Elvenborn hc-3

by Andre Nolton

  He began to wonder if he would ever reach the top, when finally one of the rooms showed signs of occupation—as did the next after that—and then the platform slowed and came to a stop at the topmost level.

  Lydiell's office, at the top of the tower, had a dizzying and unrestricted view that he, as a military commander, could see was of incalculable value for the chatelaine of the manor—or the commander of its defenses. The office walls were all window, and he wondered as he stepped gingerly off the platform what a storm would be like up here.

  Lydiell greeted him with a smile, which made his apprehension vanish. She even rose; that was an unexpected honor, and he bowed as deeply as he could without looking ridiculous. The Lady did not like groveling; none of her clan did.

  "Sergeant Gel, please, make yourself easy," she said, as she gestured with that grace only the Elvenlords possessed towards an unoccupied chair. "This is not an official summons—rather, it is a personal one. I have a desire to consult you."

  Tenebrinth evidently took this as the signal to depart; he stepped back on the little platform and discreetly dropped back to the next level, leaving them alone.

  Gel took his seat and examined the Lady's face, and swiftly understood why she wanted to see him. "Kyrtian?" he asked, wasting no words.

  She nodded, and took her place behind her desk, clasping her hands on the surface before her. "I had hoped," she said, hesitantly, as if she was voicing thoughts long held in secret, "that I could keep Kyrtian isolated from the politics of the Great Lords and the Council. Unfortunately, it seems that the times conspire against my hopes."

  "It does look like he's going to get tangled up whether he likes it or not," Gel said cautiously, his eyes never leaving her face, unnerving as it was to look her straight in the eyes. "My Lady, I don't mind telling you that I don't like the idea any better than you do."

  "I'm not certain you realize just how tangled he's likely to get," Lydiell replied, a faint frown-line creasing her ageless brow. Gel couldn't for the life of him read those odd emerald eyes the Elvenlords all had, but at least she wasn't trying to hide her facial expressions. "Lord Kyndreth is not going to be content merely to learn a few tricks with magic to help train humans—when he realizes just how extensive Kyrtian's knowledge and practical experience of military matters is, he is going to want my son to exercise his talents in the service of the Old Lords. He will certainly want Kyrtian to command a force against the Young Lords, and possibly keep him on after the Young Lords are crushed, to move against the Wizards and the wild humans."

  Gel swore under his breath, angry at himself for not thinking of that himself. And it was far too late to try to talk Kyrtian out of abandoning the full-scale maneuvers he had planned. The boy was determined to prove to Lord Kyndreth that this was the only way to train fighters, and nothing would do but to show him how easy it was to hold the spells needed on entire armies.

  Lady Lydiell sighed. "Your face tells me that my fears are likely to be realized. Oh, why couldn't he have been an artist or a musician, or obsessed with—with—oh, horticulture or something equally frivolous?"

  "At least he isn't bent on being the dead opposite of his father, my Lady," Gel replied grimly. "You'd not like him as a fop, or a lazy layabout. Or worse, falling in with—"

  He hesitated; after all, he was a human, and Lydiell was El-ven. Blood was blood—

  But Lydiell surprised him with a bitter smile and a light answer. "Falling in with the pampered perverts that most of my kind are. You don't need to spare my feelings, Gel; we cannot afford to be less than honest with each other if we are going to be able to keep Kyrtian out of the pitfalls lying before him."

  Ah, cowflops. Why do I have to feel like it's me that's his father? I'd rest easier at night. He might be only a few actual years older than Kyrtian, but in real terms, he might just as well have been the Elvenlord's father. By the standards of his race, Kyrtian was the equivalent of a stripling, although by human reckoning he was in his late thirties. In knowledge and general responsibility, he was certainly that—but in the unconscious things that characterized an adolescent, he was very much Gel's junior. His boundless energy, his enthusiasm, his tendency to act rather than sitting back and waiting for events to come to him—those were the characteristics of the young, and made Gel feel very old.

