by Andre Norton
With the rest of the maids gone, Rena dropped her illusion (thin as it was) of satisfaction, then chuckled as Myre made a grimace of distaste.
I know, Rena said to the human. I know. Dreadful, isn't it?
You make me think of a sacrificial virgin from one of the old religions, Myre replied, shaking her head, a sardonic smile on her lips. Some poor little slip of a thing, all weighed down with the gifts to the gods so that she sinks properly when they push her into the gods' well—brr!
Not so much important for herself, but as the bearer of the gifts, yes, I was thinking much the same. Rena sat back down carefully. Is there any way you can make these things a little more balanced? I feel as if I might fall over at any moment.
I'll see, Myre responded readily. You know, I think I might be able to 'lose' some of those horrid hair ornaments. I doubt Lord Tylar will bother to count them. I have never envied you, my lady, but tonight I am very glad that I do not stand in your place. The hair-sculpture must be horrible to wear, and the hair ornaments too heavy to think about. She cocked her head to one side. Hmm. I believe I can rid you of about half of them and still keep the entire dreadful effect.
Oh, please, Rena begged shamelessly. Lorryn made them; they'll go away by themselves in a day or two. And you can tell me news, if you have any.
Some. The slave carefully removed one of the ornaments, dropped it, and kicked it behind the dressing table. I've heard that the wizards have found a new stronghold and are settling in it. That is, they've found a place where they can build a stronghold, and they've sent word so that escaping halfbloods can find them there. The dragons are actually building the stronghold for them, or so it is said. I suspect it's true.
They are? Rena didn't care about the wizards—but that the dragons were still with them, helping them— How can a dragon build, though? Wouldn't that be terribly hard to do, with claws and all?
Myre laughed, and kicked another ornament into a new hiding place. I thought I'd told you that when I told you about the war! Dragons have magic too, besides the magic of calling lightning; they can shape rock to whatever form they like. It's as easy for them to mold rock as it is for a slave to mold clay into a pot.
Rena saw her own pale green eyes widen as she stared into the mirror. No, you didn't tell me that—you didn't tell me they had magic. I mean, flying and calling lightning is wonderful enough, but magic of their own—they're like one of the great dursans from Evelon!
Myre shrugged, as if it didn't matter much to her. Well, I suppose it's a magic that's logical, even necessary, for something that big to have, anyway. Think about it—if you have to live in a cave, wouldn't it be a good thing to have some way to make it more livable?
The slave disposed of another pair of hair ornaments, then loosened the necklace somewhat as Rena nodded. I imagine you're right, Rena responded. It's just that every new thing you tell me about them is more wonderful than the last! Oh, I would give anything to see one, even at a distance!
The slave laughed dryly. The way things are going, you're likely to get your wish, since they don't seem disposed to hide themselves. They're likely to start flying over the estates someday! You really are attracted to them, though, aren't you?
Rena just nodded. Lorryn, now—if he were here, she knew what he would be asking the girl about. The Elvenbane; he was as obsessed with the halfblood wizard-girl as Rena was with dragons. Never mind that it was forbidden to even mention the name of the Elvenbane to the slaves, and that if they were overheard, the fact he had done so would get Myre in serious trouble!
Not that Myre would ever get herself in jeopardy; she's too canny for that. She always made sure that there was no one to overhear any of these conversations. Still, Lorryn took risks she never would..
But Rena would rather hear about dragons, a safe enough topic even if there was someone to overhear.
What's a dursan, anyway? Myre asked, as she took a comb and carefully rearranged Rena's hair to disguise the fact that ornaments had been removed. And what's Evelon?
Evelon's where we came from, the girl replied absently, her own thoughts caught up in a vivid image of a dragon sculpting a mountaintop into an image of itself. I don't remember it, of course, and neither does Lord Tylar, because we were born here, but all of the really old High Lords of the Council do—like Lord Ardeyn's uncle. It's supposed to have been a dangerous place, so dangerous we had to leave or die.
Dangerous? Myre persisted, her eyes narrowing. How?
Rena shrugged. Lorryn says it was all our own fault. Every House had at least a dozen feuds on the boil, and they didn't fight those feuds with armies of slaves or with gladiators because there aren't any slaves there, there aren't any humans. Houses train their children as assassins or have magic-duels, or create horrible monsters to turn against other Houses, only half the time those monsters get away and become dangerous to everyone. Some of the Houses got their emblems from the monsters they created. The dursans are something like a dragon, I suppose; they look like huge lizards, but they don't have wings, they'll eat anything in sight, and they breathe fire. They made dragons too—only the dragons flew away entirely. The dursans began to have magic, fascination magic, so the histories say, and that was one reason why they became more dangerous than before.
Huh. Myre smoothed Rena's hair, but she wore a closed, inward-turning expression. So was that why you all left this Evelon in the first place?
I suppose so. Mostly we left because we could. Rena didn't blame her grandfather for leaving either, if Evelon was as terrible as Viridina had said it was. Lorryn thinks the Houses that left were probably the weakest, the ones with the least to lose by trying somewhere else. He says that's why there are so many lords here with very little magic.
