Dalamar the Dark

by Nancy Varian Berberick

  His lips still on the soft flesh of Leida's neck, Dalamar smiled. She felt it and came into his arms, lifting her face for his kiss.

  His kiss was not like fire, as she had often imagined. It was like sudden lightning. The blood in her leaped, and her pulse drummed. "Come to my room," she said, her words felt against his lips rather than heard. She took his hands and stepped away, holding them, pulling him, laughing. "Come with me…"

  Outside, the morning's rain still dripped from the eaves, gurgling in gutters and along the channels it cut for itself beside stone paths. Leida laughed again, bright against the gray day.

  The shadow fell upon her like a thin grim cloak. Eflid's hand closed hard on her shoulder, and his voice hissed like a snake's in her ear. "Go where, eh? Slut-"

  Leida cried out in fear, perhaps in pain. Swift, Dalamar grabbed the steward's wrist. Before he could think yea or nay, he broke Eflid's grip with one sharp twist. Loathing like poison flared in the steward's eyes. He pulled back, trying to free himself. He failed. Color drained from his cheeks. Rage and fear warred in him.

  "Let go," he snarled. Dalamar did not. "Boy, I mean it." His voice shook, but only a little, and only he and Dalamar knew it. "You'd better let go-"

  Outside, lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled then suddenly roared. In the garden something white moved through the mist, like a ghost on the rain-running paths. Leida gasped, slipping behind Dalamar into the dark safety of the kitchen. Her footfalls sounded in the darkness, swift as she ran past the deep hearth, the long tables, and the shelves of pots and pans. Gone, she did not look back, and no one looked after her.

  On a second flash of lightning the ghostly figure in the garden became a man, a cleric running ahead of the storm, the hem of his white robe hitched high out of the mud. Splashing and slipping, he dashed for the kitchen.

  Dalamar loosed his grip on Eflid's wrist. "Your master has a guest, Lord Eflid," he said, mocking the man with the title he did not own. "You'd best tend him, eh?"

  "Aye, and I'll attend to you later, boy."

  "Do you think so?" Dalamar nodded once, an ironic bow. "Well, you may try, as ever you do."

  The cleric came into the kitchen, the storm on his heels, thunder at his back. Dalamar moved aside, barely hearing the man's reply when Eflid hustled him inside, fawning and bowing, assuring him that a fire would be made for him, wine brought. "Lord Ralan will be pleased to see you, my Lord Tellin. Come with me. Yes, right through here into the study."

  Dalamar looked up at the sky, the lightning cutting through the clouds and the rain pouring down, then he turned and left the kitchen. He had countered Eflid's threat with a threat, and he thought he could smell the docks and the fishers' nets.

  Idiot, he thought. He tucked his hands into the sleeves of his robes, clenching fists he wanted no one to see. Neither did anyone see the rage on his face as he went through the kitchen, the dining hall, and along the corridor to the servants' wing and his own tiny chamber. Had any looked into his eyes, though, he would have found rage there. Rage as cold as winter's rage, fury like a storm over Icewall Bay. Idiot! To risk a comfortable enough position for the sake of a girl he'd have enjoyed once, perhaps twice, then never bothered with again. He deserved what fate he'd earned, the reek of fish at the docks, the endless mending of nets, the constant slap and groan of the river outside whatever poor hut he would be given as home.

  Firelight glowed on rich polished oak, making Lord Ralan's desk seem to be crafted of gold. It warmed the mahogany of chairs to deep red, and the crystal carafe looked as if it had been cut from one whole ruby, so deeply did the fire's light shine in the wine. Outside, the world hung gray, pouring with rain beneath a sky the color of lead. Inside, ah, inside the study of Lord Ralan, things were far more pleasant.

  Lord Tellin Windglimmer had been standing awhile, unattended in Ralan's study, but the wait was not an unpleasant one. Warm by the fire, he passed the time looking around at the high ceiling of his host's study and the tapestries on the walls, each depicting a scene from Silvanesti history.

