Elvenborn hc-3

by Andre Nolton

  Kyrtian opened his mouth to protest, but Kyndreth silenced him with a wave of his hand.

  "You have, with no help other than that of some ancient manuscripts, uncovered a training method that creates expert fighters in a fraction of the time we have taken heretofore and as you yourself pointed out, with none of the criminal wastage that our method entails. I have seen your strategic ability in action, I have seen your careful attention to every aspect of military life. Lord Kyrtian, you cannot remain a hermit any longer; you are desperately needed. The High Council needs you."

  "I—cannot imagine why you would think that," Kyrtian stammered, taken completely by surprise. "You already hold the key to the training-magic, and you are a greater mage than I—"

  "We need your military knowledge," Kyndreth insisted. "Between the wars with the Wizards and the revolt of our own ungrateful offspring, there are precious few with the wisdom and knowledge to command, and none with your talent. We need you, Lord Kyrtian. We need you to lead our armies."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kyrtian saw his mother tense, and realized that although he had not anticipated this demand, she had.

  "You already have leaders," he protested. "Leaders of higher rank than 1.1 would not dare—"

  "With my backing, no one would dare dispute you" Kyndreth countered, grimly. "With my backing, I can easily persuade every Councilor that matters that you are the only possible Commanding General for our forces."

  Kyrtian was dumbfounded; he had hoped that Kyndreth's gratitude would bring them a respite from Aelmarkin's enmity, but he had not expected Kyndreth to propose he take his place among the Greatest of the Great Lords!

  "Lord Kyndreth, please do not think me ungrateful—rather, I am stunned," he managed. "And surely you realize that I have no practical experience!"

  Lord Kyndreth raised his eyebrow. "All the practical experience of our current Commander has availed him nothing," he pointed out. "The situation with our young rebels has been in stalemate for the last month and more." He paused. "And that is to go no further than this table; only the members of the Council are aware of it."

  "Stalemate—" Kyrtian bit his lip. "How much territory are they holding?"

  "Roughly half of the estates are in the hands of the rebels," Kyndreth replied. "We are fortunate that none of them are vital to the economy—they were mostly estates producing little except slaves and luxuries. Nevertheless, that is a great deal of territory to be in unfriendly hands—and there are isolated estates within that territory that are still in the hands of our people, loyal folk who need and deserve succor." Now he looked shrewdly at Lydiell. "Unless I am very much mistaken, one of those is the estate of Lady Morthena, your kinswoman."

  "Lady Moth?" Lydiell paled. Kyrtian bit his lip. Granted, Lady Moth had conspicuously not taken sides, and if the rebels had troubled her, Lydiell certainly would have heard about it by now. Still, she might be presumed to be in danger.

  "Lady Morthena is encircled and certainly trapped," Kyndreth continued, his eyes nicking from Lydiell to Kyrtian. "As yet, she has held control over her slaves, so that she has prevented any incursions onto her lands. As yet, the rebels have not attempted any serious effort at capturing her. But how long will it be until they see her as a valuable bargaining tool? She is a Great Lady; the honor of the High Lords and the Council would be compromised if she were to be captured and held against her will. We would either be forced to abandon her— which is unthinkable—or make concessions to the rebels— which is also unthinkable."

  It is all unthinkable. Kyrtian gritted his teeth. Kyndreth either knew or guessed that he would be extremely loyal to those members of his family—unlike Aelmarkin—who deserved loyalty. He had known that Lady Moth was close to the territory held by the rebels, for she herself had told them. The Young Lords could not block teleson messages, and did not even try; so far Lady Moth had seemed entirely unconcerned about her position in the midst of the Young Lords, even professing to a certain detached sympathy for their cause. But Lord Kyndreth was right; if the Young Lords cared to, they could take Lady Moth captive to use her as a bargaining-chip. A quick glance at LydielFs face told him all he needed to know; this was no idle speculation, but a real possibility.

  "You must give me time to consider all you have said, Lord Kyndreth," he managed, finally. "I am—stunned. I need time to shake my thoughts loose."

