CHAPTER ONE

Who are you, he said, to the woman before his eyes,
I did not see you coming, and so I'm quite surprised
To find that I can see the sky looking through your eyes.

I came across the void, said she, yes, I'm a stranger here,
And I have need this moment to whisper in your ear
A favor I must ask of thee, and so will you draw near?

                                                  - Phoenyx, "King of Elfland's Daughter"

 

         The Navannon Forest was full of fresh, new leaves and fragrant flowers after the long, rainy winter months.  To the humans who dwelled near its edge, the strange bird calls and the cries of the great cats in their mating heats would have been eerie and ominous, if not outright terrifying.  Yet, to the elves of the forest, the rhythms of the wild wood tended to fill them with an overwhelming exhilaration.  No different was Lleniares Moonchilde, as she soared gleefully over the forest crown astride her griffon.

          The griffon, whose name was Kethryl, was no less thrilled to be out in the warm spring sunlight, deep in the azure sky.  Winter’s rain stuck in his golden fur and feathers, weighing them down and, for the most part, preventing flight.  Stretching his wings in the fresh breeze was like the relief of an arthritic ache to him, and he screeched with delight, a cry not unlike that of a large bird of prey.

         Lleniares laughed aloud and patted the griffon’s neck affectionately.  “ ‘Atta boy,” she murmured.  Kethryl had been hatched when Lleniares was very young, and the two had grown up together.  His moods, even his language, were clear as the sky to her in the manner of old friends.  Then again, the elven youth had been taught all of her life to read the language of the beasts of the wood, and to sense the signs of nature.  Griffons were usually no more sentient than one might expect of a bird of prey, but the war griffons bred for the Navannon cavalry were specially selected for intelligence and fierceness.   Kethryl was one such, and he was about as bright as a small elven child.  To Lleniares, Kethryl was not a beast of burden, or even a pet; he was a friend and companion.

         Now the two friends soared over the woods, patrolling for any of the troubles that faced the elves on a regular basis; a forest fire, perhaps, or invading tribes of gnolls, or maybe even a roving band of marauding ogres.  But Lleniares didn’t really believe they would find any such thing.  The emerald green canopy stretched thickly over the countryside, unmolested.  Birdsong carried for miles, clearly ringing out in the absence of winter.  The feeling of the air was simply too good for trouble to be brewing.

          Well accustomed to the saddle, the elven maid braced her lance against the saddlehorn and broke out her lunch – trail mix and jerky, washed down with elderberry wine.  Not long past her hundred-and-tenth year, she was only just an adult to the elves, whose lifespans stretched for at least a millennium, and some long past that.  The heart of a human male would have hitched in his chest at the sight of her, for she was attractive even for an elf.  Strong brown legs gripped tightly to Kethryl’s haunches; a strong brown hand gripped the tether.  Her curly, black hair, shaved at the sides and raised up above her head by large beads, streamed behind her like a banner.  Her delicate features were radiant with the power of her smile, and almost black eyes gleamed with the light of awe and joy.  With the finely-crafted sword that fit to her side as though it was a part of her, she would have seemed a mythical banshee, perhaps, or a strange valkyrie flying over a battlefield  She was a creature of the wood, wild and untamable.

 
         When she had satisfied herself that all was as it should be, Lleniares turned Kethryl back to the center of the forest with only the slightest pressure from her knee, seeking the prevailing trade wind.  The city of Navannon was not an easy place to find; one had to know what one was looking for  The lush canopy of the subtropical forest was deep and mysterious, concealing all comfortably beneath it.  From the air, Navannon was invisible until one was almost on top of it.
          What she was looking for was an enormous tree.
          The branches were as thick as rivers, reaching for the clear blue sky.  The leaves were large like sheets of parchment, but strong as leather and smooth like silk, and such a deep, rich green that they were almost black  The wood was the color of ivory and stronger than the hardest oak.  And the trunk, at its base, was so wide that six teams of horses could have been driven through it, side-by-side, were it hollow.  It was one of only two such trees in the whole forest, perhaps even in the world entire.  The elves called it simply an ironwood tree.
         The ironwoods were thought to be sacred trees of Arvandor, brought down to earth by the Seldarine themselves that elves might prosper in their shade.  All life that grew beneath their ample branches prospered.  Other trees even rose from the massive roots that spread themselves wide over the surrounding earth. The resident druid, who was an odd, crotchety old elf known as Tranae, tended one of the ironwood trees.  The other was Lleniares’ home, by special permission of the Lord of Navannon City, which encircled the ironwoods protectively and had been founded to guard them.
         Now she sought out the emerald green, page-sized leaves, and she leaned Kethryl into a downward spiral, catching air currents, until he landed gracefully in the tidy nest he and his mate had fashioned in the crook of one of the strong branches.  When Lleniares dismounted, the griffon shrugged off his saddle impatiently and fussed with a glittering something-or-other that he had hidden in the straw.  His mate and her rider had not yet returned.  The elf maid took a moment to run a brush over his leonine fur, and to pick through his gilded eagle’s feathers for parasites.  In return, Kethryl began gently grooming her hair with his razor-hooked black beak.
         Then Lleniares skipped down the extended branch and descended the ladder into the top floor of her arboreal home, which served as a tack room.  There she deposited the saddle and her riding leathers.  She mused that there was still much of the afternoon left, and plenty of time for her to visit Corellon’s shrine.  Humming a wordless tune, she wound down the stairs through the multiple floors, plucked a handful of raisins from the bowl on her kitchen table as she went by, and meandered off in the sacred site's direction.
          Corellon Larethian’s shrine was fairly typical for an elven building.  It was formed from a small ring of rowan trees, grown together in a dome shape.  The leaves and branches made the roof, and the trunks created the walls.  It was nearly invisible until one was almost on top of it, because it was surrounded by a stand of similar trees.  At that time of year, the rowan trees were laden with clusters of green-white blossoms, and honeybees worked busily among them.

