes narrowed. "And well I know it. I was there until the final battle ended!"
"Yes, I have heard minstrels sing that tale," Myron said. "Paid minstrels. There are others, though, whose stories claim that you ran like a rat." He looked around the elegant taproom. "Of course, such as they would never perform in so fine an establishment as this."
Saida's face flushed with outrage. "How dare you! Never in my life have I been so insulted!"
"Actually, that is not entirely true. You really ought to listen to a wider range of bardic tales," Myron said helpfully.
One of the guards leaped to his feet and stood menacingly over the diminutive Moon elf. "Have a care how you speak. Saida Evanara is my kinswoman," he said in a low, ominous tone.
"You have my sympathy," the Moon elf returned. "Of course, since none of us can chose our kin, I shall not hold that against you."
The elf scowled and reached for his sword with a slow, dramatic flourish. A look of utter befuddlement crossed his face when his fingers closed around an empty scabbard. His puzzled frown was chased away by an expression of sheer panic as he regarded the length of steel at his throat. It was very familiar steel. Myron had beat him to the draw-and with his own sword!
The Moon elf lifted the "borrowed" blade to his forehead in a mocking salute.
Saida hissed with rage and leaped to her feet. Before she could draw her weapon, Myron tossed her the stolen blade. Instinctively, she caught it, and then lunged. The Moon elf dodged, spun, and parried Saida's second attack-with her sword.
With her free hand, Saida groped at the scabbard at her hip, unwilling to believe the evidence of her eyes. It was indeed empty. Her eyes narrowed with malevolence.
"You're quick, Gray," the Evanara warrior admitted as she shifted into battle stance. "But when I'm finished with you, you'll think you've been stomped by a warhorse!"
"I've heard that," Myron said conversationally. "You really ought to chose lovers less inclined to bemoan their experiences."
"Enough!" snarled the guard whose sword Saida wielded. "By Corellon, I will have your hide tanned for shoe leather!"
The enraged elf leaped at Myronthilar. He never came close. In fact, he never touched the floor. Instead, he found himself gasping for air, his feet dangling, as he looked into the eyes of the biggest elf he had ever seen- a blue-haired giant who held him aloft with one hand by the collar of his uniform, as a boy might hoist a puppy by the scruff of the neck.