The night air was soft and perfumed with the scents of roses and gardenias and orange blossoms. Nightingales sang in the trees, their melodies blending with the music of harp and lute. He recognized the music. Behind him, in the Hall of the Sky, lovely elf maidens were performing a traditional dance. He paused and half-turned, tempted to go back by the beauty of the music. The maidens were performing the Quanisho, the Awakening Promenade, a dance said to drive elf men wild with passion. He wondered if it would have any effect on the king. Perhaps he might be moved to a write a poem.
“Marshal Medan,” said a voice at his elbow.
Medan turned. “Honored Mother of our Speaker,” he said and bowed.
Laurana extended her hand, a hand that was white and soft and fragrant as the flower of the camellia. Medan took her hand, brought the hand to his lips.
“Come now,” she said to him, “we are by ourselves. Such formal titles need not be observed between those of us who are—how should I describe us? ‘Old enemies’?”
“Respected opponents,” said Medan, smiling. He relinquished her hand, not without some reluctance.
Marshal Medan was not married, except to his duty. He did not believe in love, considered love a flaw in a man’s armor, a flaw that left him vulnerable, open to attack. Medan admired Laurana and respected her. He thought her beautiful, as he thought his garden beautiful. He found her useful in assisting him to find his way through the sticky mass of fine-spun cobweb that was the elven version of government. He used her and he was well aware that in return she used him. A satisfactory and natural arrangement.
“Believe me, madam,” he said quietly, “I find your dislike of me much preferable to other people’s friendship.”
He glanced meaningfully back into the palace, where Palthainon was standing at the young king’s side, whispering into his ear.
Laurana followed his gaze. “I understand you, Marshal,” she replied. “You are a representative of an organization I believe to be wholly given over to evil. You are the conqueror of my people, our subjugator. You are allied with our worst enemy, a dragon who is intent upon our total destruction. Yet, I trust you far more than I trust that man.”
She turned away abruptly. “I do not like this view, sir. Would you mind if we walked to the arboretum?”
Medan was quite willing to spend a lovely moonlit night in the most enchanting land on Ansalon in company with the land’s most enchanting woman. They walked side by side in companionable silence along a walkway of crushed marble that glittered and sparkled as if it would mimic the stars. The scent of orchids was intoxicating.
The Royal Arboretum was a house made of crystal, filled with plants whose fragile and delicate natures could not survive even the relatively mild winters of Qualinesti. The arboretum was some distance from the palace. Laurana did not speak during their long walk. Medan did not feel that it was his place to break this peaceful silence, and so he said nothing. In silence, the two approached the crystal building, its many facets reflecting the moon so that it seemed there must be a hundred moons in the sky instead of just one.
They entered through a crystal door. The air was heavy with the breath of the plants, which stirred and rustled as if in welcome.
The sound of the music and the laughter was completely shut Out. Laurana sighed deeply, breathed deeply of the perfume that scented the warm, moist air.
She placed her hand upon an orchid, turning it to the moonlight.
“Exquisite,” said Medan, admiring the plant. “My orchids thrive—especially those you have given me—but I cannot produce such magnificent blossoms.”
“Time and patience,” Laurana said. “As in all things. To continue our earlier conversation, Marshal, I will tell you why I respect you more than Palthainon. Though your words are not easy for me to hear sometimes I know that when you speak, you speak from your heart. You have never lied to me, even when a lie might have served your purpose better than the truth. Palthainon’s words slide out of his mouth and fall to the ground, then slither away into the darkness.”
Medan bowed to acknowledge the compliment, but he would not enter into further disparagement of the man who helped him keep Qualinesti under control. He changed the subject.
“You have left the revelries at an early hour, madam. I hope you are not unwell,” he said politely.
“The heat and the noise were too much to bear,” Laurana replied. “I came out into the garden for some quiet.”
“Have you dined?” the marshal asked. “Could I send the servants for food or wine?”
“No, thank you, Marshal. I find I have very little appetite these days. You can serve me best by keeping me company for a while, if your duties do not call you away.”
“With such a charming companion, I do not think that death himself could call me away,” the Marshal returned.
Laurana glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes, smiled slightly. “Humans are not generally given to such pretty speeches. You have been around elves much too long, Marshal. In fact, I believe you are more elf than human now. You wear our clothes, you speak our language flawlessly, you enjoy our music and our poetry. You have issued laws that protect our woodlands, laws stronger than those we might have passed ourselves. Perhaps I was wrong,” she added lightly. “Perhaps you are the conquered and we are, in truth, your conquerors.”
“You make sport of me, madam,” Medan returned, “and you will probably laugh when I say that you are not far wrong. I was blind to nature before I came to Qualinesti. A tree was a thing I used to build a wall for a fortress or a handle for my battle-axe. The only music I enjoyed was the martial beating of the war drum. The only reading in which I took pleasure were dispatches from headquarters. I freely admit that I laughed when I first entered this land to see an elf speaking respectfully to a tree or talking gently to a flower. And then, one spring, after I had been living here about seven years, I was amazed to find myself eagerly awaiting the return of the flowers to my garden, wondering which would blossom first, wondering if the new rosebush the gardener had planted last year would bloom. At about the same time, I discovered the songs of the harpist running through my mind. I began to study the poetry to learn the words.
“In truth, Madam Lauralanthalasa, I do love your land. That is why,” Medan added, his expression darkening, “I do my best to keep this land safe from the wrath of the dragon. That is why I must harshly punish those of your people who rebel against my authority. Beryl wants only an excuse to destroy you and your land. By persisting in resistance, by committing acts of terror and sabotage against my forces, the misguided rebels among your people threaten to bring destruction down upon you all.”
Medan had no idea how old Laurana must be. Hundreds of years, perhaps. Yet she was as beautiful and youthful as the days when she had been the Golden General, leading the armies of light against the forces of Queen Takhisis during the War of the Lance. He had met old soldiers who spoke still of her courage in battle, her spirit that rallied the flagging spirits of the crumbling armies and led them to victory. He wished he could have known her then, though they would have been on opposite sides. He wished he could have seen her riding to battle on the back of her dragon, her golden hair a shining banner for her troops to follow.
“You say that you trust in my honor, madam,” he continued and he took hold of her hand in his earnestness. “Then you must believe me when I tell you that I am working day and night to try to save Qualinesti. These rebels do not make my task easy. The dragon hears of their attacks and their defiance and grows extremely angry. She wonders aloud why she wastes her time and money ruling over such troublesome subjects. I do my best to placate her, but she is fast losing patience.”