Every once in a while your brother makes sense, Myre replied sardonically. So the weak ones fled and left the field to the strong—who will probably destroy themselves and everything around them as they fight each other. I don't think I would care to live in Evelon either.
You sound like Lorryn now, Rena observed, with a tiny laugh. That's the kind of thing he'd say.
As I said, every once in a while he makes sense. Myre put down the comb and examined her handiwork. So I take it that's the reason why no High Lord will ever have a direct conflict with another, why it's all done through intrigue and battles with armies of slaves or gladiators?
Rena nodded. It's not a law so much as an agreement—in fact, in the old days, when we were first building our estates, the High Lords would all join power so that everything was done quickly. Now, though— it was her turn to grimace —well, pigs will don court-gowns and play harps before someone like Lord Syndar would lend his power to help Lord Kylan. I hope that the dragons are better at working together than they are.
I've been told they are, Myre offered. I've been told they lend their powers to each other, and that there are never any petty quarrels between them, that only betrayal of the worst kind can force them to become enemies. They say that where the dragons are, there has been peace for thousands of years. That's supposed to be why they helped the halfbloods; the wizards were just trying to live in hiding and it was the lords who attacked them to destroy them. I suppose the dragons must have felt sorry for the halfbloods, and disliked the lords who were trying to hurt them.
I wish we were like that, Rena sighed, and studied her reflection.
If we were like that, I wouldn't be served upon a platter to make some drooling old dotard a tasty bride, she thought glumly. If we were like that, I could do what I wanted to do, and Father would leave me alone.
To do what?
What do dragons do when they aren't helping the wizards? she wondered aloud.
Oh, marvelous things. Myre replied immediately. Fancy flying, playing games, exploring, using their magic to create beautiful sculptures, telling stories, all kinds of wonderful things. It would take me all day to tell you.
Rena swallowed around the lump in her throat that the vision of such freedom had
conjured up. If only I could run away, somehow, run away to the land where the dragons come from! If only I could go somewhere where I'd never have to obey Father again, where there aren't any rules—The rules and her father's will weighed her down as truly as the terrible jewels he had created for her weighed her down. How could anyone fly beneath such a weight?
But wishing to run away was as useless as wishing for a dragon to come carry her off; one was as likely as the other. How could she run away? She'd never even been off the estate! She had no idea how to fend for herself—which was precisely what she would have to do to keep from being found and brought back before she got more than a foot off the grounds.
Running away was as out of the question as—as pigs donning court-gowns and playing harps!
What was more—she had already drawn these preparations out as long as she dared. Much longer, and her father would come here to find out what the delay was about, and he would not be pleased to find her completely gowned and jeweled, staring into the mirror.
She rose once again, with dignity, if not with happiness. Don't wait up for me, Myre. Tell one of the others to wait in my rooms until I come home.
That would at least save Myre from the tedium of a long and boring evening alone in these echoing rooms.
Who? Myre asked, promptly.
Rena shrugged. I don't know, and I really don't care. Pick someone you don't like. Tell her I ordered it. No slave would dare direct insolence to the daughter of the House, so if there was anyone giving Myre trouble, this would be a subtle way for the human to have a little revenge. All of the closets and drawers would be mage-locked by Rena's absence, so there would be nothing to do but sit and wait in this eternally peaceful and eternally boring dressing room until Rena returned.
Myre grinned slyly, and bowed—and if there was a touch of mockery in her bow, Rena was not going to say a word about it. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and waved her hand at the door, which opened at her signal, and stepped through it into the hallway of pink marble.
Like her rooms, the hallway had been created by the previous owner of this estate, a High Lord with far more power than Lord Tylar had. Every room had doors that answered only to the signals of those with elven blood, or power-curtains that would only pass those who were keyed to them. Sourceless lighting illuminated the entire manor, until and unless someone with elven blood wished a room in darkness, so there were no windows in this place, not even a skylight. Slaves lived and died here without ever seeing the sun once they were brought from the pens to be trained.
Some aspects of the manor were still as they had been when the original owner died; Lord Tylar did not have enough magic to change them. That, Rena reflected, was probably a good thing. She had visited other manors where one never knew what was going to lie just outside a door—sometimes it might be a hallway, sometimes a ballroom, sometimes a precipice. Not a real precipice, of course, but the illusion of one was quite enough to frighten Rena out of her wits for a moment or two—which had been the whole point of the so-called joke.
No, this was a perfectly ordinary pink marble hallway, lined with alabaster ums, which led to an ordinary pink marble staircase, which descended in a gentle curve to the next floor. Her own escort of human guards fell in behind her as she passed them just before she got to the landing of the staircase, moving silently. And hopefully Lord Tylar and Lady Viridina would be waiting for her at the foot of it, having just arrived there from their own preparations. Rena had been counting on her father's vanity to keep him at his preening—
She paused at the head of the stairs and took a deep, steadying breath. Head high. Walk slowly. Try to remember that stupid train; try to forget about the stupid escort. Pause between each step…
She took each stair of the curving staircase carefully, and stopped at the halfway point to listen to the voices ahead of her. Lord Tylar was holding forth on something, but he sounded pompous, not irritated, which meant she wasn't late.