         An elaborate flower and herb garden surrounded the holy sanctuary, with the different plants in concentric rings radiating from the shrine itself and everything planted so that there would always be something in bloom.  A path of colorful stepping-stones marked the path to the open doorway, and more stepping-stones variegated the concentric rings so that one could walk in the garden without disturbing it.  Knelt on one of the stepping stone paths was a handsome, dark-haired elf, who was patiently weeding the garden.  At least, he would have been kneeling if it weren’t for the fact that he had no choice but to kneel, for he had no legs.  He was a war hero, this elf, and much respected by the elves of Navannon.  He was also the elf who had raised Lleniares, who was an orphan.  For as long as she could remember, it had just been the two of them, she and her Uncle Uthruil.

          Now she knelt on the path beside him, and with a smile, saying nothing, she began to help him to weed the garden.

          “You leave an old elf nothing to do,” he jested affectionately.

          She shrugged.  “I like weeding,” she told him honestly, as she had many times before.

          “If you want to help,” he suggested, “you could sweep the shrine.”

          Lleniares was amiable.  “Okay,” she agreed, and she got up, dusted herself off, and went inside to grab the broom.

          The floor of the shrine was an incredible sight in and of itself -- a detailed mosaic depicting Corellon’s defeat of Gruumsh One-Eye.  It was carefully fashioned of individual pieces of stone almost too small for the eye to see clearly, and it displayed a range of shading that astounded the imagination.  Lleniares knew that a previous High Priest of Corellon had spent thirty-two years constructing it, first by drawing the pattern, then by carefully selecting the tiles to be just the right variations in hue, and finally, setting them just so.  It was an amazing work of art, and the very day after it was completed, the High Priest had disappeared, never to be seen again, gone home to Arvandor at last.

          Lleniares always swept the mosaic with the care and reverence it was due, guiding the broom gently out from the center so as not to accidentally work any of the tiles loose.  It seemed to her that the glittering sapphire that formed Corellon’s twinkling blue eye in the profile of his face winked at her, the way that the afternoon light reflected off of the jewel through the branches of the shrine’s roof.
          The altar itself was set on a raised dais on the far side of the room from the door.  It was said that the altar was created in times so ancient that even the oldest of elven books no longer told their tale, and that the inner sanctum had, over the centuries, been constructed around it.  Lleniares believed it.  Formed from three great slabs of iridescent rock crystal in the primordial image of a great stone table, the weatherworn shapes of archaic symbols were still etched into its surface.  Some of the marks might have been runes, or perhaps holy symbols, but they were too faded to make out anything but suggestions.  The only clear image was the engraving of the outline of a crescent moon in the center of the altar’s surface.  Lleniares, in the course of her training, had spent long hours praying there, but sometimes she would come just to sit, reveling in the sense of being closer to her god.
          She polished the altar carefully with a soft cloth procured from an oak chest in behind the dais, and she carefully removed the artifacts and the holy symbols stored therein and wiped them off as well.  As she was doing so, the Lord of the city walked through the sanctuary’s door.
          Lord Kyatria was a gray elf, and with her silver hair and amber eyes, she was one of those rare and noble gray elves known as faerie.  Despite her blue blood, she was known to be far less haughty than most gray elves had the reputation of being.  Still, there was an unmistakable pride in the way she tossed her head and the way that she stood proudly before the altar of Corellon, with barely a perceivable nod to show her reverence.
          “I thought you’d be here,” she said to Lleniares with a smile.
          Lleniares returned it cheerfully.  Kyatria had been among her teachers during her training.  She had instructed Lleniares in the art of the bladesong, a uniquely elven martial art that required a human lifetime to master.  More than anyone else, she was a mother figure to the orphaned elf.  “Hi,” she beamed radiantly.  “I just finished my patrol.  I probably should have come right over and reported to you, but there wasn’t anything to report.  Sorry.”
          Kyatria waved her hand dismissively.  “Oh no, I wasn’t concerned about that, actually.  I was wondering if you wanted to do me a favor.”

          “Sure!” the elven youth agreed readily.  “What do you need?”

          “Well,” began the noble elf, “it seems that the humans have finally responded to our overtures of peace.  I need an ambassador to meet with a delegate of Port Hope in the human village of Trade.  Are you interested?

         Lleniares couldn’t help but glance outside briefly, towards her Uncle, with more than a hint of sadness.  It was a mere hundred years ago that the humans of the region had warred with the Navannon elves.  One of those humans had given her Uncle his grievous wounds.  Human bandits had also slain her best friend’s parents when he was a small child, bandits that might have also been responsible for the deaths of Lleniares’ anonymous parents.

          “I understand your hesitation,” Kyatria said soothingly, “but it has been a hundred years since the war.  The humans who are alive now don’t even remember it, or why we were fighting in the first place.  Their Lord, a man named Arthur, seems a good man.  Of course, he’s full of typical human arrogance.”  She smiled and rolled her eyes in amusement.

          Lleniares considered the issue.  It was true, she had been told, that humans had short lifespans, and did not fully comprehend the consequences of their actions.  Perhaps it was time to put away the instruments of war.  “If the humans are ready to make peace,” she decided, “then we should honor that.  Perhaps I should know what, exactly, the war was about, before I go there.   And I’d like to read the letter.”