  Upon the grandest of those hangings Silvanos was shown, a king in his kingdom. He stood in the midst of a circle of towers, each tower representing one of the Houses of the people. In that tapestry even an elf child could read the history of his people and know how in ancient days Silvanos gathered together all the tribes of elf-kind and imposed upon them an order, a structure of Houses that survived even to this day. The head of each house, the Householder, became a member of the Silvanos Council, the Sinthal-Elish, and from them the king and all kings who followed sought advice when he wanted it or endured it when his council insisted he hear it.

  First, the ancient king anointed House Silvanos, which people now knew as House Royal. He then ordained House Cleric, among whom lived the priests, temple-keepers, and those who maintained the records of the nation. The defenders of Silvanesti were men and women of House Protector. In his wisdom, Silvanos had gathered to himself magic-users, and he created for them House Mystic, giving to them the charge of training mages. He said to them, and they swore to him, that the magic of red Lunitari, which existed for its own sake, and that of Nuitari, which existed in darkness, would be forbidden. No other magic would be done in the kingdom but that of Solinari-white magic, the magic of Good. It had ever been so, and what shoots from that mystic branch that had tried to grow toward the magic of Lunitari's neutrality or Nuitari's darkness were ruthlessly pruned. They were taken to the Temple of E'li, accused and judged in the dread Ceremony of Darkness, then cast out from the kingdom and the company of their kindred to survive as best they might among the outlanders, humans and dwarves and minotaurs. The exiles were named dark elves, for they had fallen from the light. They did not have a long history of survival, those dark elves, for there were few Silvanesti who did not view life among outlanders as life among madmen in lands of chaos. When they died, they most often died by their own hands.

  Great Silvanos also created other castes: House Metalline for the miners; House Advocate, where tradition was kept and law was made; House Mason of the stone-wrights; House Gardener, whose folk grew the food that fed a kingdom; and House Woodshaper, whose folk had the magic of wild spirits sparkling gently in their blood. One other house the king made, and that was House Servitor. This creation of his did not turn out to be what he'd hoped, for he had first called to him the elves of the Elderwild, that strange clan of hunters and explorers who seemed, perversely, to thrive in the hinterlands away from others of their kind. Silvanos, seeing no worth in their wild ways, sought to fit them into his caste structure as servants. The leader of that clan, Kaganos the Pathfinder, defied the king's will and took his people out from Silvanesti Forest. He would not condemn them to serve in the halls of others when he could lead them to a place where they could live free as hunters and practitioners of their own strange kind of wild magic. And so, Silvanos, who would not constrain those who wished to leave, no matter how mad-minded their choice seemed to him, created House Servitor from all those left un-housed, those whose menial jobs and skills fit nowhere else.

  Every elf child knew this. Tellin had known it from the cradle, for his was a family of record-keepers, and history ran in his veins as blood.

  "Good day, my Lord Tellin—good, if you like rain." Lord Ralan came into the study, flushed, a little harried, or perhaps, Tellin thought, somewhat impatient. "Forgive me for keeping you waiting. A matter having to do with a servant."

  "Please, do not apologize," Tellin murmured. "I have been enjoying the wait."

  Ralan nodded to the tapestry. "My mother's family had it for generations. She brought it to her marriage, and it is said that this is an accurate depiction of Silvanos, for it was made only decades after his death by one who actually knew him." He smiled, the quiet contented expression of one who is certain of his truths.

  "It is lovely," Tellin said, though he did not think the tapestry had so grand a history as Ralan or his family imagined. He said no such thing to his host, however. I
nstead he murmured, "But I wonder why we don't see the Tower of the Stars there, only the towers representing the various Houses."

  Ralan pursed his lips and frowned, thinking. History was no favorite study of his. "I think my father once said that's because Silvanos himself was our tower, our tower of strength, our Tower of the Stars." He shrugged. "Or did he say that the tapestry was woven in the time before the Tower was built? Ah, well, I don't recall. Either makes a good story."

  Tellin smiled, agreeing that either did. Ralan was a good host, a good friend to the Temple of E'li, generous to a fault, and, if truth were told, devoted to the Dragon's Lord, blessed with a simple faith that never wavered. "We are the best beloved of the gods of Good," he often said, "the first-born, the people who never gave up faith." Ralan, like many elves, took great pride in his faith and comfort in the belief that the gods of Good must love elves better than all other folk. How could they not? After the Cataclysm, outlanders went searching for gods to replace those they believed gone from the world, elevating mortals, praying to who knew what, but the elves had never lost faith.

