by Andre Norton
Elveblood
( Halfblood Chronicles - 2 )
Andre Norton
Mercedes Lackey
The powerful magic of ruthless Elvenlord masters has for centuries rules the world. Even Shana, the legendary Elvenbane prophesied to deliver the oppressed into freedom, is helpless before such power. She and her ragtag band of outcasts, half-blood wizards, escaped human slaves, and free-thinking dragons have gained only a token victory against the mighty lords.
Only the long-forgotten Iron People, a band of human nomads, have escaped the tyranny of the reigning wizards. How have they survived through the centuries?
As the winds of change sweep the world, and as tensions seething beneath the surface of Elven society threaten to break into open revolt. Shana meets the ancient tribe. Could an age-old secret free Shana and her people...or will its discovery call down their doom.
ELVENBLOOD
by Andre Norton & Mercedes Lackey
Chapter 1
SHEYRENA HAD GROWN very weary of coos of admiration over the last hour or so. Human voices, harsh and heavy by elven standards, did not normally grate on her ears, but they did today.
Oh, my lady, there has never been a gown so lovely, I swear! The nameless blond slave out of her mother's household shook her head over the shimmering folds of Sheyrena's gown. She probably spoke the truth, by her own standards; it was heavy damascene silk, of peacock-blue shot through with threads of pearly iridescence. The color was far more vivid than anything ever seen in nature.
And a more wretched color for me could not be imagined. It would, of course, completely overwhelm her. She would be a ghost in the stolen costume of the living.
'Truly! gushed another. You will ravish the mind of every lord who sees you!
Only if they have taste for a maiden who resembles a corpse bedecked for her funeral. No amount of careful makeup would ever give her the coloring to match that gown.
It was suitable for the vivid beauty of a human concubine, not an elven maid, and particularly not one who was pale even by the standards of her own race. It was typical of her father to have chosen something that would display, not her, but the power, his power, that made it possible.
Sheyrena an Treves closed her ears to the chattering of her human slaves and wished she could be anywhere but where she was. The windowless, pale blue marble walls of her dressing room were far too confining at the best of times; now, as it was crowded with the bodies of not only her own half-dozen slaves, but an additional four from her mother's retinue, she was not entirely certain there was enough air to go around. There was too much perfume and heat in here; she wished vaguely for an escape from all of it.
If only she could be outside! Sitting watching the butterflies in that meadow Lorryn discovered—or riding along the wall around the estate—she thought wistfully. For a long moment she was lost in her dreams of escape, her mind far from this room and all it contained, as she imagined herself riding Lorryn's spirited gelding in a headlong chase along the sandstone wall, the wind in her face, and Lorryn only a pace or two ahead of her—
Lorryn, if only you could come and rescue me from this. 1 Oh, that is a foolish thought, you cannot even rescue yourself from the bindings of custom.
Two of her own chief attendants—castoffs from her father's harem, twin redheads whose names she could never keep straight—said something to her directly and waited for a response, shaking her out of her dreams. She shook her head slightly and emerged from her thoughts.
Please, my lady, it is time for the undergown, the right-hand girl repeated quietly, with no expression whatsoever. Sheyrena stood up and allowed them to bring the undergown to her. The slaves were all used to the way she sank into half-trances by now, and if they felt any impatience with her, they were too well trained to show it. No slave in the household of V'layn Tylar Lord Treves would ever dare to display anything so insubordinate, as impatience with one of his elven masters. Sheyrena's handmaids always wore the identical expressions of insipid and vacuous pleasantry that one would find on the face of a formal portrait. That was the way her father wanted it, but it always unnerved Sheyrena; she could never tell what they were thinking.
If I knew what they were thinking, I would at least have some idea of how to think of them. Then again, I doubt that their thoughts would be very flattering. There is not much in me, I fear, to inspire a good opinion.
Obedient to their directions, she turned toward the four who bore the gown as carefully as a holy relic, and lifted her arms. Silk slid softly against her flesh, muffling her head for a breath, as three slaves pulled the sinuous, soft folds of the sea-green undergown over her head and arms. They drew it down in place, allowing the skirt to billow out around her bare feet. The sleeves and body were cut to fit tightly with a plunging decolletage, the skin flared out from the hips, billowing out into a long trailing train in the latest style—
So that I look like a green twig being tossed atop a wave. Very attractive. How can they keep from laughing at me? Another selection by Lord Tylar, of course, to show that his daughter was no stranger to the highest of fashion. Never mind that the highest of fashion looked ridiculous on her. On the other hand, did she really want to look attractive?