  "I can sympathize," Kyndreth said gravely, but there was a smile of satisfaction in his eyes. He already knew that Kyrtian would agree, just as Kyrtian already knew he must agree. It was only a matter of time, and time was not his friend.

  12

  Lord Kyndreth retired to his guest-suite and the competent hands of his body-slaves with a feeling of total content-ment. Not only had he just savored the pleasure of enjoying an exquisitely prepared, presented, and served High Court feast, but he was perfectly well aware that he was about to acquire a most useful adherent. He had seen young Kyrtian's reaction to the double temptations of power and the opportunity to play the hero. He had also noted Lady Lydiell's. The boy might be naive, but his mother was no fool, and she knew that the Great Lord and High Councilor Lord Kyndreth would not have made those offers if it was possible to refuse them. She also knows that without my patronage that cousin of theirs will continue to be a thorn in their sides, at the very least, and might well find a patron powerful enough that he can take everything from them, he thought with satisfaction. She read that implicit threat clearly enough.

  He'd mentioned Aelmarkin for just that reason. In this particular game of hounds-and-alicorns, Lord Kyndreth had herded the hounds into exactly the positions he wanted them.

  His slaves undressed him and he slipped into the silk lounging-robe one of them held out for him. As always, his bodyguard Kaeth was in unobtrusive attendance, and when the last slave left the room, Kaeth remained, a faithful shadow, to be ignored—or not. Kaeth was equally receptive to either condition.

  Kaeth's training must have been impeccable; Lord Kyndreth only wished that he could have gotten Kaeth's trainers along with the bodyguard. When the slave grew too old to serve, it would be difficult to replace him, and it would by necessity be with an inferior specimen.

  Kyndreth turned his back on his bodyguard and took a seat beside an illusory fire burning in the very real marble fireplace—one of the few illusions in this suite. The flames danced with rainbow colors, and as the fire "burned," it gave off a pleasant scent of cedar and aloes-wood, but no heat.

  "Well, Kaeth," Kyndreth said to the fire, "the boy will take the bait, I've no doubt. He doesn't dare refuse it."

  "True, my Lord." As always, Kaeth was as economical with words as with everything else. "He'll accept by morning, I expect."

  "He's as good as I think." That was a statement; Kyndreth didn't expect Kaeth to disagree. "The boy is going to break the deadlock for us. The only reason Aelmarkin managed to convince everyone that he was half-mad was because he stayed mewed up here. Anyone who had bothered to talk with him for more than half an hour would have known he was sane—and brilliant. If he'd been out in society, Aelmarkin wouldn't have had a chance of making a laughing-stock out of him."

  "He is better than you think, my Lord."

  Astonished, Lord Kyndreth swiveled his head to look at his normally laconic bodyguard. "Indeed?" he managed. By the Ancestors, I can't remember the last time Kaeth volunteered a comment, much less an opinion! This youngster must be something truly out of the ordinary!

  "I have examined his library, his strategy-room, and some of his own writings, my lord. I also watched his men when he commanded them. It is one thing to command men; it is another to lead them. Lord Kyrtian is a leader. Men may not always obey a commander—or at least, they may only obey the letter of his commands, but not exert themselves beyond that—but they will always follow a leader." Kaeth's unreadable expression did not change by so much as a hair, but Lord Kyndreth fancied he'd heard the faintest hint of approval in the bodyguard's voice.

 
Interesting. Very interesting.

  He turned back to the fire. It wouldn't do to give Kaeth too much direct attention. The slave was intelligent, highly intelligent, and Kyndreth needed to be very careful how he handled the man. Too much attention might give him a sense of self-importance that could affect his usefulness. "All the more reason to put him in charge of the army. Half the time Lord Levelis has to drive the troops into action with pain and punishment. If the troops had some other motivation, that alone might ensure our victory."

  "Lord Levelis," came the surprising reply, "will be mortally offended by being replaced by a—Lesser Lord."

