Elven Star

7

“Death!” said the old man, shaking his head. “Doom and—er—whatever comes after. Can’t quite think …”

“Destruction?” suggested Paithan.

Zifnab gave him a grateful look. “Yes, destruction. Doom and destruction. Shocking! Shocking!” Reaching out a gnarled hand, the old man gripped Lenthan Quindiniar by the arm. “And you, sir, will be the one who leads his people forth!”

“I—I will?” said Lenthan, with a nervous glance at Calandra, positive she wouldn’t let him. “Where shall I lead them?”

“Forth!” said Zifnab, gazing hungrily at a baked chicken. “Do you mind? Just a tad? Dabbling in the arcane, you know. Whets the appetite—” Calandra sniffed, and said nothing.

“Callie, really.” Paithan winked at his irate sister. “This man’s our honored guest. Here, sir, allow me to pass it to you. Anything else? Some tohahs?”

“No, thank you—”

“Yes!” came a voice that was like the rumble of thunder stalking the ground. The others at the table appeared alarmed. Zifnab cringed.

“You must eat your vegetables, sir.” The voice seemed to rise up from the floor. “Think of your colon!”

A scream and piteous wailing emanated from the kitchen.

“There’s the maid. Hysterics again,” said Paithan, tossing aside his lapcloth and rising to his feet. He intended to escape before his sister figured out what was going on. “I’ll just go—”

“Who said that?” Calandra grabbed his arm.

“—have a look, if you’d let loose—”

“Don’t get so worked up, Gallic,” said Aleatha languidly. “It’s only thunder.”

“My colon’s none of your damn business!” The old man shouted down at the floor. “I can’t abide vegetables—”

“If it was only thunder”—Calandra’s voice was heavily ironic—“then the wretch is discussing his colon with his shoes. He’s a lunatic. Paithan, throw him out.”

Lenthan shot a pleading glance at his son. Paithan looked sidelong at Aleatha, who shrugged and shook her head. The young elf picked up his lapcloth and subsided back into his chair.

“He’s not crazy, Cal. He’s talking to … uh … his dragon. And we can’t throw him out, because the dragon wouldn’t take it at all well.”

“His dragon.” Calandra pursed her lips, her small eyes narrowed. The entire family, as well as the visiting astrologer, who was seated at the far end of the table, knew this expression, known privately to younger brother and sister as “pinch-face.” Calandra could be terrible, when she was in this mood. Paithan kept his gaze on his plate, gathering together a small mound of food with his fork and punching a hole in it. Aleatha stared at her own reflection in the polished surface of the porcelain teapot, tilting her head slightly, admiring the sunlight on her fair hair. Lenthan attempted to disappear by ducking his head behind a vase of flowers. The astrologer comforted himself with a third helping of tohahs.

“That beast that terrorized Lord Durndrun’s?” Calandra’s gaze swept the table.

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve brought it here? To my house?” Ice from her tone seemed to rime her face with white, much as the magical ice rimed the frosted wineglasses.

Paithan nudged his younger sister beneath the table with his foot, caught her eye. “I’ll be leaving this soon, back on the road,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“Soon I’ll be mistress of my own house,” Aleatha returned softly.

“Stop that whispering, you two. We’ll all be murdered in our beds,” cried Calandra, her fury mounting. The warmer her anger, the colder her tone. “I hope then, Paithan, you’ll be pleased with yourself! And you, Thea, I’ve overheard you talking this nonsense about getting married …” Calandra deliberately left the sentence unfinished.

No one moved, except the astrologer (shoveling buttered tohah into his mouth) and the old man. Apparently having no idea he was a bone of contention, he was calmly dismembering a baked chicken. No one spoke. They could hear, quite clearly, the musical chink of a mechanical petal “unfolding” the hour. The silence grew uncomfortable. Paithan saw his father, hunched miserably in his chair, and thought again how feeble and gray he looked. Poor old man, he’s got nothing else but his wacky delusions. Let him have ’em, after all. What harm is it? He decided to risk his sister’s wrath.

“Uh, Zifnab, where did you say father was leading … er … his people?” Calandra glared at him, but, as Paithan had hoped, his father perked up. “Yes, where?” Lenthan asked shyly, blushing.

The old man raised a chicken leg toward heaven.

“The roof?” Lenthan was somewhat confused.

The old man raised the chicken leg higher.

“Heaven? The stars?”

Zifnab nodded, momentarily unable to speak. Bits of chicken dribbled down his beard.

•

“My rockets! I knew it! Did you hear that, Elixnoir?” Lenthan turned to the elven astrologer, who had left off earing and was glowering at the human.

“My dear Lenthan, please consider this rationally. Your rockets are quite marvelous and we’re making considerable progress in sending them above treetop level but to talk of them carrying people to the stars! Let me explain. Here is a model of our world according to the legends handed down to us by the ancients and confirmed by our own observations. Hand me that pricklepear. Now, this”—he held up the pricklepear—“is Pryan and this is our sun.” Elixnoir glanced about, momentarily at a loss for a sun.

“One sun,” said Paithan, picking up a kumquat.

“Thank you,” said the astrologer. “Would you mind—I’m running out of hands.”

“Not at all.” Paithan was enjoying himself hugely. He didn’t dare look at Aleatha, or he knew he’d break out laughing. Acting on Elixnoir’s instructions, he gravely positioned the kumquat a short distance from the pricklepear.

