Margaret Weis - The Second Generation

Kagonesti! Now Gil understood. This was one of the famed Wilder elves, fabled in legend and song. He had never seen one before.

The Kagonesti bowed, indicating silently that nothing would give him greater pleasure. Gil nodded awkwardly, all the while wondering what he should do.

“I see you hesitate. Are you not feeling well? I have heard it said that your health is precarious. Perhaps you should return home,” Rashas said solicitously. “The rigors of the flight might not be good for you.”

That remark, of course, decided the matter.

His face burning, Gil said that he would be pleased to accompany Senator Rashas and the griffin.

Gil gave over the care of his horse to the Kagonesti servant without another thought. Only when he was securely mounted on the griffin did it occur to the young man to wonder how the senator had known Gil had decided to travel to Qualinesti. And how had Rashas known where to meet him?

It was on the tip of Gil’s tongue to ask, but he was in awe of the elder elf, in awe of Rashas’s elegant and dignified air. Laurana had trained her son well, taught him to be diplomatic. Such a question would be impolite, would imply that Gil didn’t trust the elf. Undoubtedly there was a logical explanation.

Gil settled back to enjoy the ride.

As long as he lived, Gil would never forget his first glimpse of the fabled elven city of Qualinost. A first glimpse, yet a familiar sight to the young elf.

Rashas turned to witness the young man’s reaction. He saw the tears sliding down Gil’s cheeks. The senator nodded approval. He even prevented Gil from wiping the tears away.

“The beauty fills the heart to bursting. The emotion must find an outlet. Let it fall from your eyes. Your tears do you no shame, my prince, but rather great credit. It is only natural that you should weep at the first sight of your true homeland.”

Gil did not miss the senator’s emphasis on the word true, and could only agree with him. Yes, this is where I belong! I know it now. I’ve known it all my life. For this is not my first sight of Qualinost. I’ve seen it often in my dreams.

Four slender spires made of white stone, marbled with shining silver, rose above the tops of the aspen trees, which grew thick within the city. A taller tower, made of gold that gleamed in the sunlight, stood in the city’s center, surrounded by other buildings formed of glittering rose quartz. Quiet streets wound like ribbons of silk among the aspen groves and gardens of wildflowers. A sense of peace settled over Gilthas’s soul—peace and belonging. Truly, he had come home.

The griffin landed in the center courtyard of a house made of rose quartz, decorated with green jade. The house itself seemed delicate, fragile, yet it had, so Rashas boasted proudly, withstood the tremors and fiery winds of the Cataclysm. Gil gazed at the spires, the latticework, the fluted columns and slender arches, and mentally compared this with his parent’s manor house. That house, which Laurana had named “Journey’s End,” was rectangular, with sharp angles, gabled windows, and a high-pitched roof.

Compared to the graceful, beautiful elven homes, Gil recalled his house as bulky and solid and ugly. It seemed... human.

Rashas thanked the griffin politely for its services, gave it several fine gifts, and bid it farewell. Then he led Gilthas into the house. It was more lovely inside than out, if that were possible. Elves love fresh air; their houses are more window than wall, as the saying goes. Sunlight, streaming through the latticework, danced among the shadows to form patterns on the floor, patterns that seemed alive, for they were constantly shifting with the movement of the sun and clouds. Flowers grew inside the house, and living trees sprang up from the floor. Birds soared in and out freely, filling the house with music. Lullabies whispered by gently splashing water from indoor fountains formed a soft counterpoint to the birdsong.

Several Kagonesti elves—tall and heavily muscled, with strange markings on their skin—greeted Rashas with bows and every appearance of deference.

“These are my Wilder elves,” Rashas said to Gil in explanation. “Once they were slaves. Now—in accordance with modern decrees—I am required to pay them for their services.”

Gil wasn’t certain, but he thought uneasily that Rashas sounded rather put out. The elder elf glanced at him and smiled, and Gil concluded the senator had been jesting. No one in this day and age could possibly approve of slavery.

“Only myself and my servants live here now,” Rashas continued. “I am a widower. My wife died during the war. My son was killed fighting with the armies of Whitestone, armies led by your mother, Gilthas.” Rashas gave the young man a strange look. “My daughter is married and has a house and family of her own. Most of the time, I am alone.

“But today I have company, an honored guest staying with me. I hope you, too, my prince, will consider my house your own. I trust you will grace my dwelling with your presence?” The senator appeared eager, anxious for Gilthas to say yes.

“I am the one who would be honored, Senator,” Gil said, flushing with pleasure. “You do me too much kindness.”

“I will show you your room in a moment. The servants are making it up now. The lady who is my guest is most anxious to meet you. It would be impolite of us to keep her waiting. She has heard a great deal about you. She is, I believe, a close friend of your mother’s.”

Gil was mystified. Following her marriage, his mother had retained few friends among the elves. Perhaps this person had been one of his mother’s childhood companions.

Rashas led the way up three flights of gracefully winding stairs. A door at the top opened onto a spacious hallway. Three doors opened off the hall, one at the far end and two on each side. Two of the Kagonesti servants stood outside the far door. They bowed to Rashas. At a signal from him, one of the Wilder elves knocked respectfully on the door.

“Enter,” said a woman’s voice, low and musical, quiet and imper ious.

Gil stood back to permit Rashas to enter, but the senator bowed, gestured.

“My prince.”

Embarrassed, yet pleased, Gilthas walked into the room. Rashas followed behind him. The servants shut the door.

The woman had her back to them; she was standing by a window. The room was octagon-shaped, a small arboretum.

Trees grew in the center, their branches carefully coaxed and trained to form a living ceiling of green. Tall, narrow windows were set into the walls.

These windows were not opened, Gil noticed, but were all closed and draped in silk. He supposed the room’s occupant did not like fresh air.

Two doors—one on each side of the room—led to private chambers off this main one. The furniture, a sofa, table, and several chairs, was comfortable and elegant.

“My lady,” said Rashas respectfully, “you have a visitor.”

The woman remained standing with her back to them a moment longer.

Her shoulders seemed to stiffen, as if bracing herself. Then she turned slowly around.

Gil let out a soft breath. He had never in his life seen or imagined such beauty existed, could be embodied in a living being. The woman’s hair was the black of the sky at midnight, her eyes the deep purple of amethyst.

She was graceful, lovely, ethereal, ephemeral, and there was a sorrow about her that was like the sorrow of the gods.

If Rashas had introduced the woman as Mishakal, gentle goddess of healing, Gil would not have been the least surprised. He felt strongly compelled to fall on his knees in worship and reverence.

But this woman was not a goddess.

“My prince, may I present Alhana Starbreeze—” Rashas began.