  Ralan filled glasses from the crystal decanter, one for him and one for his guest. Tellin accepted the wine, and when he saw Ralan settled into his good mood, he hitched up his courage. In the pocket of his robe a small gift lay, a prayer-scroll. Somewhere in this house was Lady Lynntha, Ralan's sister. Perhaps she stood watching out a window, her silvery hair the same color as the rain falling, her eyes gray as the storm-sky. Perhaps even now she lifted a lovely hand to trace an idle pattern upon the windowpane, in the mist her sweet breath laid there. They had known each other as children when Lynntha came to worship in the Temple of E'li and Tellin was a boy wondering how closely his fate would be tied to the same temple. When they had entered adolescence, they had not moved in the same circles. How could they? Tellin lived in his books, and Lynntha was the daughter of a House whose strictest tenet forbade the mingling of Woodshaper blood with that of any other House, even House Royal. It was a magical bloodline, one that carried down through the generations talents of earth-heal and woodshaping no other elf shared.

  And yet… and yet he had not forgotten Lynntha, her smoky eyes, her silvery hair. He had not forgotten how sweet was the curve of her cheek or the sound of her voice. Lynntha yet lived in the family home, an estate beyond the city, and though her parents were five years dead, she remained unwed. The matter, of course, was in her brother's hands now, and Tellin had heard no whisper that a marriage was in the offing. What did he hope? That he would trot out the old formula, the strange and lovely words of another time, and say to Ralan, "I would that I might take your sister to wed, my lord, and I trust you will grant me your weal and your blessing to pursue my suit with her." Did even his wildest dream imagine that Ralan would suddenly look at the traditions of his House and see them as nothing, or that Lynntha herself would do that? Yes, he hoped these things, and he was a fool for hoping, but he didn't know how else to be.

  Outside the storm had redoubled its efforts, rain beating down like tiny silver spears. A servant went by the window, head low, dark hair plastered against a pale face. He looked like the fellow Tellin had seen in the kitchen with Ralan's steward, and he didn't look happy.

  "All right," Ralan said, smiling. "Tell me what you want from me now, friend Tellin."

  They were not old friends, the lord of this house and Tellin Windglimmer, but they were long-time acquaintances. They had developed, over the years, an easy relationship, one that did not run deeply but did depend upon a certain understanding. Ralan liked to burnish his pride with acts of good will, and Tellin liked to accept those on behalf of the Temple of E'li.

  "No temple gifts," Tellin said. He cleared his throat. It had gone suddenly dry. When that didn't work, he took another sip of wine.

  "Not today? Well, well. But the servants have been bundling up clothing for the poor and setting them aside for you since the last time the moons were full. What am I to do with it all?"

  Tellin moved uncomfortably, then said, "Well, of course I'll happily take what you offer, Ralan, but-"

  Lord Ralan raised a brow. "But that's not what you've come to ask for?"

  Tellin took the little scroll from his pocket. The light of Ralan's fire glinted on the silver knobs of the spindle. "This—I have made this… I mean, I have brought this, a gift…"

  "A gift for me?" Ralan reached for it, then let his hand drop when he saw the look of sudden confusion on his guest's face. "Ah, not for me. For whom, then?"

  "Well, for your sister." Tellin took a breath and forged ahead. "I remembered that Lady Lynntha used to like the Dawn Hymn to E'li. When she was a girl, she would sing it and her voice used to rise up above all others in the morning service. And I thought, well, I had heard that she is here, visiting you. I thought-"

  Ralan's expression grew cooler by degrees. "You thought you would present this to her." He held out his hand again. Tellin gave him the scroll. "This is your work, yes?" He turned the spindle so that the firelight ran on the silver. He unclasped the roll and let the first few inches of parchment slide to show the text of the prayer framed in a flowing hand, the capitals of each stanza illuminated in green ink. Diamond dust had been carefully sprinkled onto those tall letters before the ink had dried, and the tiny bits of diamond had cut Tellin's fingers to bleeding as he'd worked. Ralan looked up, his eyes still and calm. No sign did Tellin find of displeasure, but none of welcome either. "This is what you do at the Temple when you aren't looking for alms, eh?"

