The Speaker gestured toward another elf, standing off to the right under one of the carved marble balconies. The elf lord had dark blond hair and square, regular features and might, Flint thought, be considered handsome save for the set of his eyes; they were close together and deep beneath his brow. His face probably glowered even when he was happy, the dwarf conjectured. The elf lord stood with three other equally proud elves, two men and a woman.
"My elder son, Porthios," Solostaran said proudly. The elf lord inclined his head slightly. Oh ho! Flint thought, that's a prideful one; and probably not too happy having anyone other than a full elf-one with bloodlines pure all the way back to the Kinslayer Wars-in his precious Tower, either.
The Speaker, once again, seemed to be waiting for something. Flint decided that honesty was the best idea.
"I'm afraid I know little enough of noble houses, and of elves even less, though I hope that last will be changing soon," he said, allowing his shoulders to relax somewhat.
"Why did you accept my summons?" Solostaran asked. His green eyes were so deep that Flint felt momentarily as though no one else were in the rotunda with him. Briefly, the dwarf spied the authority that must have been every Speaker's since Kith-Kanan. I would not want to cross him, he thought.
"I've had time to ponder that, on these last few weeks' journey," Flint said. "I must say my chief reason is curiosity." Lord Xenoth curled a puckered lip and turned aside again, silver robe swishing against the rostrum. "Curiosity killed the kender," the elderly adviser said in a stage whisper to the boy and girl the Speaker had called Gilthanas and Lauralanthalasa. Gilthanas snickered. The girl looked askance at the old elf, glanced pointedly away, and sidestepped toward the half-elf, Tanis. Tanis stood unmoving, seemingly unaware of the nearness of the exquisite young girl.
Solostaran gave Xenoth a look that caused the old elf to blanch, drawing a tight smile from the half-elf. When the Speaker turned back to Flint, however, his eyes were kind. "Curiosity," he prompted.
"Like most, I had not seen Qualinesti," Flint explained. "It's common knowledge that the forests of Qualinesti are nearly impossible for common folk to penetrate. To have escorts offered to me-by the Speaker of the Sun, no less-is a rare honor indeed." Not a bad speech, the dwarf thought, and the Speaker's slow nod gave him the nerve to push on. "The craftsmanship of the Qualinesti elves is known throughout Ansalon. Your crafts are prized in Haven, Thorbardin, Solace, and other cities of the region. Truth, I hoped to pick up a few pointers for my own metal work."
And besides, the dwarf added to himself, the Speaker's envoys had bought so many rounds of ale for Flint's friends at the Inn of the Last Home that the dwarf's head had swum. He had awakened the next morning, his traveling gear packed and slung across the back of a mule. And he had been slung, head and feet drooping, right along with the baggage.
"Do you mean what you've said, Master Fireforge?" the Speaker asked him evenly, and Flint blinked.
"I-I'm not sure what you mean," he managed to stutter.
"You said you knew little of elves, and that you wished to change that. Is that truly so?"
Flint looked around himself, at the airy Tower, at the golden-haired elves, and at the regal figure of the Speaker, resplendent in his robes of green stitched with gold. The odor of spring blossoms was growing a bit thick, but even that carried a note of the unique. Strange as it all was, especially for a hill dwarf more accustomed to battlefields and taverns than gilded towers, Flint found he could only nod "yes."
"I must confess that, of late, our knowledge of dwarvenkind has become poor as well," the Speaker said. "Our people were friends once. Together they built the great fortress of Pax Tharkas-and this city. I do not propose such a dramatic undertaking for ourselves, Master Fireforge. I would be content if, together, you and I could simply build a friendship."
Some of the elven courtiers murmured their approval. Several, including Lord Xenoth and the conclave surrounding Porthios, remained silent. Flint found he could only grin sheepishly as he stuck his hands in his pockets. "Reorx!" he swore suddenly, and then his eyes went wide. "Er, begging your pardon, uh… Speaker."
Solostaran no longer made any attempt to temper his smile. "I imagine you are wondering why I summoned you, my dwarven friend," he said. He raised a gold-ringed hand, and a silver and moss-agate bracelet slid from his wrist to his forearm; Flint gasped, recognizing his own metalwork. Then a servant stepped forward with a silver tray decorated with the likeness of a silver dragon. Atop the tray were two goblets made of silver hammered thin and polished to a brilliance. Three aspen leaves "grew" out of the stem of the goblet, cradling the bowl that held the wine.
"That's…" Flint blurted, and stopped. The servant waited until the Speaker and the dwarf each had selected a glass from the tray, then Solostaran lifted one goblet.
"I drink to the artisan who fashioned this bracelet and these goblets, and I hope he will do us the honor of staying at court here awhile to fashion some items especially for us." He took one sip, watching Flint from almond-shaped green eyes.
"But that's…" Flint started again.
"You," the Speaker finished. "I have commissions for you if you accept our hospitality. But we can speak more of that tomorrow. For now, please drink."
Mind reeling with the idea that the lord of all the elves of Qualinesti, a people noted for their own craftsmanship in silver and gold, would laud the efforts of a dwarf, Flint bolted the entire contents of the goblet he'd fashioned a year earlier. On the bottom of the drinking container, he knew, was his mark, the word "Solace," and the year. He wondered at…
He lost the thought as the taste of the elven wine slammed into his brain; his eyes misted and his throat went into paroxysms. "Reorx's hammer!" Flint squawked.
He'd heard of elvenblossom wine. It was known for its stultifying bouquet of fruit blossoms and the battle-axe power of its alcohol content. Only those of elven blood could stomach the sweet stuff, he'd heard, and it was the alcoholic equivalent of being kicked in the head by a centaur. The odor of apple and peach blossoms seemed to permeate his body, inside and out; Flint felt as though he'd been embalmed alive in perfume. Two or three Speakers wavered in front of him; the cadre of three elves around Porthios turned into a convention of fifteen or sixteen. Lauralanthalasa's giggle rose above the chorus of Abanasinian nightingales that soared suddenly in his brain. Flint gasped and tried to sit on the Speaker's rostrum-protocol be damned-but the rostrum seemed to have grown wheels; he; couldn't quite catch up with it.
Suddenly another elf was at his side. Flint found himself looking through tears into eyes so pale that they were nearly: clear. The new face was framed by equally colorless hair and the hood of a dark crimson robe. "Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth," the figure said hoarsely.
"Ark," Flint croaked. "Uff!"
"In through your nose…" the elf repeated, and demonstrated. The dwarf, deciding he would die anyway, attempted what the elf commanded. "Wufff!" he wheezed.
"… Out through your mouth."
"Hoooofff!" the dwarf responded. The elf scattered some herbs and uttered words that were either an old elven tongue or magic-or both. Flint immediately felt better. He lay sprawled on the rostrum steps, the empty goblet in his hand. The hall had been emptied of all but the Speaker, Lauralanthalasa, the young half-elf, and the magic-user who'd saved the dwarf.
"With all respect, Speaker, I would posit that our guest will not desire a refill," the elf rasped, helping Flint to his feet. "Elvenblossom wine is an acquired taste." The dwarf swayed, and the half-elf leaped forward to support him. Flint nodded his thanks.