No. No, I don t. I don't want a husband, I don't want any changes; as pathetic as my life is now, I do not want to find myself the property of some lord like my father. And since Father chose all of this for me, he can hardly blame me for looking ridiculous. That, in and of itself, was a relief. If Sheyrena failed tonight, her father would be looking for someone or something to blame, and it would be best if she gave him no excuse to place that blame on her. Lord Tylar had made it clear to his wife and daughter that this particular fete was of paramount importance to the House of Treves. The glee on his face when he had received the invitation, not only to attend, but to present Sheyrena, had only been equaled the day that he learned that the price of grain for slave-fodder had tripled due to a blight that his fields had been spared. While Lord Tylar's lineage was good, it was not great—and his monetary wealth was due entirely to his successes in the marketplace. Lord Tylar's grandfather had been a mere pensioner, and only astute management had brought the House of Treves this far. He was not one of the original High Lords of the Council, but a recent appointee, and under normal circumstances, he would not ever have found himself in the company of the House of Hernalth, much less invited to their fete.
Turn, please, my lady.
The invitation came not by teleson, but by messenger—an elven messenger, not a human slave, which showed how Lord Tylar's status had increased since the disastrous conflict with the Elvenbane. Scribed on a thin sheet of pure gold, it could only have been created magically—an indirect and subtle demonstration of the power and skill of the creator.
V'kass Ardeyn el-Lord Fortren Lord Hernalth requests the pleasure of the company of the House of Treves at a fete given in his honor by his guardian, V'sheyl Edres Lord Fortren, on the occasion of his accession to the lands and position of the House of Hernalth. He further requests the boon of the presentation of the daughter of the House of Treves at this fete. No need to mention dates or time; even the least and poorest of the pensioners on Lord Tylar's estate knew the date of Lord Ardeyn's accession-fete, just as they knew why the heir to the house of Fortren had inherited the House of Hernalth—over the strenuous objections of Lord Dyran's brother, it might be added.
Please raise your arm a trifle.
Odd that his given name is Treves. There had been strong words between Lord Treves and Lord Edres in Council, and Lord Treves had gone off in a huff, taking what little he owned under the law, becoming a pensioner under the auspices of one of Lord Edres's opponents. She could only hope tha
t such an unpleasant coincidence might cause Lord Ardeyn to regard her with a less than favorable eye, for by asking that she be presented, Lord Ardeyn had made it very clear that he was not only holding a celebration, he was seeking an appropriate bride.
'Turn a little more, please.
It had been nearly a year since Lord Dyran and his son and heir had died, and the inheritance had fallen into dispute. But the Council—Lord Tylar among them—had eventually ruled that the estate and title could only be inherited by the oldest surviving son—unless there were no surviving sons to inherit. And while it was presumed (since there were two bodies) that Dyran's heir Valyn had gone up in smoke with his father, there being no evidence to the contrary, there was still Valyn's twin alive, of sound mind and body, living in, and the designated heir to, the house of his grandfather.
That made young Ardeyn a double heir, and doubly desirable in a marriage alliance. Little matter that Lord Edres was quite vigorous and unlikely to make Ardeyn a double-Lord any time in the next several centuries; Ardeyn now had all of Lord Dyran's considerable holdings in his own right. That made him the equal of his grandfather in status and standing. Lord Tylar's support of Ardeyn's claim had been noted, and now would be rewarded—though it was vanishingly unlikely that the reward would be a wedding to Sheyrena. Lord Ardeyn was too highplaced for that, and Lord Tylar still an upstart, though a valued upstart.
Lower your arm now, my lady, please.
And no doubt, every unpledged elven maiden of appropriate rank has gotten an invitation to come and show her paces for the benefit of Lord Ardeyn—or rather, his grandfather. There was no doubt in Sheyrena's mind who was going to be making the choice of a bride for Ardeyn. Only those who were fortunate enough to have no parents or guardians ever made the choice of a spouse for themselves. If the young Lord was lucky, his grandfather might consult him—but the probability was that he was so ruled by Lord Edres that he would tamely accept a wedding to a mule if that was what his grandfather dictated.
Just as I will tamely accept a wedding to a mule if that is what my father dictates, no matter how I feel about it, for my feelings are of no consequence, she reflected with resignation, as the maids laced the bodice of the undergown so tightly as to make it a second silken skin. The effect was not to make her somewhat meager charms seem more generous, but rather the opposite.
Although the invitation had said nothing about other maidens being presented at this fete, it didn't have to. It was the word of every bower across the land that Lord Ardeyn was looking for a bride and a profitable alliance, not necessarily in that order. There would be dozens of unwedded and unpledged elven women there tonight, from children still playing with dolls to widows with power and property of their own. There was only one Lord Ardeyn, however, which meant that it was inevitable that many other unwedded elven lords or their parents or representatives would be appearing at this fete as well, looking for prospective brides. It wasn't often that there was an occasion grand enough that all the houses could put aside their various feuds and pretend civility for one short night. Any number of alliances might come out of this fete; old conflicts might be resolved—
—the train, my lady, please to lift your foot.
And entirely new ones created. The maids indicated that she should turn a full circle; the silken folds of the skirt swirled around her and settled again with a sigh. They held up the overgown, and once again she held still while they eased it over her head, for all the world like a giant doll they were all dressing. The heavier silk of the overgown poured down over her body and added its weight to the invisible burden of misery on her shoulders.
