by Andre Nolton
But Lord Kyndreth wanted this knowledge badly enough to exert himself to be accommodating and charming, and slowly Kyrtian began to relax, forget about his own careful pose, and simply instruct.
He'd called in all of his fighters to act as subjects for the practice, though initially the magic was only cast on one. Kyrtian was sure enough of his own mastery that he reckoned he could counter any mistakes Lord Kyndreth made before they caused any harm, and it was a very real measure of the trust his men had in him that the fighters took that for granted, standing relaxed and unconcerned while Lord Kyndreth felt his way through the weaving of the complicated magery the first time. It took a fine touch, a delicate touch, to ensure that the fighter en-spelled felt enough of a warning tingle to tell him that he'd been hit, even in the excitement of combat—yet was kept from actually being hurt, which would be counterproductive.
"This is the opposite of the way we train our gladiators now," Kyndreth observed, pausing to wipe his brow with a spotless scrap of white silk, which he then dropped, without thinking about it, on the ground behind him. His own man automatically retrieved the handkerchief and stepped back again. Kyndreth never even noticed. "When they practice, even with blunted weapons, the point is that they will be hurt if they allow a blow to fall, and so their defense-work is supposed to improve."
"Yes, but if that blow falls, even in practice, it can disable a man," Kyrtian pointed out, as the fighter waited patiently for Kyndreth to complete the spellcasting. "What's the good of learning from your mistake if you end up losing so much time in recovering from your injury that you have to go back to the beginning again? Conditioning is as important as training, or so my experience leads me to believe."
"Oh, you are arguing with the converted, young friend," Kyndreth chuckled, casually massaging his hands as if they felt stiff. "I've lost far too many fine and promising specimens permanently to so-called 'training accidents.' It's a costly business— too costly, when now we need fighters for real combat more than we need gladiators." He resumed the task before him, and the fighter began to have a faintly glowing aura.
"In the case of men who are stubborn about acknowledging hits, I do set it high enough to hurt, though," Kyrtian admitted, as he supervised Lord Kyndreth's effort. "There are some fellows who get so worked up during a fight that nothing less than real pain seems to get through to them."
"Those men I would put in the front lines," Kyndreth observed wryly, with a side glance at Kyrtian. "If they are that impervious. I've seen a few of those; they have a kind of madness in battle. It's useful if they're in the front line, but they're as much a danger to friend as to foe anywhere else. I put 'em on the point of a thrust; let them carve their way in, and take ground behind them with fighters that can keep their heads."
Kyrtian nodded, although he hated to think of any of his fighters being in the front lines of real combat. His eyes narrowed as he kept track of Lord Kyndreth's progress. "There—" he cautioned. "That is exactly the level you can usually set it at. That's perfect." As Kyndreth let go of his control of the field around the fighter, Kyrtian flexed his shoulders to ease some of the strain in them. "Now we build the weapon." He smiled. "That's not as difficult; it's just a little different from a truly expert illusion."
Once Kyndreth had the initial magic set, he was able to swiftly make copies upon as many fighters as Kyrtian had present. "This is amazing!" he observed, his eyes widening a little, as his total passed twenty. "The first one is difficult, but there is very little drain once the initial fighter is done! 1 had expected this to be quite expensive in terms of personal energy."
"I believe that is because you aren't exactly replicating the magic—I believe you are simply spreading it to include every subsequent fighter," Kyrtian observed, pleased with how quickly Lord Kyndreth had learned the special techniques. The sooner he has mastered all this, the sooner he can be gone, and we can get this masquerade over with. "I hope that makes sense to you."
"Perfect sense." Kyndreth gave him an odd look. "Do you also make a study of the mechanics and theory of magic? It's an esoteric branch of study, and one I had not associated with someone who is so clearly a—well, a soldier, so to speak, rather than a pure scholar."
"Only a little—I had to do a certain amount of study to replicate this—" he waved his hand vaguely at the assembled fighters. "I won't claim to be a genius, or even to have a particular knack for research, only a great deal of patience and persistence when it comes to something I'm interested in."
