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Dimly, Rolim felt Ava take his hand in hers. There was little sensation of warmth or pressure, though, for their bodies were fading away into translucent, glowing shadows. Yet he knew that Ava's tiny hand was secure in his for they were both truly one with their People.
The morning sun broke through the canopy of leaves overhead, sending glowing shafts slanting down through the trees. The last few motes of silver and gold swirled together in a brief, giddy flurry, as if they danced to greet the light.
The Durothil mansion was one of the finest and most whimsical in all of Leuthilspar. At a distance, it resembled nothing so much as a flock of swans startled into sudden, graceful flight. One only had to look at the leaping towers to know that many powerful mages dwelt herein, for it took great power to raise a building of any kind from the soil.
The newest addition to the mansion was also one of the tallest and most imaginative. Two spiraling crystal towers wound around each other in a way that suggested, but did not precisely portray, a pair of entwined elven dancers. From the tower flowed gracefully curving buttresses, some of which rooted the structure to the sacred island, and others that reached seeking hands toward the starlight. The interior of the tower was less whimsical. It was divided into a number of small rooms, each devoted by its creator to a specific purpose.
In one of these rooms, the young Gold elf warrior Brindarry Nierde paced the floor restlessly as he dredged his mind for some way to talk sense into the young wizard who sat calmly before him-floating in midair, his legs crossed and his hands resting on his knees. It was difficult for Brindarry to become too angry with his friend however, for Vhoori Durothil was the epitome of all that Brindarry held dear.
For one thing, the wizard was the quintessence of Gold elven beauty, with his pale tawny skin, night-black hair, and large, almond-shaped eyes the color of a summer meadow. His hands were long-fingered and graceful, and his sharp, finely molded features and triangular face called to mind the ancient, enchanted sculptures of the gods that their ancestors had brought from Aryvandaar. Vhoori Durothil was tall, like his illustrious grandfather Rolim, and as lithe as that famous warrior. But his was a different talent. He had come to magic at an early age, and had already proven to have exceptional potential. Already he was acting as the Center of a small circle, and he received from his peers a deference that was out of proportion to his age and accomplishments. Most elves assumed that Vhoori Durothil would in time become the most powerful High Mage on all of Evermeet, and treated him as such. Yet in Brindarry's opinion, the young mage was content to settle for far too little.
"It is an outrage," Brindarry burst out when his patience reached an end. "By Corellon's sacred blood! The Gray elves rule in Evermeet, and you simply drift along with events, as unconcerned as the clouds on a summer breeze."
The mage lifted one brow, and Brindarry flushed as he remembered that his friend's great-grandmother, the High Mage Ava Moonflower, had been a member of that maligned race.
"Gray elf" was more than a mildly derisive term for the People who were usually called Moon or Silver elves. A slight inflection of Elvish transformed the insult to the word for "dross," that which was common and low, the waste product left over when objects of precious metal-by implication, the "Gold" elves-were created. From the lips of another elf, "Gray" was a deadly insult.
But Vhoori seemed inclined to let it pass. He gracefully unfolded his limbs and stepped down to stand on the floor. "And what would you have me do, my impatient friend? Strike down the new High Councilor with a fireball, or perhaps lay him low with a single blow from a phantom sword?"
"It would be better than doing nothing at all," muttered Brindarry. "You certainly have the power to take action!"
"No, I do not. At least, not yet."
Those cryptic words were as close as Vhoori had ever come to giving voice to the ambitions they shared. Brindarry's eyes glinted with excitement as he regarded his friend.
"It is about time you thought of taking your due!" he exulted. "You have been playing the role of messenger boy for far too long!"
A wry smile lifted the corners of Vhoori's lips. "A messenger boy. Never have I heard it put quite that way," he said mildly. "I suppose I should point out that the sending of messages from one tower of High Magi to another is an important part of the Circles' work. It is true that this is my primary task, but considering my youth, the Elders think it best that I learn one thing very well before moving on."
Brindarry threw up his hands in exasperation. "How do you expect to rule in Evermeet if all you ever do is chat with the magi of Aryvandaar?"
"Ah, but there is power in information."
"Power that is shared by every other elf in your Circle," the warrior retorted.
"Even so," Vhoori said with a small, secretive smile. "But there will come a time when that is no longer true. Come-there is something I want you to see."
The mage led the way up a tightly spiraling stair to the very top of the tower. In the center of the small, dome-shaped room was an alabaster column, from which rose a scepterlike object. It was about the length of an elf's arm and made of some satiny metal that was neither gold nor silver in color, but some subtle shade for which even the precise esthetics of Elvish had no name. Intricate carvings seemed to lie beneath the surface, which appeared to be utterly smooth. It was a marvelous work of art and magic, justly crowned by a large, golden gem.
"The Accumulator," Vhoori said, stroking the smooth metal with a lover's hand. "With this, I can store power from each spell that I cast. In time, I will have stored so much power that I can act alone, and cast High Magic as a Circle of one."
Brindarry let out a victory whoop. "And then you need no longer answer to the dotards who rule and restrict the use of magic! Your power will be tremendous. It will be an easy matter to oust the Amarillis pretender," he concluded happily.
"Not so easy as you seem to think," Vhoori cautioned him. "Tradition, my friend, is a powerful thing. Tammson Amarillis is armed not only with his own merits, which are considerable, but also all those of his illustrious forebears. Even if every disgruntled Gold elf upon this island were to rally under my standard, we would have little hope of staging a successful coup-at least, not by traditional methods of warfare. No, it is time to find not only new powers, but new ways. And perhaps," he mused, "new allies."
The Nierde snorted. "And where will you find these allies?"
"By doing what I do best," Vhoori said dryly, "by being the very best 'messenger boy' that Evermeet has ever known."
The elven ship was dying. Captain Mariona Leafbower knew that even as she gave the order for a reciprocal attack.
She felt its death as a physical pain. Not in all her decades of travel among the stars had she known a ship that was its equal. In appearance it was rather like a titanic butterfly, with its two sets of sails that glimmered every shade of green known to her verdant homeworld. So vast were these winglike sails that the body of the ship-a sturdy structure with a keel length of over one hundred feet-was almost lost from sight among them. Mariona had inherited the graceful man-o-war from her uncle, who had grown and nurtured it himself, and she had carried on the Leafbower tradition of exploration, trade, and travel for the sheer joy of the journey. She knew this ship as well as any mounted warrior knew her pegasus, and she felt its dying agonies as keenly as if it were in fact a beloved steed.
The captain watched stoically as her crew cranked the ballistae into firing position and loaded the catapult with grape shot. Hers was a well-armed ship, with two mounted ballistae that shot enormous metal bolts with the accuracy of an elven archer's longbow, and a catapult capable of delivering a large load of scattershot missiles with devastating force. Even so, it would not be enough, and she knew it. The ship would die, that was certain, and the elven crew, as well. But at least they would take a few of the Q'nidar with them.