          Kyatria nodded.  “Well, it’s rather simple, really.  The humans wanted to build a road through the forest.”

          Lleniares was aghast.  “Right through the forest?” she demanded.

          Kyatria shrugged.  “We told them no, of course not, and they began to do it anyway.  So we fought them.”

          The young elf nodded in concurrence.  Of course the elves had fought them!  Did they not understand how disastrous such a thing would have been?  Where would the deer have run?  How many dryads would they have slain by chopping down the trees?  Where would the birds roost when their trees were gone?

          Then it occurred to her that perhaps humans didn’t understand such things.  Perhaps their existence was so disconnected from the rhythms of the earth that they did not realize the damage they would have been inflicting.  The rising smoke she saw from the distant human city when she rode her patrols above the forest crown suggested as much.  She determined that she would have to teach them.

          “Okay,” she said to Kyatria as she got to her feet.  “Where’s the letter?”
          Lord Kyatria handed her a slip of real paper, folded in three and bearing the mark of a broken wax seal.  It read, in the common trade language;
 
         To the illustrious Lord Kyatria, Speaker of the Elves of Navannon, do I send greetings:
         If you wish to make peace with the people of Port Hope, we are more than ready to welcome it.  It seems to me that we have not actually been at war for some time.  If you wish to send a delegate to meet with my emissary in the village of Trade, then the two of them may discuss the matter at greater length, at your leisure.
         Yours in service,
         Lord Arthur Goldenwyr, Port Hope
 
          “Pretty brief, isn’t it?” Lleniares observed.  “Sounds like he feels he has better things to do.”
          Kyatria shrugged again.  “So do I.  But I trust your opinion in this, Lleni.  If you think they’re ready, make peace, start some trade negotiations, whatever you think.  If you don’t think they’re ready, let us know that too.”
          “Funny,” the elf-maid smirked to herself.  “I never saw myself as an ambassador.  When should I leave?”
          “Oh, whenever you like,” the lady replied.  “You should probably go within the next year or so.  Humans have such short lives, they might get impatient by then.”
          Lleniares belted on her sword.  “No time like the present, then,” she beamed.  An excited light twinkled in her eyes.  “I’ve never seen a human village.  This will be interesting.”
          "Take Theras with you," Kyatria suggested helpfully.  "You'll need some sort of entourage, after all, and she'll see things that you won't."

          Lleniares nodded her agreement.  Theras, a fair-haired and blue-eyed high elf, had been at L leniares' side for as long as she could remember.  The two were inseparable, and unlike Lleniares, Theras was skilled in some of the more roguish arts.  Trained by the elves as a scout, she would certainly be a valuable asset in the course of the journey, especially if the humans had any secrets they were concealing.  "Okay," she readily agreed.  And with that, she kissed her Uncle goodbye, and returned to her home to gather her things.

          The Lord of Port Hope maintained a small manor house in the village of Trade, so named for its primary industry.  Established by the citizens of Port Hope some fifty years ago, it was created to provide a sort of "bordertown" on the edge of the forest, as far north as they dared with the threat of elves in the wood.  Here, gnomes, halflings, and dwarves came to do business with the humans of the Hope Valley, but no one had seen an elf in more than a century.  It was a busy, thriving community, but cautious goodwives warned their children to never play in the thicket; for there dwelt the fey elves, and who knew what they might do to lost children?

          Sometimes the glittering eyes of elven archers twinkled through the dark branches; or so the children said.

          It was to this manor house, behind a sturdy wall that guarded it from the fey forest, that Arthur Goldenwyr sent his only son, who bore his name, to meet with the promised elven ambassador.  He sent also his most trusted advisor; a mysterious, dark-eyed mage named Thomas, who had been young Arthur's guardian from childhood.

          Arthur was overwhelmed when his father approached him with the letter from this Lord Kyatria, and asked him to meet with the elven delegate.  It was a terrifying prospect that his father would trust him with a diplomatic meeting of such importance, especially considering the tense situation.  Thomas, when instructing him in the subject of history, had taught him that the ancient war between the two peoples had nearly destroyed the humans of the Hope Valley who were his ancestors.  Now these strange fey warriors had extended the hand of peace.  Suppose he said something stupid and war broke out again?

          But Arthur was too proud to admit to his discomfort before his father, whom he had idolized his whole life.  He swallowed sharply, accepted the writ inscribed in his father's hand, and set himself to the task before him.

          The young knight mounted up upon one of the family's war elephants, along with the wizard Thomas, and set out for the village of Trade.  Many of the townspeople waved enthusiastically at them as they passed by, and Arthur nodded back with a warm smile.  Thomas lurked quietly in behind him, reading from a thick tome, and stroking his black goatee thoughtfully.  The younger Goldenwyr was a handsome young man, with chestnut brown hair pulled back into a practical ponytail, except for the warrior's braids that swung from above his ears with the rhythm of the lumbering elephant.  His eyes, a striking azure blue, seemed to look deep into one's soul, and he had a firm, strong chin and an honest face.  Still, people rarely noticed these things.  Usually, they were too busy staring to notice much.  Arthur was, quite literally, eight feet tall and about 500 pounds of raw muscle.  His hands were as large as most people's faces and his arms thicker than a sprinter's legs.  He rode an elephant because even destriers struggled under his weight when he was fully armed and armored, as he was now, riding out into the perilous trails.  And Arthur, being a sensitive and compassionate young man, was acutely aware of his size and discomfited by it.