  "Well, this is what I do sometimes. Most times I'm but a record-keeper."

  Ralan put the scroll aside, setting it carefully on the table beside his chair. "I'll tell Lynntha it's a gift from an old friend." He emphasized the two words with great care. Old friend, said his tone, and not a potential suitor. They did not marry outside of their own clans, the folk of House Woodshaper. They had the magic of wild spirits in their blood, and they would not dilute that, no matter whose heart was at stake. "She'll be happy to have it and to know that you remember her."

  "I appreciate it," Tellin said. "Thank you."

  Ralan drew breath to speak, then stopped and frowned. "Tellin, I find myself in need of a favor."

  Tellin nodded. "Indeed. I'll be happy to help. Tell me how."

  "There's a servant my steward has lately… um, been talking about. The boy's not working out here, and I'd thought to send him on back to Trevalor, but that would mean a letter explaining the trouble, or worse, a visit from Trevalor himself to bow and scrape and apologize."

  He smiled wryly, and Tellin returned it. Few who had to deal with the head of House Servitor found their dealings pleasant ones. Trevalor covered himself in obsequiousness as aging women deck themselves in jewels. In the case of the grand dames, the glitter hides fading glory. In the case of Trevalor, the excessive displays of humility hid something more, a sense of resentful entitlement. He was, as a Householder, a member of Speaker Lorac's Sinthal-Elish. And he was, as the highest member of the lowliest caste in elven society, not one accorded a great deal of respect. "The man is just damned unpleasant," Tellin's father had once said. Tellin had never encountered Trevalor and come away feeling otherwise.

  "In any case," Ralan sighed, "I'm not at all sure what the trouble is with this servant-not much interested either, come to that. I'm thinking you might spare me the ordeal of listening to the whole story from Eflid, then hearing Trevalor's song and dance about it all. The boy's a mage, and we thought it would be handy to have one of those around. I guess it hasn't been, but maybe he'll do you some good. Take him off my hands, Tellin, will you?"

  Tellin glanced out the window again, at the rain driving down and the gray-green blur of the garden. He remembered the servant going by a few moments before, dark-haired, pale of face, his eyes afire with some emotion. That's the one, he thought, that's the one they want to get rid of.

  "What's his name, Ralan?"

  Ralan shrugged. "I don't know. Dalamar… something. You'll take h
im then?"

  Well, why not? Tellin nodded. "I'm not the one who acquires servants for the Temple, but, yes, send him along with the clothing and the bedding, Ralan, and I'll take care of matters with the head of the Temple… and with Trevalor."

  "Ah, good, then." Ralan looked around at the warm fire, the tapestries hung upon marble walls, and he felt the truth of what he'd always believed. The elves were the best beloved of the gods, and he was, among the best beloved, a fortunate man. Now, it seemed, even his house was falling into better order. After today there would be one fewer complaint from Eflid about the servants. "See how nicely the day worked out? We're all happy now."

  Or some of us, Tellin thought, eyes on the scroll Ralan had set aside and did not now seem to remember. He wondered whether Lynntha would receive it, and then he put the wondering aside as unworthy. Of course she would. He was almost certain of that.

  Chapter 3

  On the first night of Autumn Harvest when the red moon and the silver had but newly risen over the forest, a child looked up from the garden of her family's little home in the Academy District. She was a small girl who had just slipped down from her father's shoulders, their stroll through the garden at an end. In the air the poignant smell of autumn hung, the spicy scent of the year's end. The little girl sighed, for these scents always made her feel sad in a good kind of way. She looked up to see if the pattern of the stars had changed, wondering whether Astarin's Harp had swung up the sky early, as it did in autumn. E'li's Silver Dragon used to hang in the sky, opposite the Five-Headed Dragon of Takhisis, but those constellations were gone, though no one had seen the stars fall from the sky.

  "It's why outlanders think the gods are returning to the world," her father had said. "For the Dark Queen is the ruler of evil dragons, and we see those in the world again. Eli is the patron of the good dragons, and those who shine like brass and bronze and copper and gold, even silver, are E'li's."