Accustomed to the way human cities were constructed, Aedan was unprepared for the sight that greeted him as they came upon Tuarhievel.
When humans built cities, they chose sites for favorable terrain features and then cleared vast areas of land in preparation for the construction of the roads and buildings and market plazas. The defensive walls and fortifications required clear approaches so that potential attackers would be exposed as they advanced. Nature, in other words, made way for human cities.
Elves, on the other hand, followed an entirely different philosophy of building.
Tuarhievel simply rose up out of the forest. The clear-cutting was minimal, and wherever possible, the trees had been left standing so that the forest and the city were all one, a melding of natural features and construction. From a distance, it would have been impossible to spot the city, and Aedan thought it likely that unless a traveler knew the way exactly, he could easily pass within a hundred yards of Tuarhievel and never even see it.
Wooden thatch-roofed homes were constructed among the trees, shielded from the elements beneath their canopy. The streets of the city-little more than dirt paths, really-wound in serpentine fashion among the trees and natural clearings had been utilized as small, shaded plazas where the people drew water from wells and market stalls were erected.
In many cases, homes had actually been built around the trees so that the trees themselves became part of the construction, with the upper stories of the homes situated in the thick lower branches.
From overhead, the forest masked to some degree the density of the construction, which increased as they approached the center of the city.
Many of the structures had open platforms built in the branches above them, often on several levels, with wooden catwalks running from tree to tree, connecting them.
Tuarhievel had streets upon the ground and in the air, as well. But one structure towered above all others, its graceful, intricately carved and fluted wooden spires rising high above the treetops. They were approaching the forest palace known as Tuaranreigh, where Prince Fhileraene ruled from the legendary Throne of Thorn.
As they circled the palace, Aedan marveled at the sculpted spires, carved from hand-rubbed and -oiled wood, a figured ebony with swirling, golden-yellow highlights running through it. The spires were of unequal height and clustered close together as they rose from the central structure of the palace, which was built of wood and mortared stone that must have been quarried generations earlier in the mountains to the north, beyond the Giantdowns. The steep-pitched, gabled roof below the spires was tiled in rosy slate. Stone gutters for the run-off of melted snow or rainwater led to spouts carved in the shapes of screaming gargoyles.
Tuaranreigh was not a proper castle, at least not by human standards, since it had no outer walls or battlements. However, Prince Fhileraene had little reason to fear a siege. The Aelvinnwode itself was a far more effective outer defense than any walls or moats or barbicans could be. An attacking army would have to penetrate through miles of dense forest and thick underbrush, which made the march of massed formations virtually impossible. And long before such an army could even reach Tuarhievel, it would be destroyed piecemeal by elven archers and warriors who could attack from cover and then quickly disappear into the trackless forest.
Aedan remembered from his lessons that back in the days of the Great War between the humans and
the elves, no human warlord had ever been foolish enough to pursue the elves once they had retreated to the forests. No invaders would ever reach the palace of Tuaranreigh, except as captives.
The wind on which they sailed circled round and round the spires of the palace, gathering speed and forming a swirling vortex that descended slowly to the ground. Aedan once more felt that strange, unsettling sensation, as if he were floating away, and the lightheadedness returned as he became aware of his physical senses. He felt himself spinning rapidly inside the swirling wind funnel, his hair whipping around his face. He gasped, struggling for breath within the vortex, then felt the ground beneath his feet as the wind slackened to a breeze and dissipated, leaving them standing on the pathway to the palace.
Aedan brushed his hair out of his face and looked around, but everything still seemed to be spinning.
He had difficulty remaining on his feet. He felt dizzy, and when he tried to take a step, he almost fell. He saw that Michael was no better off. The prince staggered and went down to one knee, swearing softly.
Aedan closed his eyes and waited for the world to stop spinning. His body felt extremely heavy and clumsy. Small wonder, he thought. A moment earlier, he had been lighter than air.
“The effects will pass within a few moments,” Gylvain said. “You may find it helps to close your eyes, stand still, and breathe deeply until the dizziness subsides.”
Aedan opened his eyes after a few moments and tried to focus them. As the dizziness ebbed, he looked around. They were on a pathway that wound
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through a long and narrow clearing flanked by rows of ancient poplars, a sort of natural, tree-lined road leading up to the palace. The sound of water running over rocks drew his attention to a stream that ran down the center of this natural corridor. On either side of the stream were winding pathways leading to a gracefully arched stone bridge that gave entrance to the palace gates.
Unlike the castles of the empire, which had dirt roads wide enough for several horsemen riding abreast, the pathways leading to the gates of Tuaranreigh were clearly meant for foot traffic only, for they wound through lush rock gardens planted with lacy green ferns, flowering shrubs,
