The party was being held in the Garden of Astarin on the grounds of the Tower of the Stars, where the Speaker of the Stars would live had there been a Speaker. The setting was beautiful. The Tower of the Stars was magically shaped of marble, for the elves will not cut or otherwise harm any part of the land, and thus the Tower had a fluid, organic feel to it, looking almost as if someone had formed it of melted wax. During Lorac’s dream, the Tower had been hideously transformed, as were all the other structures in Silvanost. Elven mages worked long years to reshape the dwelling.
They replaced the myriad jewels in the walls of the tall building, jewels which had once captured the light of the silver moon, Solinari, and the red moon, Lunitari, and used their blessed moonlight to illuminate the Tower’s interior so that it seemed bathed in silver and in flame. The moons were gone now. A single moon only shone on Krynn and for some reason that the wise among the elves could not explain, the pale light of this single moon glittered in each jewel—like a staring eye, bringing no light at all to the Tower, so that the elves were forced to resort to candles and torches.
Chairs had been placed among the plants in the Garden of Astarin. The plants appeared to be flourishing. They filled the air with their fragrance. Only Konnal and his gardeners knew that the plants in the garden had not grown there but had been carried there by the Woodshapers from their own private gardens, for no plants lived long now in the Garden of Astarin. No plants except one, a tree. A tree surrounded by a magical shield. A tree known as the Shield Tree, for from its root was said to have sprung the magical shield that protected Silvanesti.
The minstrel was singing the Song of Lorac in answer to a request from a guest at the party. The minstrel finished, ending the song on its sad note, her hand brushing lightly the strings of her lute.
“Bravo! Well sung! Let the song be sung again,” came a lilting voice from the back row of seats.
The minstrel looked uncertainly at her host. The elven audience was much too polite and too well bred to indicate overt shock at the request, but a performer comes to know the mood of the audience by various subtle signs. The minstrel noted faintly flushed cheeks and sidelong embarrassed glances cast at their host. Once around for this song was quite enough.
“Who said that?” General Reyl Konnal, military governor of Silvanesti, twisted in his seat.
“Whom do you suppose, Uncle?” his nephew replied with a dark glance for the seats behind them. “The person who requested it be sung in the first place. Your friend, Glaucous.”
General Konnal rose abruptly to his feet, a move that ended the evening’s musical entertainment. The minstrel bowed, thankful to be spared so arduous a task as singing that song again. The audience applauded politely but without enthusiasm. A sigh that might have been expressive of relief joined the night breeze in rustling the trees whose intertwined branches formed a barren canopy above them, for many of the leaves had dropped off. Lanterns of silver filigree hung from the boughs, lighting the night. The guests left the small amphitheater, moved to a table that had been set up beside a reflecting pool, there to dine on sugared fruits and buttery shortbreads and to drink chilled wine.
Konnal invited the minstrel to partake of a late night morsel and personally escorted the woman to the table. The elf named Glaucous who had requested the song was already there, a cup of wine in his hand. Raising a toast to the minstrel, he was lavish in her praise.
“ A pity you were not permitted to sing the song again,” he said, glancing in the general’s direction. “I never tire of that particular melody. And the poetry! My favorite part is when—”
“Might I offer you food and drink, Madame?” the nephew asked, responding to a nudge from his uncle.
The minstrel cast him a grateful glance and accepted his invitation. He led her to the table, where she was graciously received by the other guests. The grassy area on which Glaucous and the general stood was soon empty. Although many of the guests would have been pleased to bask in the the presence of the charming and attractive Glaucous and pay their share of flattery to General Konnal, they could tell at a glance that the general was angry.
“I don’t know why I invite you to these parties, Glaucous,”
Konnal said, seething. “You always do something to embarrass me. It was bad enough you requested she sing that piece, and then to ask for it a second time!”
“Considered in light of the rumors I heard today,” Glaucous returned languidly, “I thought the song of Lorac Caladon most appropriate.”
Konnal shot his friend a sharp glance from beneath lowered brows. “I heard. . .” He paused, glanced at his guests. “Come, walk with me around the pond.”
The two moved away from the other guests. Now free of the constraint of the general’s presence, the elves gathered in small groups, their voices sibilant with suppressed excitement, eager to discuss the rumors that were the talk of the capital..
“We need not have left,” Glaucous observed, looking back upon the refreshment table. “Everyone has heard the same thing.”
“Yes, but they speak of it as rumor. I have confirmation,”
Konnal said grimly.
Glaucous halted. “You know this for a fact?”
“I have my sources among the kirath. The man saw him, spoke to him. The young man is said to be the image of his father. He is Silvanoshei Caladon, son of Alhana Starbreeze, grandson of the late and unlamented King Lorac.”
“But that is impossible!” Glaucous stated. “The last we heard of the whereabouts of that accursed witch, his mother, she was lurking about outside the shield and her son was with her. He could not have come through the shield. Nothing and no one can penetrate the shield.” Glaucous was quite firm on that point.
“Then his arrival must be a miracle, as they are claiming,”
Konnal said dryly, with a wave of his hand at his whispering guests.
“Bah! It is some imposter. You shake your head.” Glaucous regarded the governor in disbelief. “You have actually swallowed this!”
“My source is Drinel. As you know, he has the skill of truth-seek,” Konnal replied. “There can be no doubt. The young man passed the test. Drinel saw into his heart. He knows more about what happened to him than the young man does, apparently.”
“So what did happen to him?” Glaucous asked with a slight lift of a delicate eyebrow.
“The night of that terrible storm, Alhana and her rebels were preparing to launch an all-out assault on the shield when their camp was overrun by ogres. The young man went running to the Legion of Steel to beg the help of the humans—witness how low this woman has sunk—when he was dazzled by a lightning bolt. He slipped and fell down an embankment. He lost consciousness. Apparently, when he awoke, he was inside the shield.”
Glaucous stroked his chin with his hand. The chin was well-formed, the face handsome. His almond eyes were large and penetrating. He could make no move that was not graceful. His complexion was flawless, his skin smooth and pale. His features were perfectly molded.
To human eyes, all elves are beautiful. The wise say this accounts for the animosity between the two races. Humans—even the most beautiful among them—cannot help but feel that they are ugly by comparison. The elves, who worship beauty, see gradations of beauty among their own kind, but they always see beauty. In a land of beauty, Glaucous was the most beautiful.
At this moment, Glaucous’s beauty, his perfection, irritated Konnal beyond measure.
The general shifted his gaze to his pond. Two new swans glided over its mirrorlike surface. He wondered how long these two would live, hoped it would be longer than the last pair. He was spending a fortune in swans, but the pond was bleak and empty without them.