          He sighed heavily.  Suppose the elf ambassador was put off by his size, like most people he knew?  It certainly was going to make breaking the ice rather difficult.  He was bound to be intimidated; part of the reason, Arthur suspected matter-of-factly, that his father had sent him.  Well, what do you think, Thomas?" he queried as the silence of the open road, with only the birds and the lowing of distant cattle for company, overwhelmed him.

         The much-older wizard, who was graying slightly at the temples, and with his frail build, seemed a hunched and withered dwarf next to his giant friend, started from the pages of the thick book in his hands.  "Huh?" he mumbled as reality came back into focus.

          "What do you think, Thomas?" the young knight repeated earnestly.  "How is it going to go?  What can we expect?"
          The black-eyed wizard shrugged.  "Hard to say with elves," he replied seriously.  "They tend to be whimsical and temperamental.  And arrogant too, I ought to mention."
          "Did you know any elves in Port William?" Arthur wanted to know.
          "Not well," admitted Thomas.  "I met a few briefly.  They all seemed pretty much as I said -- whimsical, temperamental, and arrogant.  Butter them up as much as possible if you want to make the best impression."
          Arthur shook his head.  "My father made it clear that I should attempt to deal from a position of strength.  I should let them know that should war return to the valley, the people of Hope will be ready."
          The mage stroked his beard ponderously.  "Then do both.  Be complementary but be clear in your conviction of Hope's strength."
          "Sounds complicated," he said with the tinge of a wry smile on the corner of his lips.
          Thomas grinned.  "Welcome to the duplicitous world of politics, my friend."  He reached up and patted the young man on the shoulder, which produced a returning smile.  "A distasteful skill," he added, "but one which, unfortunately, you will be required to learn."
          "Like Letters?" asked the knight with an arched eyebrow.
          Thomas laughed.  "Yes, like Letters," he agreed.  They both recalled with nostalgic amusement how they had fought about Arthur's reading and writing lessons.  Young Arthur, who had been the sort of boy with permanent scabs on his knees and bruises that migrated but never vanished, had no patience for the tedious copying and recopying in stuffy rooms that was wrought of reading lessons.  Thomas had no patience for the boy's lack of patience.  Yet, Arthur had been more than thankful for the reading lessons, including the spankings and the many hours he spent writing lines or standing in the corner, when he went to study at the monastery of Setir, god of justice and mercy, and discovered his religious calling.
          "I'm glad you came, Thomas," Arthur admitted.  "I wish I'd had time to learn more than just the few phrases of the elven tongue that you taught me."
          "It's a complicated language anyway," the scholar confessed.  "I speak it conversationally, but there are many subtleties of expression and it takes a lifetime to master.  Much of it is still lost to me."
          "Perhaps I will ask the ambassador to teach me, then.  That would certainly open up diplomatic relations, wouldn't it?"
          Thomas nodded.  "I imagine it ought to.  At least that way you express a desire to understand their ways.  I just wonder if they honestly wish to understand ours."
          "We'll make them want to understand," Arthur decided optimistically.  " 'The best way to get someone to listen to you is to listen to them.'  Isn't that what you told me?"
          "Good to see that you were paying attention for a change," the mage laughed, and the young knight chuckled with him.  The road stretched before them into the forest, rich with hope and promise.  "Just keep in mind," he warned, "that we could be waiting for a while.  Elves have long lifespans, and they tend not to rush things."
          "How long?" Arthur wanted to know.
          "Could be a month or two," he confessed resignedly.
          Arthur shrugged.  "It's spring.  I'm young.  Is there a training ground at the manor house?"
          "Of course," Thomas told him, almost indignant that he would suggest there might not be one.  "And an oratory too, naturally."
          Arthur smiled and patted Thomas gently on the back.  "Then let them take their time.  I'm in no hurry."
 

          Lleniares and Kethryl, with Theras riding behind her friend, followed the trail of smoke on the horizon, and within a day they were in sight of it.  The village of Trade seemed a frail, squat little cluster of buildings in the center of the open plains, almost a brown scar on the fresh green of the landscape.  A rare sight for Lleniares were the horses - dun and bay and black and blood - and they were absolutely everywhere.  Kethryl strained his halter impatiently.  Nothing set the beaks of griffons watering more than the scent of horseflesh.

         "Easy boy," she murmured.  "You can't eat those ones."  For she could see that the people were riding the beasts, much as she was riding Kethryl or as the stag-riders rode the deer back home.  Circling closer, she could see that the city walls were equipped with ballistae, and their operators were following Kethryl's path with a trained eye.  "Looks like we'll have to walk in," she told Theras and the griffon prudently.  They flew down some distance from the town, on one of the trade roads, and leading Kethryl by the reins so that he wouldn't have the chance to seize a horse in the field before she could stop him, the two young elves started the trek into the city.  A cow, grazing at a fence by the roadside, lowed at them as they passed.  "Moo," Lleniares replied conversationally, and Theras giggled.

