Medan left the hospital well pleased with his interview. He did not trust the Solamnic, of course. Medan trusted no one these days. The marshal would watch the man closely over the next few days, see how he acquitted himself. He could always take the Solamnic up on his offer and run his sword through him.
At least, I do not doubt his courage or his loyalty to his friends, the marshal reflected He has proven these to me already.
The marshal turned his steps toward Laurana’s house. He enjoyed the walk. Qualinesti was beautiful in all seasons, but summer was his favorite, the season of festivals, with its myriad flowers, the soft air filled with exquisite perfumes, the silvery green of the leaves and the wondrous bird song.
He took his time, pausing to lean over garden walls to admire a flaming display of day lilies lifting their orange heads to the sunshine. He lingered in the walkway to watch a shower of white blossoms shaken from a snow-ball bush by a fluttering robin.
Coming upon an elf from House Woodshaper, Medan stopped the man to discuss a blight he feared had overtaken one of his rose bushes. The Woodshaper was hostile, made it clear he talked to Medan only because he was forced to do so. Medan was polite, respectful, his questions were intelligent. Gradually the elf warmed to his topic and, in the end, promised to come to the marshal’s house to treat the ailing rose.
Arriving at Laurana’s house, Medan rang the silver chimes and stood listening with pleasure to their sweet song as he waited for a response.
An elf answered the door, bowed politely. Medan looked at him intently.
“Kelevandros, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, Marshal,” the elf returned.
“I came to see—”
“Who is it, Kelevandros?” Laurana appeared, walking down the hallway. “Ah, Marshal Medan. Welcome to my home. Please come in. Will you take some refreshment?”
“Thank you, madam, but I cannot stay,” Medan said politely. “We have had reports that a band of rebels are operating in the wilderness not far from here. One of my own men was savagely attacked.” He eyed her closely. “The rebels have no love for the royal family, considering them to be collaborators. If, as you say, you have no influence over these rebels—”
“I live a quiet and retired life, Marshal,” Laurana said. “I go nowhere except to the palace to visit my son. Yet I find myself constantly under suspicion. My first love and loyalty are to my homeland and my people.”
“I am aware of that fact, madam,” Medan said with a cool smile. “Therefore, madam, until we have caught these rebels, it is not safe for you to leave the confines of your house. I must ask that you and those you care about remain close to home. You have permission to visit the palace, naturally, but I must prohibit trips to other places in the realm.”
“Am I a prisoner in my house, then, Marshal?” Laurana demanded.
“I do this for your own protection, madam,” Medan said. He reached out his hand to draw near one of the purple blossoms, inhaled its sweet fragrance. “My commendations on this beautiful lilac bush. I have never known one to bloom so long past spring. Good-day to you, Queen Mother.”
“And to you, Marshal Medan,” Laurana said.
“How I detest this game,” said Medan to himself. Making his solitary way back to his own dwelling, he could smell the lilac’s perfume.
“How I hate this game,” Laurana said, shutting the door and leaning her head with its crown of golden hair against it.
The waterfall played sweet and gentle music and Laurana listened to its song, let the melody soothe her, restore her to her customary hopefulness. She was not one to give way to despair. She had walked in darkness, the greatest darkness the world had known. She had come face-to-face with the dread goddess Takhisis. She had seen love surmount the darkness, love triumph. She believed that even the darkest night must eventually give way to the dawn.
She held fast to that belief through all the sorrows and travails of her life, through the loss of her son to the political machinations of her own people, through the death of her beloved husband, Tanis, who had died defending the High Clerist’s Tower against the Dark Knights, died of a sword thrust in the back. She grieved his loss, she missed him sorely, she established a shrine to him in her heart, but his death did not bring about her own. She did not bury her heart in his grave. To do so would have been to deny his life, to undo all the good that he had done. She continued to fight for the causes both of them had championed.
Some people took exception to this. They thought she should have clothed herself in black and retired from the world. They took offense that she should laugh and smile, or listen with pleasure to the minstrel’s song.
“It is so sad,” they would say. “Your husband died such a senseless death.”
“Tell me, sir,” Laurana would reply, or, “Tell me, madam. Tell me what you consider to be a sensible death?”
Smiling to herself at their discomfiture, Laurana heard, in her heart, Tanis’s laughter. There had been a time, shortly after his death, when she could hear his voice and sense his presence watching over her, not protectively, but supporting, reassuring.
She had not felt his presence, however, in a long, long time. She could only assume that he had passed on to the next stage on life’s journey. She was not saddened or sorrowful. She would meet him when it was time for her to depart this life. They would find each other, though all eternity might stand between them.
Meanwhile, the dead did not need her. The living did.
“My lady,” said Kelevandros softly, “do not let the marshal’s threats upset you. We will outwit him. We have always done so.”
Laurana lifted her head and smiled. “Yes, we will. How fortunate that you had returned from your mission, Kelevandros. Medan might have noted your absence, and that would have made things awkward. We must take extra precautions from now on. Gilthas reports that the dwarven tunnels are near completion. You will use that route now. It will take you out of your way, but it will be safer. Kalindas! You should not be out of bed!”
The elf stood swaying unsteadily in the doorway. His head was swathed in bandages, he was so pale that his skin had a translucent quality. Laurana could see the blue veins in his face.
Kelevandros came to his brother’s aide, put his arm around him, assisted him to a couch. He eased his brother down gently, all the while scolding Kalindas roundly for leaving his bed and causing their mistress concern.
“What happened to me?” Kalindas asked dazedly.
“You don’t remember?” Laurana asked.
“Nothing!” He put his hand to his head.
“Kelevandros,” Laurana said sharply, “go to the front door. Make certain that Marshal Medan remembered to leave.”
“Birds sing in the trees,” Kelevandros reported on his return.
“The bees buzz among the flowers. No one is about.”
“Now, Kalindas”—Laurana turned to him—“do you remember guiding Master Palin, Gerard, and the kender to the meeting with the griffon?”
Kalindas considered. “Vaguely, madam.”
“You were attacked while you were in the wilderness,” said Laurana, readjusting the bandages on the young elf’s head.
“We have been very worried about you. When you didn’t return, I asked the Lioness to send her people to search for you. The rebels found you lying wounded in the forest. They brought you back yesterday. Why did you rise? Do you need anything?”
“No, madam, thank you,” said Kalindas. “Forgive me for causing you alarm. I heard the marshal’s voice and thought perhaps you might stand in need of me. I fancied myself well enough to leave my bed. I was mistaken, it seems.”
Kelevandros eased his injured brother to a more comfortable position on the couch, while Laurana spread her own shawl over Kalindas to keep him warm.