Benches made of split sections of tree trunks were placed at irregular intervals along the pathways, on both banks of the stream.
At first glance, it seemed to Aedan that the stream flowed around the palace, making a sort of natural moat. Then he realized it was actually coming out through an archway in the wall beneath the bridge, apparently flowing out of the palace itself!
Through the trees, Aedan could make out some of the buildings he had spotted earlier from above.
They resembled peasant cottages with their thatched roofs and wooden shutters, but they were larger, and had the open platforms constructed in the trees above them, with interconnecting catwalks suspended at different levels high above the ground.
Everywhere he looked, Aedan saw the perfect union of nature and architecture. The city was part of the forest, and the forest an integral part of the city.
As they walked toward the stone bridge leading to the gates of Tuaranreigh, a number of elves stopped
to stare at them. Aedan knew human traders sometimes visited Tuarhievel, but judging by the looks they got, humans were still not a common sight. He noticed that everyone they passed bowed his head respectfully.
“They seem to know me,” said Michael.
Aedan frowned, momentarily puzzled by his remark, and then sudden comprehension dawned.
“They bow to Gylvain, not to you,” he said.
“Oh,” said Michael. “I see.” He sounded a bit annoyed, or perhaps disappointed.
“Remember, you are not a prince here, save by rules of courtesy alone,”
Aedan told him softly.
“Fhileraene rules in Tuarhievel, not Emperor Hadrian.”
Michael frowned. He was accustomed to being treated as befitted the royal scion, and the fact that he would enjoy no such status here was a bit difficult for him to grasp. However, the goblins had already done much to advance his education, and Michael was learning not to take such things for granted. He nodded to show he understood.
Aedan felt relieved, though he was still apprehensive about their situation. It would certainly not do to have Michael putting on airs in front of Fhileraene. From all that he had heard about the elven prince, Aedan did not think he would be amused.
They followed Gylvain up the path as it curved away slightly from the riverbank, around a mosscovered rock formation, and then back toward the stone bridge. Elven warriors armed with swords and spears stood guard upon the bridge and by the two massive, arched and studded wooden doors.
They did not challenge Gylvain as he approached, but made no effort to hide their curiosity about his two young human companions.
As they passed through the doors and entered the great hall of Tuaranreigh, both Aedan and Michael stopped dead in their tracks, staring wide-eyed at the tableau spreading out before them. They had crossed an entry hall and suddenly stood at the entrance to a forest clearing. But that did not seem possible. They were indoors … or were they?
For a moment, Aedan felt totally disoriented.
They should have entered into the great hall of the palace, but this was a hall unlike any he had ever seen. It was open to the sky, with flagstones forming pathways between well-tended plots of giant ferns and colorful bromeliads, mosscovered rocks with trickling fountains, small trees and flowering shrubs.
There was an arched opening in the wall through which the stream flowed, with a small wooden bridge spanning the spring from which it bubbled.
It was, in fact, an atrium that served as a great hall.
The palace had been constructed around a forest clearing with a pool fed by an underground spring.
Archways in the walls led to the east and west wings of the palace, as well as to the keep at the far end. But the main feature of the atrium was just in front of the vaulted entrance to the keep, surrounded by a stand of oaks.
Aedan had heard stories about the legendary Thorn Throne of Tuarhievel, but he had never known if they were truth or fancy. Now, he saw it for himself. It was a rose tree, the largest he had ever seen. Its multiple trunks curved sharply outward, forming a natural throne before they branched off into a spreading canopy of blue-green leaves and spectacular blooms of ivory white and bloodred. And seated on that throne, flanked by his ministers and surrounded by his court, was prince Fhileraene, ruler of the last elven kingdom in the Aelvinnwode.
As they were announced, Gylvain escorted them toward the throne, his hands resting tightly on their shoulders. Their arrival caused a considerable stir among the elves present at the court. All eyes were upon them as Gylvain stepped forward, went down to one knee, and bowed deeply to his prince. Aedan followed suit, but Michael remained standing, perfectly calm and composed as-he gazed curiously at the elven prince.
Fhileraene appeared to be in his midthirties, but then physical appearances were very deceptive with immortals: Fhileraene had ruled Tuarhievel since before Michael’s grandfather was born. He was tall and slender, with harsh, angular features and straight black hair that hung down well below his shoulders.
His mouth was wide and thin-lipped, with a touch of cruelty about it.
His eyes were dark brown and hooded, giving him a brooding aspect, and his nose was prominent and hooked. It was said he was the very image of his renegade great grandfather, the awnshegh, Rhuobhe Manslayer.
Aedan wondered if any of the elves present at the court were Rhuobhe’s warriors. It was a decidedly unpleasant possibility. Killing the Prince of Anuire would be a mark of tremendous status among those elves who had sworn eternal emnity to humans. Of course, not all the elves were like that, but here, there would be no way of telling which was which …
until it was too late.
“Rise, Gylvain,” Fhileraene said. “And you, as well, Lord Aedan.” He glanced at