          Lleniares was in high spirits as she skipped merrily down the path, her curly hair bouncing, despite the fact that her other dearest friend, Jarenin, who had taken the same training as she did to become Seldarinael, had been opposed to the journey from the start.  She recalled how he had folded his wiry, powerful arms before him, and his piercing green eyes had glowered from beneath his untidy mop of dark amber hair.  "Humans cannot be trusted," he had told L leniares in a tone that left no room for argument.
          Lleniares had sighed deeply.  "We can't fight forever," she'd returned reasonably.
         "Just be cautious, Lleni," he had urged her.  "Watch them all the time.  I know you have to go, but if I were you, I'd have Theras watch your back carefully."
         Soon, a cloud of dust appeared further down the road, and after a time, it became clear that the dust was being raised by two more horses, and the horses had riders that were armed, armored, and bearing the standard of Port Hope on the ends of lances.  Lleniares was expecting them.  She stood patiently in the road and waited for their approach.  Theras took up a guardian position, to the side and back of her friend, in case of trouble, her powder-blue eyes fixed in a steady gaze at the new arrivals.
          The riders came to a halt several feet away from the elven pair, and observed them with a wary gaze, their lances poised and ready.  "Stay with Kethryl," she told Theras, handing her the lead-line.  Lleniares came forward to meet the riders with her hands at her sides.  "Good afternoon," she greeted them conversationally in the common trade tongue.
          The elder of the two riders cleared his throat.  "Good afternoon," he replied, eyeing Kethryl with some trepidation.  "May I inquire as to your business in Trade?"
          She smiled slightly.  With a tangible ring of pride in her voice, she announced, "I am the Lady Lleniares Moonchilde of Navannon, elven ambassador.  These are my companions, Theras and Kethryl."  She indicated them with a sweep of her hand.  "We are here to meet with the ambassador of Lord Goldenwyr, as requested."

          The rider dismounted and swept a bow to the elven maid.  "Forgive me for the rude welcome, Ambassador.  Trade is honored to receive you.  I bid you welcome.  Shall we escort you to the gates?"

          Lleniares realized that they intended to escort her, with or without her permission, by the way that they scrutinized Theras and Kethryl.  She decided that maintaining her dignity was far preferable to taking issue with it; after all, she was coming to make peace, but no treaty had been signed yet.  "I would be honored," she told them with a barely perceivable inclination of her head.  She indicated for Theras and Kethryl to come forward.  As they did so, the horses stamped and snorted nervously.  Their riders patted their necks soothingly.  "It's all right," Lleniares reassured them.  "I won't let him eat the horses."  She gripped Kethryl's mostly ornamental lead firmly, which produced a sulky, pouting expression from the beast.

          "Is that thing tame?" the younger of the two riders queried with a scowl.

          " 'Tame?' " Lleniares echoed, uncertain.  "I am not certain what you mean by 'tame'.  But he will obey me, if that is what you are asking."

          The two riders exchanged a dubious glance, but then the eldest nodded, and he asked Lleniares to please follow him.  She swung her leg back over Kethryl's haunches, and did so.

          Theras followed silently, intent upon her mission of seeing everything that she could see.

          Lleniares observed the humans curiously as she rode behind them.  She had never seen a real human before, only sketches in books.  They were bigger than elves, she noticed; at least, if these ones were any indication.  They were almost a foot taller than most of the elves she knew, and more heavily built.  She found herself wondering why they hadn't just sunk into the earth when they walked.  Their skin was strangely bronzed, like that of sylvan elves, but only on parts of their bodies.  Their ears were oddly rounded, not stretching to a graceful point, like elven ears.  How can they hear anything properly? she mused with a smile.

          Houses at the roadside became more frequent, and as they passed by, men, women, children, old and young, came out of the tiny wooden dwellings to watch them.  Lleniares soon realized that humans came in a variety of shapes and sizes and colors.  There were tall ones, short ones, thin ones and round ones.  They wore clothing that seemed to be as much intended for concealment as for practical usage.  Some were withered and sagging, with hair bleached white and eyes faded yellow.   Lleniares gathered that these ones were the elder humans, and she lowered her eyes as she went by them in respect.  At the same time, she tried not to be disgusted by the deteriorating flesh, a trait that elves did not share.

          They smelled the village proper long before they saw it.  Lleniares wrinkled her nose, revolted by the stench.  It soon became apparent what the cause of the noxious smell was.  Open sewage and animal dung ran in the dirty streets, to mix with an odious overtone of many unwashed bodies.  Horses and people were as thick as the flies, and the preferred color of garb seemed to be a dull gunny-sack brown.  As she led Kethryl, with his magnificent golden plumage, through these filthy streets, all conversation staggered to a halt and hundreds of eyes turned to stare as they proceeded.  Lleniares, who was petrified by the scrutiny, endeavored not to display it, and like her griffon, she strode with her head high and her expression carefully blank.

         The two elves strode over ground where no elf had trod for a hundred years, following the preceding guards of the watch.  They were escorted to the manor house at the center of the village, which perched watchfully atop a green hill.  Horses grazed the fields within a fence.  The gate at the bottom of the road was opened for them.  “You’ll have to leave the griffon outside,” Lleniares was told by the elder of her escorts.  Lleniares again admonished Kethryl not to eat any of the horses, which produced another sulky look from the otherwise impressive beast, and then she and Theras entered the manor.

          Lleniares’ first look inside a human dwelling both pleased and disconcerted her.  The display of artistic finery was worthy of admiration.  The bejeweled chandelier glimmered in the light of its several candles, casting a fine glow over the skillfully woven carpets from some exotic land.  But at the same time, it seemed a dim, pale place in the daylight, closed off as it was from the light of the sun, and the air was thick and unmoving, nothing like open elven structures at all.

         Through thick hardwood doors, engraved with two cocks facing away from one another – just like the symbol that had been impressed into the wax seal on the scroll Lord Goldenwyr sent – they were ushered into a formal dining room, one with a long hardwood table and silver candelabras.  A chair so enormous as to be ostentatious dominated the head of the table.  “Please make yourselves comfortable,” a finely-dressed man, whom Lleniares guessed to be the steward, invited them.  “Sir Goldenwyr will be with you momentarily.   Can I fetch you anything to drink?”