  The strength, speed, and endurance of youth were also his, and might be for the next century or two, which made Gel feel even older. He'd noticed of late, much to his chagrin, that he was slowing down, losing some of his edge; in fact, he and that man of Lord Kyndreth's had talked about that. Kaeth wasn't getting any younger either, and if he ever had to actually foil a fellow-assassin, that could be fatal if he didn't take steps to compensate.

  We 'II both just have to be sneakier to make up for what we 're losing, he reminded himself. Youth and enthusiasm are no match for experience and treachery.

  "I hate to admit this, my lady," he said, feeling ashamed that he had not anticipated this situation, "but I've kept him as ignorant as you have of the way things are—" he waved his hand vaguely at the windows "—out there. And I did it for pretty much the same reasons as you, I figure. Why throw something at him that he couldn't change and would only worry about?"

  Ah, all those old lessons came back to him now, of being taken off the estate as Tenebrinth's page, so he could see just how the other Elvenlords really acted and thought. Tenebrinth had collared him, of course, and if he'd done something even slightly stupid—which, even as a child he hadn't been likely to—the Elvenlord could have quickly controlled him. And in a peculiar way, that, too, had been part of the lessons in just how fragile and precious the life humans led here was.

  Lydiell nodded. "And at this point, if we try to tell him that Lord Kyndreth is no more to be trusted than Aelmarkin, he would only make the wrong decisions. He'd try to put Kyndreth off, or—or something. And now that he's aroused Kyndreth's interest, he can't do that without arousing suspicion as well."

  "Damn all politics anyway," Gel said sourly. "Kyndreth is going to use him, make a tool out of him, and give him nothing but fine words and empty praise for his troubles—"

  "Yes—but—" Lydiell began.

  Gel waited, but she didn't complete the thought. He spoke into the heavy silence. "But it might not be bad for him; so long as he's valuable to Kyndreth, he's not going to be wasted. And as long as he's valuable, Kyndreth will see that we're left alone, no matter how peculiar some things around here may look to him."

  Lydiell nodded, and Gel felt a certain relief that she agreed with him. There was selfishness in his motivation, and he knew that; as long as Kyrtian was not only alive and well but under the open protection of someone like Lord Kyndreth, Gel and the other humans on the estate would be perfectly safe. Aelmarkin wouldn't dare try to interfere or continue in his attempts to gain control of the manor and lands.

  As for the humans living elsewhere—humans that Kyrtian would be very concerned about if he knew how bad things could be on other estates—Gel found it difficult to worry about the well-being of people he didn't know. The sufferings of human slaves on other estates were just stories to him, and although he believed them in the abstract, he just couldn't make himself care when people he knew needed his whole concentration and concern.

  He couldn't really believe in anything he hadn't seen with his own eyes, not deep down where it counted.

  Those are all old stories, anyway, and it makes no sense these days that the Elvenlords would wantonly waste or mar their own possessions. With wild humans on the border, dragons in the sky, the Wizards threatening to start the war up again and their own children in armed revolt, they can't afford the sort of goings-on they did in the past. Slavery—-yes, there was no doubt that the Elvenlords were harsh masters, and kept their humans under complete control. It was a terrible thing that humans elsewhere had every action controlled by someone else, that they could make not even the smallest decision about their own lives. But starvation, torture, abuse—wh
y? There's no reason to do any of those things; a starved, abused, or injured slave works less, and is worth less, than a healthy one who is punished only when he deserves it.

  "Lady, I pledge you, I will not let the boy out of my sight or care, no matter what Lord Kyndreth wants of him," he promised, coming back to concerns he could understand and see for himself. "I'm a treacherous old bastard, and if I think he's in trouble, I'll dose the boy's wine, make Kyndreth think he's had a fit, and drag him home myself." He surprised himself with his own sudden fierce protectiveness, and tried feebly to smile. "Once we've got him safe, we can talk him into playing witless. If he's lost his senses, he might not be of value to Kyndreth, but he won't be a threat, either."

  And that was the best promise he could think of to give her, poor as it was.