  Again, Kaeth had volunteered an observation. Lord Kyrtian must have impressed the man so much that Kaeth's careful self-control was cracking a trifle. Kyndreth laughed mirthlessly. "By an eccentric nobody, you mean, but of course cannot say. If his dear cousin is to be believed, a half-mad nobody. Lord Levelis will have to survive being offended; he has done nothing to endear himself to me, he has bungled every attempt at putting down the rebels, and he is not one of my adherents. I can afford to offend him; let his patron find a way to console him."

  There was no reply; the human really couldn't reply to the statements without being insolent, and Lord Kyndreth would not tolerate insolence, even from a slave as trusted as his bodyguard.

  "The boy's position will be safe enough when it is clear that I am his patron," Kyndreth continued for Kaeth's benefit. "I could have him installed tomorrow, if I chose. Levelis has bungled too many times, and he will not dare move against me or anyone I choose to replace him with."

  "Perhaps not against you—but out on the battlefield, Lord Kyrtian will no longer be under your direct supervision or protection. Lord Levelis may move against him there; my Lord, the battlefield is a chance-ridden place, and accidents do happen to even the most careful."

  Well, well! I do believe that is another opinion!

  Kyndreth could not resist the temptation to see what else he could draw out of Kaeth—further observations, even suggestions? This was more than the bodyguard had shown of himself in years!

  "Perhaps I should send you to watch out for his welfare," he half-jested.

  "I will do whatever you direct, my Lord," came the expressionless reply, and Kyndreth sighed with disappointment. Kaeth had revealed all that he was going to—and probably would not venture so much as a bland comment for the next year.

  Kyndreth had no intention of assigning Kaeth—who was far too valuable where he was—to the task of seeing to Kyrtian's well-being. The boy will either be able to protect himself, or not. And if he cannot, then he does not deserve my patronage. There was that bodyguard of his own, after all—a man who had come very close to defeating Kaeth in combat. Having that particular slave in his train showed a certain amount of self-preserving sense.

  Levelis wouldn't be able to eliminate him until after he'd broken the stalemate, anyway, and by then the real work would be done, and Levelis could have his old position back if he really wanted it. By that point, Kyndreth would have what he wanted; credit for breaking the backs of the rebels, and when the rebels were defeated, Kyrtian would be—

  —expendable. Still useful, perhaps, but expendable.

  Gel had stood silent watch throughout the long meal, listening to the conversation with a face as impassive as that of the bodyguard Kaeth—and when the servants vanished he did the same.

  But he didn't go far. Like every public room in this manor, there was a spy-hole where a trusted confederate could listen to the Elvenlords when they thought they were speaking among themselves.

  He didn't trust Lord Kyndreth. No matter how that particular Elvenlord acted, he would never do anything that wasn't in his own interest; solely and completely in his own interest. He might lull others into believing that he acted out of—say— friendship, or even the altruistic wish to do someone who might deserve help a favor, but there would always be a hidden reason for such actions, and either a later cost, or a current benefit.

  It was moderately interesting to hear Kyndreth speaking so openly in front of, and to, his bodyguard Kaeth. It wasn't unheard of or out-of-character, though; after all, what was the use of having a fully-trained and intelligent bodyguard if you didn't make use of all of his skills?

  The spy-hole was a clever little construction, built where the chimney would have actually been had the fireplace been real and functional. There was enough room to sit comfortably with one ear to the wall, forehead resting against a padded projection, in the utter darkness—not a single peep-hole, not even a thin little crack to betray the possible presence of a spy here.

  So, the current commander is going to be an enemy. That was no surprise, though it was a good thing to have the man's name. Tenebrinth could put some time into investigating the fellow. It might well be possible to compensate him in some way for the loss of his important post.

  It might be possible to placate him with no more than a simple visit. Kyrtian plays the humble soul very well.

  The murmur of voices in the other room continued, and he strained to hear every nuance, wishing he also had some way to read Lord Kyndreth's thoughts.

  The current commander isn't Kyndreth's? That's good to know; Kyndreth probably knows next to nothing about him, and if Kaeth does, he's only said that the fellow is going to be insulted. Well, insults can be negated with a purging dose of humility. If Kyrtian paid an immediate call on Levelis, after accepting the appointment but before it became generally known, and groveled ...

