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his reverie. "Sir, the Prince is ready to see you now."
    Speren turned to the young woman, who was dressed in the official clothing of the Winter Court: pale tones of gray, blue, and cream. By comparison, Silverblade's own garb seemed archaic: a long, hooded cloak of wool to keep off the late winter chill, dyed a deep indigo, the color of the night sky. His tunic was a simple one of soft gray cloth, his trousers a blue several shades lighter than the cloak and tucked into polished black leather boots. A wide leather belt worked with complex knot designs fastened his tunic and held a silver-chastened sword in a scabbard at his left. With his shoulder-length hair, its golden color turned into molten fire by the last rays of the sunset, and his bewitching green eyes, Speren Silverblade looked like an elven hero out of a trideo drama or fantasy tale. It was something he was proud of, something he used to his own advantage from time to time.
    With a nod of acknowledgment to the young woman, Speren followed her through the corridors of the palace, glancing at the artworks displayed along the walls, in glass cases, and on pedestals placed strategically along their route. He'd seen them many times before, but they never failed to impress him.
    He often wondered why so many human works were shown in the palace. Perhaps it was because elves had only lived in the Sixth World for fifty years, ever since the birth of the first elven children around the time of the Awakening. Although they'd achieved more in that short time than any other race—building a nation of their own and resurrecting much of their ancient culture—elves still had a great deal left to accomplish. Perhaps the work of human hands reminded the Princes how much there was yet to be done. Or perhaps it reminded them that humans should not be underestimated. Speren couldn't say, and speculating on the motives of the Princes of Tir Tairngire wasn't generally a healthy pastime.
    The Prince's aide led Speren not to the Prince's office or apartments, but to the Palace exercise room. The space was large, with a high ceiling and polished hardwood floors overlaid with padded exercise mats. It was actually a ballroom, one of several, turned over to the Princes and their families for use in exercising. Various pieces of equipment were placed around the room, but a good half of it had been cleared for the open mats, surrounded by mirrored walls sporting a ballet bar, since the exercise room was used quite often for dance training. At the moment, a dance of a different kind was going on.
    Two elves, a man and a woman, faced off against each other on the exercise mats. The man was tall, with raven-dark hair worn long in the same popular style Speren affected, but pulled back into a pony tail secured with a green ribbon. He moved with the ease and grace of a dancer, circling his opponent. She was small and slight by comparison, her flaming red hair drawn back with a golden clip. Both of them wore loose-fitting pants and shirts of pale green silk and soft slippers that whispered on the surface of the mats as they circled in a strange sort of dance.
    Suddenly, the man exploded into motion, pivoting on one leg and lashing out at the woman. She reacted instantly, turning gracefully to the side to allow the strike to pass her by, then reaching out and seizing the proffered arm. With a twist of her torso, she sent the man flying past her to slam unceremoniously onto his back on the mat. She turned and placed one small foot on his chest, her arms held in a defensive pose.
    "Hah!" the man laughed from where he lay. "Defeated again! You're learning well, my Prince."
    The woman smiled and took a step back, offering one hand to help the man to his feet.
    Speren took the opportunity to step forward. "Yes, quite well, I'd say." he remarked.
    The woman glanced over at him as if noticing him for the first time, and a smile lit up her face. "High praise indeed coming from so skilled a warrior." she