Lord Kyndreth's expression blanked for a moment, as if Kyrtian's attitude had taken him aback, but he said nothing.
"Well, let's have the fighters pair off, and see the magic in action, shall we?" Kyrtian continued, wondering what that look meant. Have I been too modest? Have I tipped my hand? Or is it just that he isn't used to hearing someone that doesn't boast about his prowess ?
"An excellent plan." Lord Kyndreth stepped to the sidelines, and Kyrtian signaled to the fighters to begin sparring. Lord Kyndreth's pleasure in the discovery that his replication of the magic functioned exactly the same as Kyrtian's was obvious.
For his own part, Kyrtian was just as pleased. For once, he didn't have to hold both sides in the spell, and that freed up enough of his attention that he could more fully appreciate the skill of his men.
Kyrtian signaled to his men to stop, and turned to his guest, his own feeling of accomplishment matching Lord Kyndreth's. "You are a marvelously quick study, my lord, and no one would doubt your mastery of magic," he said, wim no intent to flatter. "I do not think you need to learn anything else from me. You have the technique now, and all that you need is practice. In time you will probably be faster even than I at setting the magic."
"Practice is something I can get at home; I will not strain your generous hospitality longer than I have to," the Great Lord replied immediately, much to Kyrtian's veiled relief. He wants to leave so soon! Thank the Ancestors!
"Truly, it is a great honor to be your host," he protested anyway, for form's sake.
"And truly, it is a great inconvenience for you," Kyndreth said, with just a touch of mockery in his voice. "I am not blind, Kyrtian. For all that you and your Lady Mother live graciously, your means are limited, and I am a burden on them. This is a small and very private manor, and my folk are an intrusion and an inconvenience to your routine, no matter how you cloak that in good manners. I shall beg your forbearance for just this one night more, for there is something I would like to discuss with you, but tomorrow my folk and I will leave you and yours in peace. Meanwhile—I feel in strong need of a bath and a rest!"
Before Kyrtian had a chance to react to the first part of that statement, Lord Kyndreth had clapped him on the back like an old friend, then turned to dismiss the magic he had cast over the fighters. He strode off in the direction of the manor, presumably to return to the guest quarters, leaving Kyrtian in charge of his own people.
"You did well, men; Gel, take over the practice," was all he dared say, not knowing whether he was under some covert observation. He recast the magic, and Sergeant Gel assumed command, barking out orders to pair off and start sparring. He watched, an observer rather than a participant, as the fighters went through their usual paces, changing weapons, changing sparring-partners, until they were all drenched with sweat and exhausted. It was very difficult to remain aloof; his hands twitched to hold a sword, and several times he had to force himself to remain quiet when someone required correction. It would not do for him to correct the men himself; he must be patient and wait for Gel to spot the problem and deal with it. Kyn-dreth might have a man watching; he could have a magical "eye" observing them. It would not do for Kyrtian to be seen wading in as if he was of no higher estate than his own drill-master. Only when the men were completely exhausted did he dismiss them and permit them to return to their own quarters under the supervision of Sergeant Gel. And only then could he return to his mother's office and find out what Lord Kyndreth's three underlings had been doing wh
ile he and Kyndreth were occupied with the fighters.
Lady Lydiell was waiting for him as he rose through the floor of her office; she must have seen him approaching from the practice-field. "Tenebrinth took them riding," she said immediately, knowing with that acuity that sometimes resembled a human's magic what he wanted before he even voiced the question. "They just wanted exercise; I think they were bored. Tenebrinth took them on a tour of the hunting-reserve, which is far enough away from any of our little villages to keep anything untoward from happening, and I think they may actually have done a little hunting themselves. Look—you can see them from here—"
She pointed, and he went to the western side of the office, peering into the distance until he caught sight of four brilliantly colored atomies making their way alongside a tree line that had been reduced by distance to a mere blur of green.
"What about Kyndreth's human slaves?" he asked, without taking his eyes off the distant riders.