         “Some wine would be lovely, thank you,” Lleniares returned with what she hoped to be a friendly smile.  The steward bowed and left the elven maids.

         “What do you think so far?”  Lleniares inquired of Theras in their native tongue when the steward had gone.

          Theras smiled.  “I think they’re afraid of us,” she informed her friend merrily as she pulled up a seat at the table.

          Lleniares was surprised.  After all, she was terribly afraid of them.  “Really?” she exclaimed with a hopeful half-smile.  Perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult after all.  If the humans were afraid of them, and they were afraid of the humans, that meant that everyone should be more than happy to put tensions behind them and assure there would be no more wars.

          She wandered about the room, studying the many portraits that adorned the walls.  Unfortunately, this was less encouraging.  It was a parade of stern faces glaring solemnly from the picture surfaces.  Were humans really such grim, humorless people?

          The smaller door to the side of the room, through which the steward had exited, now burst open, and a man with a lute, clad in troubadour’s fineries, staggered past it.  His already wide eyes met those of the elf maids and grew wider.  Nervously he took up a seat in the corner and began to play, those eyes never leaving them.  His strumming was as staggered as his steps because his hands trembled.
          “Hello there,” Lleniares greeted him softly.
          The minstrel’s hand jerked up suddenly, wringing a strangled yelp from the poor lute.  “H-Hello,” he stammered, managing a nervous smile.
          “Please do not be afraid,” the elf maid continued in an attempt to reassure the man.  “We will not hurt you.”
          “You won’t?” the minstrel queried uncertainly.
          Lleniares shook her head.  “No,” she firmly replied.
          “You mean, you won’t cast a hex upon me?” he demanded.

          The elven youth was truly taken aback.  “ ‘Cast a hex upon you?’   Why would I do that?”

          The minstrel was surly.  “I thought elves were all witches and mages,” he huffed, his coloring now considerably redder than it had been.

          Lleniares sighed.  Perhaps her optimism had been unfounded.  It seemed there were many hateful rumors about her people to overcome.  “I will not cast a hex upon you,” she insisted in a tone that brooked no argument.  After a few moments, the minstrel took up his song again, this time with much more enthusiasm.  The elf maid looked to her fairer friend and rolled her eyes in disbelief.

          The wine followed shortly after, served in sturdy pewter goblets on a silver tray by the steward.  "Dinner will be served forthwith, your ladyship," he announced, "and Sir Goldenwyr will join you presently.  If you would take your seat . . . ?"  He pulled out the chair at the foot of the table, and replaced it when Lleniares occupied it.  The youth, of course, said nothing, but she thought this all a rather strange practice.  Sir Goldenwyr would no doubt be seated in the virtual throne at the head of the table.  Why, she wondered, would he wish his guests to sit so far away from him?  An elf would keep his guests close, so they could speak easily.

         Only moments later, a caravan of kitchen servants began to bring in the meal.  The dishes were numerous, and to Lleniares' pleasant surprise, they were familiar and smelled quite appetizing.  There were candied carrots, a bowl of mixed, fresh flowers, baked nuts, and light garden greens -- dishes that reminded Lleniares distinctly of home.  Goblets of etched and beaten silver were now brought forth, and the wine that the servants poured into it was finely aged elven nectar.  Only a single meat dish was served; an orange and honey glazed fowl of some sort, probably quail.  She smiled despite herself.  She'd been led to expect capricious amounts of fatty, carnivorous food that would be, as Lord Kyatria put it, "either revoltingly bland or nauseatingly overspiced, and it will either sit in your gullet sourly or it will linger on your palate like game.  And gods preserve you from having to drink their bitter poison wines!"

          There was one exception to this, however.  A great silver platter with a covering was set before Sir Goldenwyr's chair.  It seemed great enough to contain an entire meal, and it reeked of mutton.

         As the elven maids sipped at their wine and began to dish portions of the meal onto their plates, the large oaken doors were drawn open, and a small man in a brightly colored tunic marched smartly into the room.  "Presenting Sir Arthur Goldenwyr the Second and Sir Thomas Redwater!" he announced.  Lleniares, aware that it would be considered polite, rose to her feet to acknowledge her host, and Theras followed her friend's lead.

          Sir Arthur Goldenwyr strode into the room, and L leniares craned her neck back to meet his face, her eyes widening in amazement.  Suddenly, the chair, and the platter before it, no longer seemed so ostentatious.  The man was enormous!  He had to be at least twice as tall as Lleniares, and he certainly was at least twice, perhaps three times, as wide.  The loose-fitting, brightly-colored tunic and tabbard that he wore did not conceal the rippling layers of muscle beneath them, and the legs that were wrapped in his leather breeches seemed as broad as tree branches!  He dwarfed the dark-haired, dark-eyed man at his side, who was perhaps a head taller than Lleniares already.  It was all she could do not to stare, openly agape, at this marvel of a being.  Still, strength was important here, she sensed, and so she did not allow it.  With only slightly widening eyes, she blurted, "I was not aware that humans were quite so large."

          Arthur was in the middle of afternoon practice when the manor's steward informed him that the elven ambassador had arrived.  Resisting the urge to curse, he instead scowled crossly with a glance down at his sweat-stained gambion, which dropped his dampened braids into his face.  "I'll have to change," he informed the steward.  "Where is he?"

