“Are you ready, Arcuballis?” whispered the rider to his mount. He wound the leather reins tightly around his strong, slender hand. “Now!” he cried, drawing the reins sharply down.
The griffon put its head down and folded its wings. Down they plummeted, like a thunderbolt dropped from a clear sky. The young elf bent close to the griffon’s neck, burying his fingers in the dense, copper-hued feathers. The massive muscles under his fingers were taut, waiting. Arcuballis was well trained and loyal to its master; it would not open its wings again until told to do so. If its master so desired, the griffon would plunge straight into the fertile soil of Silvanesti.
They were below the clouds, and the land leaped into clear view. The rich green canopy of trees was more obvious now. The griffon rider could see the pines and the mighty oaks reaching up, connecting soil to sky. It was a view of the land few were ever granted.
He had dropped many thousands of feet, and only a few hundred remained. The wind tore at his eyes, bringing tears. He blinked them away. Arcuballis flexed its folded wings nervously, and a low growl sounded in its throat. They were very low. The rider could see individual branches in the trees, see birds fleeing from the griffon’s rapidly growing shadow.
“Now!” The rider hauled back sharply on the reins. The broad wings opened slowly. The beast’s hindquarters dropped as its head rose. The rider felt himself slide backward, bumping against the rear lip of the tall saddle. The griffon soared up in a high arc, wings flailing. He let the reins out, and the beast leveled off . He whistled a command, and the griffon held its wings out motionless. They started down again in a steep glide.
The lower air was rough, full of eddies and currents, and the griffon bobbed and pitched. The rider threw back his head and laughed.
They skimmed over the trees. Abruptly the woods gave way to orderly rows of trees, orchards of cherry, plum, and fima nuts. Elves working in the orchards saw only a large object hurtle over their heads, and they panicked. Many tumbled down ladders, spilling baskets of fruit. The rider put a brass horn to his lips, sounding a shrill note. The griffon added its own eerie call, a deep, trilling growl that was also part lion, part eagle.
The rider urged the beast up. The wings beat lazily, gaining a few dozen feet of height. They banked right, swooping over the slow-flowing waters of the Thon-Thalas. There were many watercraft plying the river-flat log rafts poled by sturdy, sunbrowned elves, piled high with pots and cloth to be traded in the wild south; the slender dugouts of the fishers, the bottoms of which were silvered with the morning’s catch. The griffon swept over them in a flurry of wings. The rafters and fishers looked up idly from their work. As travelers up and down the great waterway, they were not easily impressed, not even by the sight of a royal griffon in flight.
On they flew, across the river to Fallan Island. The rider wove his flying steed among the many white towers so skillfully that the griffon never once scraped a wingtip. Their shadow chased them down the streets.
The rider approached the center point of the city, and the center point of every elf’s life and loyalty, the Tower of the Stars. At six hundred feet, it was the tallest spire in Silvanost and the seat of power of the Speaker of the Stars.
He steered the griffon in a quick circle around the white marble tower. The horn was at his lips again, and he blew a rude, flat warning. It was a lark, a bit of aerial fun, but halfway around the tower the rider spied a lone figure on the high balcony, looking out over the city. He reined back and sideslipped Arcuballis toward the tower. The white-haired, white-robed figure was no one less than Sithel, Speaker of the Stars.
Startled, the rider clumsily turned the griffon away. His eyes met those of the elven monarch for a moment, then Sithel turned and re-entered the tower. The griffon rider shook his head and made for home. He was in trouble.
North of the tower, across the ornate Gardens of Astarin, stood the Palace of Quinari. Here the descendants of Silvanos, the House Royal, lived. The palace stood clear of the trees and consisted of three, three-story wings radiating from a rose-colored marble tower. The tower soared three hundred feet from base to pinnacle. The three wings of the palace were faced with beautiful colonnades of green-streaked marble.
The columns spiraled gracefully upward from their bases, each in imitation of a unicorn’s horn.
The rider’s heart raced as the palace came into view. He’d been away four days, hunting, flying, and now he had an appointment to keep. He knew there would be trouble with the speaker for his insolent behavior at the Tower of the Stars, but for now thoughts of his upcoming rendezvous made him smile.
He brought the griffon in with firm tugs on the reins. He steered toward the eastern wing of the palace. Lion’s claws behind and eagle’s talons in front touched down on the cool slate roof. With a tired shudder, Arcuballis drew in its wings.
Servants in sleeveless tunics and short kilts ran out to take the beast’s bridle. Another elf set a wooden step ladder against the animal’s side. The rider ignored it, threw a leg over the griffon’s neck, and nimbly dropped to the rooftop. More servants rushed forward, one with a bowl of clean water, the other with a neatly folded linen towel.
“Highness,” said the bowl bearer, “would you care to refresh yourself?”
“A moment.” The rider pried off his helmet and shook his sweat-damp hair. “How goes everything here?” he asked, dipping his hands and arms in the clean water, once, twice, three times. The water quickly turned dingy with dirt.
“It goes well, my prince,” the bowl bearer replied. He snapped his head at his companion, and the second servant proffered the towel.
“Any word from my brother, Prince Sithas?”
“In fact, yes, Highness. Your brother was recalled yesterday by your father. He returned from the Temple of Matheri this morning.”
Puzzlement knit the rider’s pale brows. “Recalled? But why?”
“I do not know, my prince. Even now, the speaker is closeted with Prince Sithas in the Tower of the Stars.”
The rider tossed the towel back to the servant who’d brought it. “Send word to my mother that I have returned. Tell her I shall see her presently.
And should my father and brother return from the tower before sunset, tell them the same.”
The servants bowed. “It shall be done, my prince.”
The elf prince went briskly to the stair that led from the rooftop into the palace. The servants hastened after him, sloshing dirty water from the bowl as they went.
“Prince Kith-Kanan! Will you not take some food?” called the bowl bearer.
“No. See to it Arcuballis is fed, watered, and brushed down.”
“Of course…”
“And stop following me!”
The servants halted as if arrow-shot. Prince Kith-Kanan rattled down the stone steps into the palace. As it was early summer, all the window shutters were open, flooding the interior corridors with light. He strode along, scarcely acknowledging the bows and greetings of the servants and courtiers he met. The length of the shadows on the floor told him he was late. She would be angry, being kept waiting.
Kith-Kanan breezed out the main entrance of the palace. Guards in burnished armor snapped to attention as he passed. His mood lightened with every step he took toward the Gardens of Astarin. So what if his father dressed him down later? It wouldn’t be the first time, by any means. Any amount of lecturing was worth his hurried flight home to be on time for his rendezvous with Hermathya.
The gardens bulked around the base of the great tower. Not long after Silvanos, founder of the elven nation, had completed the Tower of the Stars, priests of the god Astarin asked for permission to create a garden around the structure. Silvanos gladly granted their request. The clerics laid out a garden in the plan of a four-pointed star, each point aligned with one of the cardinal directions. They wove spells granted to them by Astarin, the Bard King, spells that formed the trees and flowers in wonderful ways. Thornless red and white roses grew in delicate spirals around the trunks of evergreen oaks. Wisteria dripped purple blossoms into still, clear pools of water. Lilacs and camellias drenched the air with their perfume. Broad leaves of ivy spread over the garden paths, shading them and protecting strollers from all but the harshest rains. And most remarkably, laurels and cedars grew in circular groves, their tops coming together to form perfect shelters, where elves could meditate. Silvanos himself had favored a grove of laurels on the west side of the garden. When the august founder of the elven nation had died, the leaves on the laurels there changed from green to gold, and they remained that way ever after.