Free The Elven by Bernhard Hennen, James A. Sullivan

That he should hear the words of the Oracle of Telmareen from the queen herself. For a long moment, he savored the feeling that she conjured up in him. Then, unbidden, a question occurred to him. He hesitated, but finally he gathered the courage to put the question to her. “You said that you heard this counsel. To whom did the oracle speak? Whom did it so counsel?”
    Emerelle smiled. “Follow your queen’s counsel,” she said, and kissed him on the forehead. “The oracle was speaking to me.” With those words, she turned away and went to the door.
    Nuramon, speechless, watched as she left.
    Before closing the door behind her, and without turning back, she said, “I saw Noroelle in the orchard.”
    When Emerelle was gone, Nuramon sank onto the stone bench and pondered. The oracle had once given the same advice to the queen? Had she called on him for the elfhunt because she saw herself reflected in him? Nuramon was suddenly aware of just how much he had deluded himself about the queen. He had always seen her as aloof, as a woman whose splendor one could only admire as one might admire a distant star. But never, never would he have ever considered that he and she might have something in common.
    Emerelle was both a role model and an ideal to the elves and the other Albenkin who stood under her protection. How could he have excepted himself from their number? Not only had she opened up a path for him that she herself had once traveled, but she had also spoken about Gaomee. On the elfhunt, he would look to Gaomee as his guide, but higher still hovered the counsel of the queen.
    He called her words to mind once more and thought of Noroelle. He left the chamber and saw Mandred at the end of the corridor amid a group of elves. The human was thanking them in a loud voice. Nuramon smiled. He would not want to trade places now with Mandred or any of the companions, not for anything this palace had to offer.
    Making his way along the corridor, he noted that there were no women there with Mandred. It didn’t surprise him. Word of the impropriety with which he had stared at the women at court had apparently spread. He was glad that Noroelle had not been exposed to the human’s staring in the Royal Hall. How could anyone be so indiscreet?
    Just then, in a ringing voice, Mandred said, “Come, my friends. Cast some spell to make me fit inside this armor, and I will be happy to take it . . . Stop! Keep those swords and other toys away from me. I am Mandred. Don’t you have a decent axe?”
    Nuramon shook his head. Raw voice, raw temper. But of a kind that one could not so easily forget.
    On his way to the orchard, Nuramon wondered how Noroelle would take the news of his being named to the elfhunt. Would her fear for him outweigh her joy? The queen had mixed praise for Noroelle with her words. And it was true; his beloved had changed him. She had given him self-confidence, and he had thrived on her affection.
    It was not long before he reached the orchard, which was laid out atop a broad spur of rock only accessible from the palace. It was night, and he looked up to the moon. That was the goal of life, to one day enter the moonlight. Through all these years, the moon had been his confidant. His ancestors—those who had previously borne his soul and worn his name—may have felt the same companionship with the moon. The sheen of its light touched him like the hint of a cool breeze, and it lent the warm spring night a little freshness. Nuramon moved beneath the trees.
    He stopped beneath a birch and looked around. It was a long time since he had been in this garden. It was said that every tree here possessed a soul and a spirit, and anyone with an open ear could hear them whispering. Nuramon listened, but heard nothing. Were his senses still too inadequate?
    Now was the time to find Noroelle. This was an orchard, so he would most likely spy her beneath a fruit tree, he thought. He looked for the fruit that the trees here bore