  Lydiell sent Gel back to his work without feeling much comfort from his words. She was very troubled, and could see no immediate way out of the dilemma that had come at them out of nowhere. I had hoped to keep him isolated from all of this, but events have conspired against us, she thought somberly, staring out the window at the placid fields spread so invitingly below. Thanks to the two latest Wizard Wars, Kyrtian 's obscure skills are no longer without value; he will be drawn into Elvenlord politics whether he likes it or not. But Gel is right; telling him some of the realities of the situation won't help him. He might be better if he remains in ignorance. If he knows what the Elvenlords are really like, his own sense of honor just might drive him to make some very dangerous choices. If, however, Kyndreth feeds him what the Old Lords want him to know, and convinces him to help them—then keeps him ignorant of the truth— he will serve them well and stay out of trouble.

  There was one positive effect of all the warfare and quarreling; there were nowhere near as many of the Old Lords as there once had been, and those that remained were mostly very shrewd. They have little power to spare, and won't waste any tool that comes to their hands when it costs little to keep that tool content. There are very few Dyrans about in the higher councils these days.

  She sighed, tasting the bitterness of her own expedience, the sour knowledge that by keeping him ignorant she was playing the same manipulative games as those she despised.

  Kyrtian would be used, indeed, but wasn't it better to be an unwitting tool than a dead hero?

  I cannot see any other options.

  Keeping him purposefully blinded about the true nature of his fellow Elvenlords might have been a mistake, but she could not see how she could have done anything else.

  Gel did have a good idea, she reminded herself, if it looks as if Kyrtian is in danger. Everyone thinks his father was mad, and no one would be particularly surprised if he went mad under the strains they will probably put him under. Oh, Ancestors, why did I try to keep him sheltered? Why couldn 't I have given him some armor against the thorn-maze he is about to walk into?

  She only prayed that her decision would not cause more harm than she had ever dreamt possible.

  10

  "I hope I don't look as nervous as I feel," Kyrtian muttered to himself, as he re-checked his appearance in the gilt-edged mirror to his right. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd glanced into mirrors today, making certain—of what? He wasn't quite sure; he only knew that he didn't want to look like Lord Kyndreth's son Gildor and his cronies, nor did he want to ape the appearance of Lord Kyndreth himself. He wanted to look mature, sober, perhaps a touch on the scholarly side, but able to hold his own in physical combat as well. Looking prosperous, but not necessarily opulent, was as important; on reflection, perhaps what he wanted was to look as if he could be Lord Kyndreth's intellectual equal, but not as if he already assumed that he was. After going through at least four changes of clothing and nearly driving his poor servants mad, he finally settled on a conservative tunic and tight-fitting trews of soft doeskin dyed a rich blue and slashed to display the silver satin of his shirt. Matching boots suitable for some hard walking completed the outfit, with a heavy silver chain and fillet confining his hair as his only jewelry. Jewels would not impress Lord Kyndreth, who was a powerful mage and knew how easily such things could be produced by illusion.

  The mirror he kept glancing into was just outside the Portal Chamber; at any moment now Lord Kyndreth and his entourage should be coming through. The door to the chamber was open; it was really too small to allow for a graceful exit of so large a group. Servants in the household colors lined the chamber and the hall outside, but Kyrtian was the sole representative of the family; he was the head of the Clan now, and it would betray an unhealthy influence from his mother if she were here to receive the guests as well as he.

  The servants, well-schooled in their roles, kept their eyes cast down as Kyrtian fidgeted with the chain around his neck. At long last, the Portal shimmered with energy, and Kyrtian snapped to attention, presenting a mask of calm, the perfect picture of a welcoming host.

  The first figures through the Portal were, naturally, Lord Kyrtian's bodyguards, one of whom was the fighter called Kaeth that Kyrtian remembered from the combat. They deployed themselves on either side of the Portal with smooth, efficient, and practiced movements, making a barrier of themselves between the Portal and Kyrtian's servants. They must go through such maneuvers constantly; what surprised him was that they looked alert and suspicious, not bored. The servants took no notice; Gel had lectured them on what they could expect and what they should—or more appropriately, should not—do. They kept their places, as if this sort of quasi-military invasion happened every day.

  Lord Kyndreth was next through the door, followed by his son Gildor. Kaeth moved in closer to his lord, standing unobtrusively nearby, close enough to intercept any aggressive action. Kyrtian moved immediately to welcome the Elvenlord, making sure that his own movements were non-aggressive.