"They remained within the guest-quarters, except for the bodyguards, who were keeping you and Kyndreth under surveillance," Lydiell told him calmly. "And some of our people were in turn watching them. It made me wonder how many layers of watchers-watching-watchers we could have had before people began running into each other!"
Kyrtian turned away from the window, and caught his mother's ironic smile. "It would be an interesting experiment. That human Kaeth is a very sharp fellow; I have no doubt that he knew his people were being overlooked. I shouldn't like to have to pit Gel against him; I think that Gel might be outmatched in certain areas."
"Then let us hope we never need to." Lydiell looked at him sharply. "What is it that you have not told me? Something Kyn-dreth said?"
"Something he has yet to say," Kyrtian sighed, chagrined that she was able to read him so easily. I should know better than to think I can hide anything from her. "He learned the magic quite quickly; actually more quickly than I had anticipated. Whatever else his accomplishments may be, there is no doubt that he deserves his position as a mage and a Great Lord."
"Do not attempt to distract me; I am too old to play that game with," Lydiell responded, a touch sharply. "What was this about 'something he has yet to say' ?"
"He implied that he wishes to discuss something with me, possibly at or after dinner. 1 have no idea what it is." Kyrtian tried to shrug it all off as of no importance, but his mother immediately looked concerned, then tried to conceal it.
"Did he say anything else?" she asked, a little too casually.
"One thing more—that he and his people will be leaving in the morning, which is not too soon for me." Feeling overly confined by the relatively formal garments he'd been buttoned into this morning, Kyrtian ruined the efforts of his body-servants by restlessly unbuttoning the collar of his tunic and running his hands distractedly through his hair.
"At least that is good news." Lady Lydiell sank into her seat behind her desk. "I knew this charade of ours would be a strain, but I hadn't expected it to be as much of a strain as it has been."
Kyrtian nodded in agreement, and took a quick glance back at the window. The tiny figures were no longer so tiny and were growing larger by the moment—the riders must have decided that they had exercised enough for one day. Either that, or Kyn-dreth sent a magical summons to them. "If I am going to continue the game, I had best get down to my quarters to dress for dinner, Lady-Mother. Since this is to be Lord Kyndreth's last night—shouldn't we do something—well—elaborate?"
"Indeed we should, and I will follow your example as soon as I've seen the cooks." She rose from her chair and moved around her desk to kiss him fondly on the cheek. "We must show him every possible honor. We need to drive it home to Lord Kyn-dreth that we are reclusive, but neither mad, nor barbaric."
Kyrtian was tempted to break his long-standing habit and use illusion to augment his costume, for the clothing his servants laid out for him was not the sort of thing he would have chosen for himself. It was impressive, yes, but the plush velvet tunic of a sober midnight-blue was so heavily ornamented with gold bullion and tiny beads made from sapphires and emeralds that it weighed as much as armor, and the high collar was probably going to drive him to distraction before the evening was over and he could take it off.
Nevertheless, he allowed his men to assist him into the stiff costume, and made his appearance in the grand dining room well ahead of their guest. Somehow Lady Lydiell had worked miracles among the cooks, for there was every evidence of a meal worthy of the room in the offing. The table, decked in snowy damask, was adorned with a dozen different glasses at each place, and the sideboard was laden with small dishes and a myriad of specialized knives, forks and spoons, each (by the rules of etiquette) suited only to very particular sorts of courses. Also by the rules of etiquette, there was only a single plate and no utensils at each place. The particular silverware needed for each course would be laid with the course, and whisked away again to prevent any faux pas in dining on the part of a guest. When Lord Kyndreth and his three underlings appeared, conducted by a household servant, even they seemed surprised and impressed by the preparations.
Lydiell arrived last, in a gown of deceptive simplicity, one that Kyrtian had never seen her wear before. It was only when she drew near that it was obvious that only the "cut" of the gown was simple; with close-fitting sleeves and a modest neckline, it was composed entirely of miniature interwoven links and plaques of silver, each no larger than a gnat, each plaque studded with diamonds no larger than the head of a pin. She seemed to be gowned in shimmering fish-scales, or that fabulous substance, dragon skin.