Thank goodness for small favors.
She took the rest of the stairs at the same deliberate pace, knowing that if she rushed and looked the least bit undignified, Lord Tylar would be annoyed with her. He was going to have enough to be annoyed with her about before the evening was over; best not to give him more than she could manage.
He was watching for her; her heart sank as she saw him turn toward the staircase as soon as she came into sight, and examine her every move with a critical eye. Her stomach tightened and she found it hard to take those deep, serene breaths.
He's going to hate the dress, the hair, the cosmetics… he's going to hate how I'm walking.… It was an automatic reaction, one she had every time she had to confront him. How could she help it? All he ever invoked in her was dread.
He was a handsome man, even by elven standards, but even by those standards his expression and bearing were chill and detached. He stood much taller than Viridina and his daughter, by a head-and-a-half. His pale gold hair was worn as his grandfather had worn his, as if to invoke the memory of that formidable man; cut unfashionably short, and without the usual diadem or fillet that current mode dictated. His long, chiseled face bore no signs of emotion whatsoever, but Rena knew him well enough to be aware that the slight narrowing of his brilliant green eyes meant he was looking for faults to criticize.
He and Lady Viridina were dressed in the same colors—or rather, lack of them—of ice-white and gold. His costume hinted at armor without actually being armor, hers was a more elaborate version of the same gown Rena wore. On Lady Viridina, however, the gown of pearly-white silk with iridescent moonbirds looked beautiful. The only touch of color that either of them wore was in the emeralds and beryls of their jewels; again, the Lady's jewels were copies of Rena's, but she carried them as if she did not notice their weight in the slightest Lord Tylar's jewels were simpler and fewer; belt, a single ring, a single armband, and a torque about his neck.
Rena paused on the last stair to wait, trembling inside, for her father to speak.
Silence stretched the moment into an eternity, as she strove to keep her trembling invisible.
Good, he said, finally, with grudging approval. You are actually presentable.
She kept her relief as invisible as her trembling, and took the last few steps across the marble between them. Thank you, my Lord Father, she whispered. She hadn't meant to whisper, but somehow she couldn't raise her voice any further than that.
Well, let's not stand here all night. He turned before he even finished the sentence, and strode off down yet another pink marble hallway, this time heading for his study and the Transportation Portal in it
He could never have mustered the magic for a direct Portal to the Council Hall, but one had come with the manor. The Treves Portal would take them to the Council Hall, and from there they would use the Hemalth Portal to the estate, permitted to pass there by the magic signet impressed into the invitation. Only those who had access to such Portals would be able to take such a direct and immediate route to the fete—the ones who did not would be forced to take tedious journeys across country until they reached the estate the hard way. It was a measure of the power the House of Hemalth held that there were plenty of elven lords praying for the opportunity to make such a journey.
The ring on Rena's right index finger was not one of Lorryn's creations, but a simple signet, with a moonbird carved into the beryl (not an emerald) held in the bezel. That would be her key to the Portal that would allow her to return home; without it, she would be stuck in the Council Hall until someone came to get her. While emeralds were prized for their beauty and sought after by the human slaves permitted jewels, it was the more common beryl that was truly priceless to the elven lords, for only beryls could take and hold magic power, or be used as the containers for spells. Women wore emeralds, useless, lovely emeralds. Men bore beryls, as the outward signature of their power.
Rena trailed along behind her father, careful not to step on the train of her mother's gown, with the guards
following in her wake.
The door opened as Lord Tylar approached, and me little parade massed through it into the room beyond. There wasn't much to mark the room that her father called his study as anything of the kind; it really held nothing but a white marble desk and a couple of chairs-—no books, certainly no papers; he left all of the tedious business of dealing with accounts and the like to his supervisors and underlings. The pink marble of the floor of the hall gave way here to soft, thick carpets of (leathered gray, and the pink marble of the walls to some unidentifiable substance the pale gray of rain clouds. There were two doors to this room, both of a darker gray than the walls; the one they used to enter, and the one that stood directly across from it—but the second was no door at all, but the Portal.
Lord Tylar stopped in front of the Portal, his hand on the latch, and turned back to frown at his daughter. Rena shrank into herself a little, involuntarily.
Hold your head up, he reminded her sharply. And smile.
Without waiting to see if she followed his orders, he opened the door and stepped through it. He did not hesitate a moment—but then, he was used to Portals by now.
The doorway held only darkness, and it was as if he had been devoured by that darkness the moment he stepped across the threshold. Rena had never actually used this or any other Portal before, although Lorryn who had, told her it was nothing to be afraid of. Still, something inside her quailed before the lightless emptiness of it, and she would have stepped back except for the presence of the guards behind her—