So I am to be trotted out like one of Father's prize mares, for all the unattached lords to check my paces and my teeth. Just as Lorryn is trotted about like a prize stallion, displayed to the fathers of all the maidens in our circle. Father's will is everything. She was too well schooled to show her distaste, but her unhappiness sat in her middle, a lump of sour ice, and made her throat ache with tension. The maids fussed with the lacings on the side of the overgown as she closed her burning eyes for a moment to fight for control and serenity.
It was hard, hard, to maintain that well-schooled serenity, especially in light of the ordeal to come. She had never been comfortable with strangers; the few times that her father had summoned her to be displayed—presumably with an eye to a possible marriage—she had wanted to crawl under the rug and hide. The prospect of being trussed into this torture device disguised as a gown and spending the entire evening displaying herself to dozens, hundreds, of strangers was enough to make her physically ill.
—and this lacing must be tighter, please try not to breathe heavily—
Her mother had been trying to convince her for weeks that this was going to be a golden opportunity for her. This would be her one, perhaps her only, chance to make a marriage that would satisfy her father and herself. This was a rare chance to actually meet some of the lords looking for brides before one of them was foisted on her. She might actually find some young elven lord there that she liked', someone who would allow her to continue her excursions outside the bower, rather than confining her to the space within the walls of the women's quarters as so many elven lords insisted was proper.
Her mother's arguments had included those, and many other persuasive blandishments in the same vein. Her mother claimed she understood Sheyrena's feelings of doubt, the unsettling thoughts that had been moving through her mind of late, and her reluctance to contract any marriage. And what would Mother know about it? Viridina an Treves has never had an inappropriate thought in her life. She has always been the perfect, obedient Lady, pliant and pleasant, willing to be whatever her father and her Lord wished her to be… How could someone like that ever understand the restless thoughts passing through her daughter's mind these days?
Hold your arm here, please, my lady.
Right now Sheyrena would have given everything she owned to be able to catch some kind of illness, as the humans did in order to have an excuse to stay at home. But for all their outward fragility, elven women were as immune to such things as the males of their kind.
And it's too late for me to manufacture mind-storms like Lorryn has. No one would believe a bout of head pain coming now was anything other than a ruse.
She turned at her maids' direction, raising and lowering her arms, while they fussed with the side-lacings and drew the long, floor-sweeping sleeves of the overgown up over the tight undersleeves and fastened them to the shoulders with lacings of gold cord.
Do I look as stiff as I feel, I wonder?
She was torn by conflicting emotions. While it was humiliating to know that her father could not possibly have concocted a less flattering costume for her and that she was going to look her absolute worst in front of a horde of strangers, still, looking her worst would make it less likely that anyone would find her even remotely interesting.
Better to be thought of as the sickly looking stick than to find myself—
Find herself—what? Betrothed to someone like her father, perhaps?
Mother would say that wasn't so bad a prospect. There was resentment in that thought. But then, Mother has never cared half as much about my welfare as she has about Lorryn's. If he stood in my place this evening, would she be so quick to urge him to be bartered off to a bride?
If my lady would hold still for a moment—?
But Viridina was not her daughter. Viridina was used to her constricted lot in life. Sheyrena had a brief glimpse of a wider world in the last year or so, and she did not want to give that up.
In many ways it was much easier to be Lord Tylar's unregarded daughter than his wife. Viridina's entire existence was bound up by so many rules and customs that she could scarcely breathe without risking the breach of one or more of them. That most of those customs dated back to a more hazardous time when women were in constant danger mattered not a bit to her lord husband; they were customs, and therefore they were to be followed to the letter. But Sheyre
na had little or no importance to the house until recently; her older brother Lorryn was the important one, the heir, the male. There were more unmarried females in Lord Tylar's social class than there were males; he was too proud to send her to wed a lesser lordling, and dared not look higher. And Lord Tylar, like all the rest of the Lords of the Council, had been very involved with first the rumor, then the fact, of the Elvenbane's existence—
Please, lady, a step to the right.
Then had come the second Wizard War, which had occupied his attention to the exclusion of all else. So Sheyrena had been ignored, as long as she was properly dutiful, properly trained, properly behaved.
She had found that on the whole she preferred her own company to anyone else's—except, possibly, her brother's. She hadn't made any effort to find friends or companions mostly because she had no interest in the things the others of her generation occupied themselves with. Attendance at a handful of parties had quickly taught her that she was the kind who would settle into a corner and remain there during the entire duration of the event, uncomfortable and alone, wishing she could go home.
—and this fold should go so—
She didn't enjoy the loss of control that came with intoxication, she didn't see what made gossip so fascinating, she was too plain to attract male attentions, unwanted or otherwise, and the games that the others seemed to find amusing just left her wondering what it was they enjoyed so much, and why something so unchallenging to the intellect should be amusing. On the whole, she would much rather be left to find a corner of a garden, read, and dream her strange thoughts.
There had been a lot more of those strange thoughts in the last year, although they had begun the day she had first learned flower-sculpting.
A stitch here, I think.
She had begun by resenting those trivial-seeming lessons that her father had ordered her to begin. Lorryn learns how to shatter stone with his power. I learn flower-sculpting.
