They continued along a walkway, nearly twenty feet wide, stretching along enormous branches, until they came to a ring of trunks. In the midst of the trees a large platform had been constructed, almost sixty feet across. Laurie wondered if even a single drop of rain could worm its way through the thick canopy of branches overhead to fall on a royal brow. They had reached the Queen’s court.
Across this platform they walked, to a dais upon which two thrones were erected. In the slightly higher of the two sat an elven woman, serenity enhancing her already near-flawless beauty. Her face with its arched brows and finely chiseled nose was dominated by her pale blue eyes. Her hair was light red-brown, with streaks of gold—like Calin’s—giving it the appearance of being struck by sunlight. Upon her head rested no crown, only a simple circlet of gold that pulled back her hair, but there was no mistaking Aglaranna, the Elf Queen.
Upon the throne to her left sat a man. He was an imposing figure, taller than Martin by two inches. His hair was sandy-blond and his face looked young, while still holding some elusive ageless quality. He smiled at the sight of the approaching party, giving him an even younger look. His face was similar to the elves’, yet with a difference. His eyes lacked color to the point of being grey, and his eyebrows were less arched. His face was less angular, possessing a strong, square jaw. His ears, revealed by the golden circlet that held back his hair, were slightly pointed, less upswept than those of the elves. And he was much more massive in the chest and shoulders than any elf.
Calin bowed before them. “Mother and Queen, Prince and Warleader, we are graced by guests.”
Both rulers of Elvandar rose and walked forward to greet their guests. Martin was greeted with affection by the Queen and Tomas, and the others were shown courtesy and warmth. Tomas said to Arutha, “Highness, you are welcome.”
Arutha replied, “I thank Her Majesty and His Highness.”
Seated around the court were other elves. Arutha recognized the old counselor Tathar, from his visit to Crydee years before. Quick introductions were made. The Queen bade them rise and led everyone to a reception area adjoining the court, where they were all informally seated. Refreshments were brought, food and wine, and Aglaranna said, “We are pleased to see old friends”—she nodded at Martin and Arutha— “and to welcome new”—she indicated the others. “Still, men rarely visit us without cause. What is yours, Prince of Krondor?”
Arutha told them his tale while they dined. From first to last the elves sat silently listening. When Arutha was finished, the Queen said, “Tathar?”
The old counselor nodded. “The Hopeless Quest.”
Arutha asked, “Are you saying you know nothing of Silverthorn?”
“No, replied the Queen. “The Hopeless Quest is a legend among our people. We know the aelebera plant. We know of its properties. That is what the legend of the Hopeless Quest tells us. Tathar, please explain.”
The old elf, the first Jimmy and the others had seen who showed some signs of age—faint lines around his eyes and hair so pale it bordered on white—said, “In the lore of our people, there was a Prince of Elvandar who was betrothed. His beloved had been courted by a moredhel warrior, whom she spurned. In his wrath the moredhel poisoned her with a draught brewed from the aelebera and she fell into a sleep unto death. Thus the Prince of Elvandar began the Hopeless Quest, in search of that which could cure her, the aelebera, the Silverthorn. Its power is such that it can cure as well as kill. But the aelebera grows only in one place, Moraelin, in your language the Black Lake. It is a place of power, sacred to the moredhel, a place where no elf may go. The legend says the Prince of Elvandar walked the edge of Moraelin until he had worn a canyon around it. For he may not enter Moraelin, nor will he leave until he has found that which will save his beloved. It is said he walks there still.”
Arutha said, “But I am not an elf. I will go to Moraelin, if you’ll but show me the way. “
Tomas looked around the assembly. “We shall place your feet upon the path to Moraelin, Arutha,” he said, “but not until you’ve rested and taken counsel. Now we shall show you places where you may refresh yourselves and sleep until the nighttime meal.”
The meeting broke up as the elves moved away, leaving Calin, Tomas, and the Queen with Arutha’s group. Martin said, “What of your son?”
With a broad smile, Tomas motioned for them to follow. He led them through a bough-covered passage to a room, its vault formed by a giant elm, where a baby lay sleeping in a cradle. He was less than six months old from the look of him. He slept deeply, dreaming, little fingers flexing slightly. Martin studied the child and could see what Calin meant by saying his heritage was unique. The child looked more human than elven, his ears being only slightly pointed and possessing lobes, a human trait unknown among elves. His round face looked more like that of any chubby infant, but there was an edge to it, something which said to Martin that this was a child who was more his father’s than his mother’s. Aglaranna reached down and gently touched him while he slept.