"I will join him," Ahskahala said in a stronger voice, one that neither invited nor permitted argument. "Haklashara and I will heal together, and awaken together. You must do this, mage!"
A gentle hand rested on Amlaruil's shoulder. She knew before looking up that Zaor had come to her side. "She will not live, else," he said softly.
The young mage nodded. Zaor swept the dragonrider up into his arms, and the three elves made their way into the cave, followed by the gravely wounded dragon.
When they were deep within the mountain, Ahskahala called a halt. She gritted her teeth as Zaor lowered her carefully to the ground, then looked with contentment at the stone chamber, and the dragon who curled around her like a gigantic cat preparing to nap.
"It is well. Here we will stay until Evermeet's need is as grave as it was this day. When and if that day comes, call us forth."
The warrior took a ring from her hand and gave it to Zaor. "Speak my name, my lord, and the dragonriders will answer your call. If the gods are kind and the day long in coming, you must give this ring to whosoever rules after you."
"You know," Zaor said in wonderment.
A faint smile crossed the elf woman's blackened face. "If one so dense as Haklashara can see what you are, do you think that I cannot?"
"I heard that, elf," the dragon rumbled.
With a soft chuckle, Ahskahala leaned back against her partner's scaly side. "Go about your work, mage. We are very tired."
A moment of pure panic threatened to claim Amlaruil. The spell that she must cast was High Magic, an enchantment so powerful that it could not be safely cast outside of the strength and support of a Circle. And that was considering just the spell for the dragon alone; to send an elf into endless revery was more difficult still.
And yet, what else could she do? The dragon and elven heroes would die before Amlaruil could gather the other elves, who, for that matter, would be busy with their other dragon charges.
The mage took a long breath to steady her resolve, then sank deep into the magic. She called forth the spell, her body swaying and her hands gesturing gracefully as she chanted, summoning the threads of magic and weaving them into the needed pattern. As she worked, she could feel the silvery web take shape, and then sink down over the pair of warriors like a comforting blanket.
Swept up in the power of the magic, Amlaruil had no sense of the passing of time. Nor did she feel the hunger or exhaustion that so often plagued the magi after the workings of the Circle. If anything, she felt invigorated by the flow of magic.
Almost regretfully, she released herself from the spell and left Ahskahala and her dragon friend to their long slumber. Without speaking, she and Zaor made their way from the cave.
The mountainside was deserted when they emerged, and the sunset colors stained the distance hills. "The others must have returned to the Towers," Amlaruil murmured. "Working together, they could have completed the task faster than one alone."
After a moment's silence, Zaor reached out and took her hands in his. "I felt you with me during the battle, you know. Your magic, your strength."
The elf woman nodded. The bond that had formed between them still sang in her blood and filled her soul. A shy smile curved her lips as she looked into the warrior's searching eyes and saw a similar knowledge there.
Amlaruil did not return to the Towers that night, nor did Zaor turn his steps southward toward the fortress at Ruith. In a stone chamber in the heart of Evermeet, bathed in the soft light of the king sword, they acknowledged what both had known from their first meeting. That night, with words and with loving actions, they pledged themselves gladly to the future. They belonged to each other, and together, to Evermeet.
With the coming of dawn's first light, the lovers said their farewells, each content in the knowledge that their joined destiny would surely bring them back into each other's arms.
Amlaruil stood long at the mouth of the cave and watched the warrior descend the mountain, hurrying toward a handful of surviving dragonriders who had gathered in the valley below.
Despite all Zaor had told her of his leave-taking from Lightspear Keep, Amlaruil had little fear that censure awaited him. For one thing, Captain Horith Evanara's ship was gone, crushed into shards of crystal by the weight of a falling dragon. Even had the Captain survived, he could not have denied that Zaor Moonflower was one of the battle's true heroes. Without the dragonriders, without the giant eagles, the flight of evil dragons would have slipped through Evermeet's shields and laid waste the island.
And more than that, Amlaruil had faith in the destiny whispered to her by the moonblade Zaor carried. He was destined to rule, and she with him.
Bright dreams filled her thoughts as she summoned the silver path that would carry her back to the Towers. But as the whirl and rush of the magic travel faded, she was greeted by the sound of anguished elven mourning.
High, wordless keening filled the air as the elves of the Towers gave themselves over to grief. Amlaruil gathered up her skirts and ran for the Tower of the Sun. She burst into the lower chamber, in which stood a single elf, draped and cowled in the robes of the Grand Mage of the Towers.
"Jannalor! What happened? What is wrong?" she cried.
"Hush, child." To Amlaruil's surprise, the voice belonged not to Jannalor, but to Nakiasha. The forest elf turned to face the young mage, and lowered the cowl that obscured her tear-streaked face. "Do not speak his name while his spirit is yet so near to Evermeet, lest he turn away from Arvandor for love of you."
To the young mage, this seemed impossible. For as long as she had lived-nearly three and a half centuries-Jannalor Nierde had ruled the Towers of the Sun and Moon. His calm presence seemed as constant and predictable as the dawn.
"Surely he is not dead!" she protested.
"Along with the other magi who ensorcelled the dragons," Nakiasha said sadly. "The task was too great, the magic that bound us all together too strained by the battle and by our far distance from each other. You were not part of the Circle, so you could not know. But each of the five magi who went with us to the Eagle Hills attended the silver dragons in separate, distant chambers among the caves. I felt them die when the enchantment was done, yet I could do nothing to save them."
Amlaruil stared at her mentor, her thoughts spinning in confusion and stunned grief. Among the magi were many of her closest friends, and nearest kin. "How then do you and I still live? It does not seem possible. It does not seem-"
"Right?" the older elf finished. "Do not think that I have not asked that same question, many times. But to do so is to doubt the will of the gods. You and I, Amlaruil, carry the special blessing of the Seldarine. How old do you think me?"
The girl blinked, startled by the seeming non sequitur. "You are past midlife, perhaps in your fifth century."
Nakiasha snorted. "Double that, you'd be closer. It will be much the same for you. Do not look so doubtful! You have lived three centuries and more, yet most who behold you take you for a maiden fresh from childhood. And what of your power? You should not have been able to cast the spell upon the dragon alone, and yet you did. You survived, even while those joined in a Circle could not bear the flow of magic. It is a hard fact, but you must accustom yourself to it, for it is your destiny. As is this."
The forest elf shrugged off the Grand Mage mantle and came forward to drape it over Amlaruil's shoulders. "It was the will of he who ruled these Towers that you succeed him. I but kept it in trust for your arrival."
Amlaruil stared at her mentor, unable to take in all that she had said. "But I am pledged elsewhere," she whispered.
"Are you, now?" Nakiasha looked at her shrewdly. "Ah. I see the way of it. The young warrior whom you supported through the battle, is it not?