“Why do you tell me this, Marshal Medan?” Laurana asked.
“What has this to do with me?”
“Madam, if you have any influence over these rebels, please stop them. Tell them that while their acts of terror may do some harm to myself and my troops, in the long run, the rebels are harming only their own people.”
“And what makes you think that I, the Queen Mother, have anything to do with rebels?” Laurana asked. A flush came to her cheeks. Her eyes glittered.
Medan regarded her in silent admiration for a moment, then replied, “Let us say that I f who fought the Dark Queen and her minions so tenaciously over fifty years ago during the War of the Lance has ceased to do battle.”
“You are wrong, Marshal,” Laurana protested. “I am old, too old for such matters. No, Sir”—she forestalled his speaking—“I know what you are going to say. You are going to say that I look as young as a maiden at her first dance. Save your pretty compliments for those who desire to hear them. I do not. I have no heart left for battle, for defiance. My heart is in the tomb where my dear husband, Tanis, lies buried. My family is all that matters to me now. I want to see my son happily married, I want to hold grand-children in my arms. I want our land to be at peace and I am willing to pay tribute to the dragon for our land to remain at peace.”
Medan regarded her skeptically. He heard the ring of truth in her voice, but she was not telling him the entire truth. Laurana had been a skilled diplomat in the days following the war. She was accustomed to telling people what they wanted to hear while subtly swaying them to believe what she wanted them to believe.
Still, it would have been extremely impolite to openly doubt her words. And if she meant them, Medan pitied her. The son on whom she doted was a spineless jellyfish who took hours to decide whether to have strawberries or blueberries for luncheon.
Gilthas was not likely to ever take such an important step as making up his mind to wed. Unless, of course, someone else picked out his bride for him.
Laurana averted her head but not before Medan had seen the tears welling in her almond eyes. He changed the subject back to orchids. He was attempting to grow some in his own garden and was having minimal success. He discussed orchids for a long while, giving Laurana a chance to regain her composure. A quick touch of her hand to her eyes and she was once more in control.
She recommended her own gardener, a master with orchids.
Medan accepted the offer with pleasure. The two of them lingered another hour in the arboretum, discussing strong roots and waxen flowers.
“Where is my honored mother, Palthainon?” Gilthas, Speaker of the Sun, asked. “I have not seen her this past half-hour.”
The king was dressed in the costume of an elven ranger, all in greens and browns, colors that were becoming to him. Gilthas ind it difficult to believe that someone looked quite impressive, though few elven rangers were likely to go about their duties attired in the finest silken hose and shirts, or a hand-tooled and gold-embossed leather vest with matching boots. He held a cup of wine in his hand, but he only sipped at it out of politeness. Wine gave him a headache, everyone knew.
“I believe that your mother is walking in the garden, Your Majesty,” said Prefect Palthainon, who missed nothing of the comings and goings of the House Royal. “She spoke of needing air. Would you have me send for her? Your Majesty does not look well.”
“I am not well,” Gilthas said. “Thank you for your kind offer, Palthainon, but do not disturb her.” His eyes darkened, he looked out upon the throng of dancers with sadness and wistful envy.
“Do you think anyone would take it amiss if I were to retire to my room, Prefect?” he asked in a low voice.
“Perhaps a dance would cheer Your Majesty,” Palthainon said. “There, look at how the lovely Amiara smiles at you.” The prefect leaned near the king to whisper, “Her father is one of the wealthiest elves in all of Qualinesti. Silversmith, you know. And she is perfectly charming—”
“Yes, she is,” said Gilthas in disinterested agreement. “But I do not feel equal to dancing. I am feeling faint and nauseated. I believe that I really must retire.”
“By all means, if Your Majesty is truly not well,” said Palthainon reluctantly. Medan was right. Having robbed the king of a spine, the prefect could not very well fault the young man for crawling about on his hands and knees. “Your Majesty should rest in bed tomorrow. I will take care of the affairs of state.”
“Thank you, Palthainon,” Gilthas said quietly. “If I am not needed, I will spend the day working on the twelfth canto in my new poem.”
He rose to his feet. The music came to a sudden halt. The dancers ceased in mid-whirl. Elven men bowed, elven women curtsied. The elven maidens looked up in expectation. Gilthas seemed embarrassed by the sight of them. Ducking his head, he stepped down off the dais and walked quickly toward the door that led to his private chambers. His personal servant accompanied him, walking ahead of the king, bearing a glowing candelabra to light His Majesty’s way. The elven maidens shrugged and glanced about demurely for new partners. The music began again. The dancing continued.
Prefect Palthainon, muttering imprecations, headed for the refreshment table.
Gilthas, glancing back before he left the room, smiled to himself. Turning, he followed the soft glow of the candlelight through the darkened hallways of his palace. Here no courtiers flattered and fawned, here no one was permitted to enter without first obtaining permission from Palthainon, who lived in constant fear that some day someone else might wrest away the marionette’s strings. Kagonesti guards stood at every entrance.
Freed from the music and the lights, the twittering laughter and the whispering conversations, Gilthas breathed a sigh of relief as he walked the well-guarded corridors. The newly built palace of the Speaker of the Sun was a large and airy dwelling of living trees that had been magically altered and lovingly transformed into ceilings and walls. The tapestries were made of flowers and plants coaxed to form beautiful works of art that changed daily depending on what was in bloom. The floors of some of the rooms of the palace, such as the dancing room and the audience chambers, were made of marble. Most of the private rooms and the hallways that wound among the boles of the trees were carpeted with fragrant plants.
The palace was considered something of a marvel among the Qualinesti people. Gilthas had insisted that all the trees standing on the land be utilized in the shapes and positions in which the trees had grown naturally. He would not permit the Woodshapers to coax them into bending themselves into unnatural poses to accommodate a staircase or shifting their branches to provide more light. Gilthas intended this as a sign of honor to the trees, who were pleased, it seemed, for they flourished and thrived. The result was, however, an irregular maze of leafy corridors, where those new to the palace would often lose themselves for hours on end.
The king did not speak, but walked with his head bowed and his hands clasped behind him. He was often to be seen in this attitude, roaming restlessly the halls of the palace. It was known that at these times he was mulling over some rhyme or trying to work out the rhythm of a stanza. The servants knew better than to interrupt him. Those who passed bowed low and said nothing.
The palace was quiet this night. The music of the dance could be heard, but it was soft and muted by the gentle rustling of the thickly entangled leaves that formed the high ceiling of the corridor through which they walked. The king lifted his head, glanced about. Seeing no one, Gilthas moved a step closer to his servant.