          "It being near to dinner, milord," he said quickly, "I thought it best to see them right to the dining hall."

          "Excellent!" he breathed a sigh of relief.  "Serve them wine and keep them entertained.  Tell the kitchen staff to stall dinner until I've prepared myself."  He stripped out of the padded gambion and handed it to the steward, then raced back into the manor house and scrubbed himself down furiously with cold water drawn from the well, with a little bit of soap on the cloth.  Bolting into his chambers and rubbing his face with a towel, he discovered that Thomas, bless his heart, had seen to laying out appropriate garb already, and he dressed as quickly as possible.  Pulling the leather breeches over his still-wet legs was no easy task, for they barely fit as it was.  He shuffled his most expensive tunic, the saffron one, over his head, and fixed his soldier's tabbard, the one that bore the arms of Hope, over top of it with a wide, plain-buckled belt of tanned black dragon hide.  This was to present a formal, but militant front to the ambassador, who was no doubt a soldier or war hero, or perhaps one of their famed elven archers.  Arthur cast a glance down at the green tabbard with its familiar cocks addorsed, and wondered vaguely if he ought to wear his formal red cloak with the elaborate cloak pin, or perhaps a flattering strip of gold trim, but he decided against it. Let them see that I just came from the practice grounds, he mused. Then they will see that if war breaks out again, Hope will be ready!

          Still, he did run a brush through the hair that was not bound into braids, and checked his image quickly in the polished silver mirror while belting on his sword, before he met up with Thomas and proceeded to the dining hall.

          The herald announced them, and Arthur swept into the room, meaning to apologize for his tardiness.  The apology died in his throat, however, and it was all he could do not to stare, agape, at the sight that greeted him.

          The ambassador was, surprisingly, a lady, and a lady of incredible, almost unbelievable beauty.  Arthur had read that elves had fine, narrow features and graceful, slender builds, and he had seen the illustrations drawn by scholars, but nothing could have prepared him for these diminutive, almost otherworldly forms.  One appeared as the books said they would, with flaxen hair and soft, powder blue eyes, and a pale complexion, not wan, but cream.  The other was a complete surprise.  She looked like one of the nubian people, whom he knew dwelt to the south, across the sea.  Her complexion was a rich milk chocolate brown, and her curly black hair was fixed in an upward style with large beads, a style that reminded him of a wild horse's mane, or the crest of a dragon.  Neither one of them could have been even five feet tall, or have weighed more than maybe eighty or ninety pounds.

          Arthur found himself wishing that he had gone with the pin or the trim.  He also found himself wishing that he had thought to find some sandalwood oil, or at least a sachet.

          The brown-skinned elf maid stepped forward a bit, and looked at him boldly with her black, almond-shaped fey eyes.  Arthur found then that at least some of his assumptions about the ambassador must have been correct, for she wore a fine, form-fitting silver mesh that on closer inspection proved to be a sort of chain mail, and belted at her slim waist was an elegant long sword.  She was clad in a cloak woven of some strange, lightweight, green-gray material and fastened by a pair of silver crescent moons linked with two thin chains.  A similar crescent moon adorned the ferronniere she wore across her brow.  Arthur quietly marveled at the pointed ears that curved gracefully above her eyebrows, and the reality of the situation suddenly hit him.  He really was here, conversing with an elf!

          "I was not aware that humans were quite so large," she proclaimed in a lilting, alien accent, which was mitigated with a lovely smile.

          Inwardly the young knight shook himself.  "They usually aren't," he informed her with a returning smile that felt awkward on his face.  "I am . . . " a freak?  a mutant? his mind clamored at him mercilessly - "an exception," he finished.

          "I am very pleased to meet you, Sir Goldenwyr," the fey maid greeted him, extending a delicate hand.  "I am Lady Lleniares Moonchilde, Seldarinael."

         Gingerly he took the offered palm, afraid that he would break the birdlike bones within.  Instead he found a surprisingly solid grip, though she could only take about half of his hand in hers, and she shook his hand firmly, like a man.  Her palm was hard, suggesting a seasoned warrior.  Arthur smiled at his own prejudices, and determined that he would no longer make any assumptions at all.  "An honor and a pleasure, my lady," replied the knight.  "Please, sit.  Tell me, what is a Seldarinael?"

          Lleniares did sit as she was bid.  It struck her suddenly that this man had beautiful eyes, filled with a depth of compassion and patience that was unusual in one so young.  To cover her lapse, she sipped at her wine.  "It literally translates to ‘Great Seldarine,’ " she explained, "although to you it would probably mean something closer to ‘Seldarine Hero.’  We are trained from a young age in all of the arts that are traditional secrets of my people."  Seeing that he wished further elaboration, she continued.  "We are mages and swordsmen.  We are taught the mysteries of living in harmony with nature, like a ranger."  He nodded his understanding of the term, and she went on.  "We also spend time studying with the priests of our gods, learning their ways and their prayers.  We learn these things so that we may use them to defend our people from those who would do them harm."

          Arthur listened to her explanation intently, enchanted by the way her voice trilled lightly over the words.  "Sounds not unlike a paladin," he suggested as he lifted the cover from his dinner.

         "Paladin . . . " Lleniares mused aloud, considering the word.  Then she remembered its meaning.  "Ah, yes!" she exclaimed.  "Paladin -- a holy warrior.  Yes, we are holy warriors."

          Arthur smiled back at her.  "I am a paladin," he informed her pleasantly.

         Lleniares nodded as she sampled some of the flowers.  "Yes, and I understand that so is your father, Lord Goldenwyr himself."