And I thought my costume was uncomfortably heavy! he thought in awe. He'd had no idea she even possessed such a thing; it couldn't be illusion, but where had it come from?
I wonder if it could turn a blade ? he thought, as he waited for Lydiell to be seated. There was no telling how old such a garment might be—it might even date back to Evelon itself. If so ... perhaps the ladies of those long-gone days had made a virtue of the necessity of wearing protective armor even to a festive meal.
They took their places, and the ceremonial meal began, course after course, until Kyrtian lost count of them. Each course was no more than a taste, a bite or two of some delicacy; then the plates and cutlery were whisked away to be replaced by a new setting, another dish. Cold dishes and hot, savory, salty, sweet, sour—fragrant noodles, lightly cooked and seasoned vegetables sculpted like flowers, flowers made into tiny salads of petals, tiny portions of barely seared meat garnished with rare herbs and sauces, soups hot and chilled—each course was accompanied with a different drink. This was not always wine; it could be a spiced juice, a tea, or delicately flavored spring water, whatever best complemented the course.
It could not be called a meal, it was an event unto itself, a thing which swiftly acquired its own momentum. If Kyrtian was amazed, Lord Kyndreth was not—although it seemed he was very, very pleased. Hours passed, the sunset faded outside the windows and was replaced by the night and stars; Kyndreth and his people exerted themselves to be charming, and Lady Lydiell was equally charming and witty. Kyrtian was awed; he'd never seen his mother quite like this before, and he had to stretch his own wits to keep pace with the others.
Finally, the last course was placed before them—and the fact that it was the final course was signaled by the disappearance of every human servant the moment each plate was placed before the diners. Each plate held a single delicate, gilded fruit-ice the size of Lydiell's graceful hand. Each scoop of ice had been molded into the Lion of Lord Kyndreth's House, with the details picked out in sugar-crystals and pearlescent icing.
Lord Kyndreth stood up, and raised his cup to Lady Lydiell.
"My dear hostess," he said, in a voice full of warmth and admiration. "I cannot imagine how you conjured up a Court feast on less than no notice, but allow me to declare that you are surely the equal of any Great Mage in the land, and I bow to your prowess. I drink to you, Lady Lydiell!"
The rest answered hi
s toast, and Lydiell gracefully acknowledged the compliment with a nod of her head.
Kyndreth sat down again. "I can see by all of this that my judgment of your House was not mistaken. If you do not move in the circles of the Council, it is not because you do not merit such attention, but because you chose not to seek it."
He looked from Lydiell to Kyrtian, and back again. It was Lydiell he evidently expected to answer, and it was Lydiell who made the reply.
"My Lord Kyndreth, our family has long preferred to keep our own company, and live quietly and even reclusively," Lydiell murmured. "It is not out of unseemly pride, I beg to urge, but out of modesty and a genuine preference for a quiet and reclusive life. All of us—my late husband, his father before him, and my son as well as myself—are more of the temperament of a scholar than of a courtier, and the life of a seeming hermit suits us well. Perhaps our needs and pleasures may seem simple to you, but we find that they satisfy every wish and desire we have, for our wishes and desires are for the inner world of thought, rather than the outer world, which others might find stimulating, but we find contentious and disturbing."
Kyndreth sighed, a bit melodramatically, perhaps. "And I wish that you could continue to enjoy that quiet life, my Lady, but the times, I fear, will not permit your modesty to deny the genuine talents that lie hidden in this little haven of yours."
Now he turned to Kyrtian. "Lord Kyrtian, I do not have to tell you what your reputation is among the ignorant; you have heard it already from the mouth of your kinsman, Aelmarkin. I was prepared to discount that reputation when I accepted your invitation, but now I find that your kinsman was not only incorrect, he was—" Kyndreth shook his head. "Words fail me. Ael-markin is either poisonously prejudiced against you, or completely blind. I have seen and heard enough in two days to convince me that, despite your own disclaimers, you, Lord Kyrtian, are nothing short of a military genius. This is no mere eccentric hobby that you have, it is a genuine vocation."