  Must ask Tenebrinth. That can be a two-edged sword.

  Assuming that the current commander could not be placated or bought off, there was a possibility that Levelis would revert to the ancient ways of Evelon. The Elvenlord was not likely to act openly—after the display at the challenge-duel hosted by Aelmarkin, no one was going to issue a challenge that they knew they were going to lose. A challenge to a duel-by-magic was possible, and there were several potential ways of dealing with it. Kyndreth and the Council could forbid it. Kyrtian could accept and the duel could go on, and he could either win or lose—and in either case, Gel would have to be certain that the stakes weren't too high to lose. What is the limit on stakes in these things? Must ask Tenebrinth. If it's pretty much a token, it might pay Kyrtian to lose anyway.

  But if the Council forbade a duel altogether on the grounds that the challenge was specious and made purely out of pique, Levelis could decide to take matters into his own hands. That left the possibility—if Levelis had or could purchase a properly-trained slave—of assassination. He wished very strongly that he had Kaeth at his disposal about now—an assassin would be the best possible expert at spotting another.

  But he didn't. And I spotted Kaeth, so I suppose I could spot another. Provided he was operating in the open, and not making an attempt at sniping from a distance. Damn. He made another note; make sure that Kyrtian's tent and person were always out of bow shot of any cover. Fine, provided that the current battlefield site wasn't in the middle of a forest.

  But he knew that there was no use in trying to persuade Kyrtian not to go; he didn't even consider the option. It was too dangerous to try and decline the invitation, at least in the short-term. So long as Kyndreth was Kyrtian's sponsor, Aelmarkin would keep his distance.

  Damn them all for a nest of twisty snakes, anyway! Why couldn't anyone among these pointy-eared bastards ever do anything in a straightforward manner?

  But the subject had changed, and Gel shoved his ear even tighter against the wall, hoping for more insights.

  Kara and Gianna were fussing with their clothing again, hoping for a second visit from the Great Lord and a second present of jewels, no doubt. What good jewels were, with only their master to see them, Rennati had no idea. Rennati sighed, but quietly; Kara had gone through three changes of costume already, and still she wasn't satisfied with the impression she was going to make.

  She looked back at the window; a doe and fawn appeared at the very edge of the lawn, but quickly darted back o
ut of view before she got more than a glimpse of them.

  I would like a fawn, more than jewels. Or a kitten of my own, like the one that slipped in when we first came here. Any kind of pet. Kara and Gianna wouldn't want to share the harem with an animal, though.

  Kara tried another gown, and rejected it immediately—not that there was anything wrong with it, but because she had worn it two days ago.

  Well, maybe Lady Lydiell shouldn 't have given us such extensive wardrobes when she bought us and installed us here, Rennati thought. Half of all this costume-changing is only because Kara's got an excuse to try on everything in her closet.

  Kara and Gianna twittered at each other; what did Rennati need with a bird when she had them? "The black," she said, in the first available moment of silence. "Wear the black. It's at the right end of the closet."

  Two heads swiveled on two swan-like necks to peer in her direction, both sets of eyes, blue and brown, equally uncertain. "Black?" Kara said doubtfully. "But—" she shuddered. "He'll think—"

  "Black's not for mourning, not with them," Rennati said, anticipating Kara's objection. "I know it's not a color you usually wear, but Lady Lydiell has perfect taste, and she wouldn't have put the black in your wardrobe if she didn't think you'd look good in it."

  The fair and deceptively fragile Kara pursed her lips in thought. "I could try it, I suppose—"

  The thought was mother to the act; in a mere moment, the gown of seventeen overdresses made of sheerest silk was in a heap on the floor, and Kara slid the heavy satin black over her head while Gianna picked up the discarded gown, shook it out, and put it back in the wardrobe. Gianna, fortunately, had a mania for neatness. Kara smoothed the bias-cut gown over her flat stomach, settled the pointed neckline, and twitched the long sleeves so that the points of the cuffs came down precisely over the backs of her hands, then turned to gaze at her reflection.