          That wasn't exactly true.  Arthur's father had been a warrior in his younger days, and had joined the priesthood of Setir in his elder years, but he supposed that as far as the elves would be concerned, it was close enough.  "Not exactly a paladin, but a holy warrior, yes," he replied honestly.

         The reverberating baritone of the young knight's voice intrigued Lleniares.  Elven voices did not get quite so deep, even among the eldest males.  But it occurred to her suddenly that she had not introduced Theras yet.  "This is my companion, Theras," she said simply.  Theras, who was a little closer to the head of the table, extended her hand to Arthur, who took it gently.  "This is my friend, Sir Thomas Redwater," he returned, and the thin, dark-bearded man at Arthur's right hand nodded solemnly.  "Pleased to meet you," he said to Lleniares in passable Elven, producing from her a slightly raised eyebrow.  Arthur explained, "Thomas has known some of your people in his native city of Port William, and he has studied your language."  Lleniares nodded, but gave no other reaction, so a short silence fell.

          "Is your meal satisfactory?" inquired Arthur of his fey guest.
          Lleniares could not help but smile broadly.  "Yes, it is quite delicious, actually.  Not unlike my Uncle's cooking," she admitted in a cheerful tone.
         Now it was Arthur's turn to grin.  "I studied what we know of elven culture carefully.  We had a book of elven cuisine.  I read that elves are vegetarians, and I wanted you to feel at home."  He was pleased.  He would have to congratulate Mary, the manor's cook, later in the evening.
         But Lleniares shook her head.  "Not entirely true, I'm afraid.  We are mostly vegetarians.  Heavy foods do not sit well on the elven palate.  But we do hunt and eat game on occasion."  She thought of Solonor Thelandira, god of elven rangers and archers, and god of the hunt, and mused idly that he would have very little to do if that were so!
          Seeing Arthur's disappointment, she added quickly, "Still, this is truly fantastic! If I did not know better, I would swear that you had an elven cook in your kitchen, and a good one at that!"
          "It seems that we have much to learn about one another," the knight sighed.
          "You do not seem ignorant of our ways," she refuted gently.  "I only wish that I had looked at a book on human cuisine.  I know almost nothing of your people."

          This amazed Arthur.  He would have thought that the elves would wish for their primary expert on humans to be appointed their ambassador.  "So why did you come?" he queried the elf maid.

          Lleniares hadn't really considered her reasons; she had just followed her heart.  She pondered it a moment before she spoke.  "The war wounded both our peoples deeply," she said sadly.  "I do not wish to see it repeated. I wish to bridge the gap between us."

          The paladin shook his head, perplexed.  "I don't understand why this is such a problem," he confessed.  "The war was a long time ago. It's over."

          "Not for us," the Seldarine Hero returned passionately.  "I am very young for my people; just barely an adult, really.  But I was ten years old when the war ended. This was only a generation ago for Navannon.  My people still bear the scars."  She tried not to think of her Uncle, crippled in this terrible war, but she did anyway and a glaze of tears welled up in her eyes.

         Arthur saw those shining eyes, and he understood - truly understood - the position of the elves at last.  The Battle of Kethra was a century ago, and for the people of Port Hope, it was the ancient past.  No one was left alive who remembered it.  Grandparents didn't even remember it.  To the elves, it was yesterday.  Children of the soldiers of the war were only now growing up, probably on horror stories of human violence and greed.  Perhaps now he fathomed why one so unschooled in human ways, one with such innocence and natural curiosity, had been sent to meet with him.  Nobody with any real knowledge of humans would want to.  The kind-hearted young knight was sorrowed by this realization.  "I admire your people," he told Lleniares sincerely.  "It's amazing that you have such compassion and forgiveness that you are willing to make peace when the wounds are still so fresh.  I don't believe I could do it."

         Lleniares replied with the words she had spoken to Jarenin, "We cannot fight forever."  But thinking of him, she sighed.  "Not all of my people are as quick to forgive, however.  It will take time.  And it will not be easy."

          "Well," Arthur began, making a bold move, "I have a suggestion."  He sipped at his wine to gauge the elf's reaction.

          Lleniares arched a delicate eyebrow.  "Go on," she urged hopefully.
          The paladin glanced over at Thomas for his expression.  "We have lost contact with our gnomish and dwarven allies to the north," he confided; a revelation of weakness that his father certainly would not have approved of.  "I mean to go and find out why.  If we were to go together, it would give us ample time to discuss the concerns of our people, and solidify our alliance . . . and perhaps a friendship," he added, for he found that he liked this mysterious elven maid, and sensed within her perhaps a kindred spirit.
          Thomas' scowl told him that his friend did not approve.
          But Lleniares beamed in response.  She much preferred the notion of debating these matters under the blue sky, instead of in this strange, stuffy room where she did not quite feel comfortable.  Besides, this would give Navannon the opportunity to establish a friendly relationship with the dwarves and gnomes, where now there was only a distant, cordial peace.  Moreover, the thought of seeking adventure on the open road, away from her comfortable forest, appealed to her; and besides, Lleniares found she liked this man.  "I think it a wonderful idea," she enthusiastically agreed.  A quick look in Theras' direction told her that her friend shared her zeal.

         "Excellent!" the young knight smiled with an unmistakable jubilant gleam in his eye.  "Shall we set out on the morrow, then?"  Thomas cast Arthur an even darker look, and he knew that the mage was considering his scholarly projects and that he would have to leave them halfway completed.  Still, the knight did not reconsider his position.  To his delight, Lleniares was more than amiable.
 
 

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