  "Welcome, my lord," he said, pitching his voice low, but putting warmth into it. "And thank you for being patient enough to wait until we could welcome you with all the honor and comfort that is your due. I hope that you will be pleased with what we have to show you."

  Lord Kyndreth took Kyrtian's extended hand in his, in a firm clasp that was clearly a test. Kyrtian returned an equal pressure, and Lord Kyndreth smiled, ever so slightly, as he released Kyrtian's hand. "It is I who should be thanking you for your hospitality, Lord Kyrtian," he replied, as they moved forward to permit the rest of the entourage to come through. "Your household is a quiet one, and I understand that you have few visitors; we are creating quite a disruption for you."

  Kyrtian made the expected disclaimers, as he kept one eye on Lord Kyndreth and the other on Lord Gildor and the part of the entourage that was composed of Gildor's friends. "I hesitate to mention this, my lord, but we were not expecting so large a group—perhaps some of the guests would accept accommodation in a pavilion?"

  Lord Kyndreth east an eye back at his son and his son's followers, who were clearly intoxicated and likely to remain that way for some time. "Lord Gildor and his associates are not remaining," he replied smoothly. "They came only to view the pitched battle, and will depart as soon as the demonstration is complete."

  Kyrtian did not let out a sigh of relief, but some of his concern left him. Housing Gildor and his cronies was the last of his potential problems, and the only one he hadn't anticipated.

  Lord Kyndreth and his servants should behave in predictable ways, but Gildor and his drunken friends were neither predictable nor safe for the servants to be around. They were used to getting their way in all things, used to taking what they wanted, and it was entirely possible that what they wanted would invoke automatic, unthinking rebellion in the human servants, who were not used to being treated as objects to be used and discarded at will. But if Gildor and his cronies were already planning to leave right after the demonstration—well, Kyrtian was confident his people could hold things together for that long.

  "The demonstration is ready, my Lord," he said; and gestured, bringing several pre-selected servants forward. "My people will gu
ide your servants to your quarters, so that all will be in readiness for your comfort when the battle is over."

  "Excellent." Kyndreth did nothing, but Kaeth made a gesture, sending two of the bodyguards and several of Kyndreth's slaves laden with baggage to join Kyrtian's servants. Kyrtian's people quickly took over most of the burdens of the luggage and led the others down the corridor towards the guest-quarters. Lord Kyndreth gave an expectant glance at Kyrtian, who took the hint and led the rest of the group through the maze of corridors to the balcony outside the lesser dining-room. This same balcony overlooked the field usually used for celebrations; today it would be the site of a battle.

  For this occasion, the balcony was sheltered from the glare of the sun with an awning made of tapestry, giving it the look of a viewing-stand for a formal tournament. Banks of comfortable seats awaited the visitors, and refreshments had been prepared and set out to greet them, all under the watchful eye of Lady Lydiell. Out of the corner of his eye, Kyrtian saw the smugly superior expressions of Gildor and his friends changed to looks of gratification and pleasure. Obviously they had not thought to find a sophisticated level of hospitality in this provincial household.

  Now Kyrtian presented his mother to the guests; Lydiell had gone to great effort to appear as a typical Elven lady. Gowned and coiffed as her son had seldom seen her before, her expression that of a flawless statue, she resembled her everyday self very little indeed. Kyrtian had not seen her until this moment, and winced inwardly as he thought how long she must have spent in the hands of her servants to achieve her appearance. Her silver hair had been divided into hundreds of tiny braids, which had then been arranged in a series of draped loops and knots held in place with jeweled pins. Her pastel-hued gown, of multiple layers of misty, cobweb-like blue fabric, with sleeves and train that trailed behind her, could not possibly be more impractical for her normal duties. Each and every hem had been edged in lace so fine it was close to transparent, and likely to snag on everything unless great pains were taken to prevent such a disaster. Tiny, sparkling motes of gems winked amid the misty folds of the gown, and more gems strung on gossamer strands of silver wreathed her neck. From her toes to the last hair, Lydiell's costume was so fragile it invited ruin in the mere acts of moving and walking.