“Now this”—the astrologer lifted a sugar cube. Holding it a long distance from the kumquat, he began to rotate it around the pricklepear—“represents one of the stars. Just look at how far it is from our world! You can imagine what an enormous amount of distance you would have to travel …”

“At least seven kumquats,” murmured Paithan to his sister.

“He was quick enough to believe in Father when it meant a free meal,” Aleatha returned coolly.

“Lenthan!” The astrologer looked severe, pointed at Zifnab. “This man is a humbug! I—”

“Who are you calling humbug?”

The dragon’s voice shook the house. Wine sloshed from glasses, spilling over the lace tablecloth-Small, fragile items slid from end tables and tumbled to the floor. From the study came a thud, a bookcase toppling. Aleatha glanced out a window, saw a girl running, shrieking, from the kitchen.

“I don’t believe you’ll have to worry about the scullery maid any longer, Cal.”

“This is intolerable.” Calandra rose to her feet. The frost that rimed her nose had spread across her face, freezing the features and freezing the blood of those who saw her. Her thin, spare body seemed all sharp angles and every angle liable to hurt anyone who got near her. Lenthan cowered visibly. Paithan, lips twitching, concentrated on folding his lapcloth into a cocked hat. Aleatha sighed and drummed her nails on the table.

“Father,” spoke Calandra in awful tones, “when dinner is concluded I want that old man and his … his …”

“Careful, Cal,” suggested Paithan, not looking up. “You’ll have the house down around our ears—”

“I want them out of my house!” Calandra’s hands gripped the back of her chair, the knuckles white. Her body shook with the chill wind of her ire, the only chill wind that blew in the tropical land. “Old man!” Her voice rose shrilly.

“Do you hear me?”

“Eh?” Zifnab glanced around. Seeing his hostess, he smiled al her benignly and shook his head. “No, thank you, my dear. Couldn’t possibly eat another bite. What’s for dessert?” Paithan gave a half-giggle, smothered the other half in his lapcloth. Calandra turned, and stormed from the room, her skirts crackling about her ankles.

“Now, Cal,” Paithan called in conciliatory tones. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh—”

A door slammed.

“Actually, you know, Lenthan, old fellow,” said Zifnab, gesturing with the chicken leg, which he had picked clean, “we won’t be using your rockets at all. No, they’re not nearly big enough. We’ll have a lot of people to transport, you see, and that’ll take a large vessel. Very large.” He tapped himself thoughtfully on the nose with the bone. “And, as what’s-his-name with the collar says, it’s a long way to the stars.”

“If you will excuse me, Quindiniar,” said the elven astrologer, rising to his feet, his eyes flashing fire. “I will be taking my leave, as well.”

“—especially since it looks as if dessert’s canceled,” said Aleatha, her voice pitched so that the astrologer would be certain to hear. He did; his collar tips quivered, his nose achieved a seemingly impossible angle.

“But don’t worry,” continued Zifnab, placidly ignoring the commotion around him. “We’ll have a ship—a big sucker. It’ll land right smack-dab in the backyard and it’ll have a man to fly it. Young man. Owns a dog. Very quiet—not the dog, the man. Something funny about his hands, though. Always keeps them bandaged. That’s the reason why we have to continue firing off the rockets, you see. Most important, your rockets.”

“They are?” Lenthan was still confused.

“I’m leaving!” stated the astrologer.

• , “Promises, promises.” Paithan sighed, sipped at his wine.

“Yes, of course, rockets are important. Otherwise how’s he going to find us?” demanded the old man.

“He who?” inquired Paithan.

“The he who has the ship. Pay attention!” snapped Zifnab testily.

“Oh, that he who.” Paithan leaned over to his sister. “He owns a dog,” he said confidentially.

“You see, Lenthan—may I call you Lenthan?” inquired the old man politely. “You see, Lenthan, we need a big ship because your wife will want to see all the children again. Been a long time, you know. And they’ve grown so much.”

“What?” Lenthan’s eyes flared open, his cheeks paled. He clasped a trembling hand over his heart. “What did you say? My wife!”

“Blasphemy!” cried the astrologer.

The soft whir of the fans and the slight rustling of the feathery blades were the room’s only sounds. Paithan had set his lapcloth on his plate and was staring down at it, frowning.

“For once I agree with that fool.” Aleatha rose to her feet and glided over to stand behind her father’s chair, her hands on his shoulders.

“Papa,” she said, a tenderness in her voice that no one else in the family ever heard, “it’s been a tiring day. Don’t you think you should go to bed?”

“No, my dear. I’m not the least bit tired.” Lenthan had not taken his eyes from the old man. “Please, sir, what did you say about my wife?” Zifnab didn’t appear to hear him. During the ensuing quiet, the old man’s head had slumped forward, his bearded chin rested on his breast, his eyes dosed. He gave a muffled snore.

Lenthan reached out his hand. “Zifnab—”

“Papa, please!” Aleatha dosed her soft fingers over her father’s blacked and bum-scarred hand. “Our guest is exhausted. Paithan, call for the servants to help the wizard to his room.”

Brother and sister exchanged glances, both having the same idea. With any luck we can smuggle him out of the house tonight. Maybe feed him to his own dragon. Then, in the morning, when he’s gone, we’ll be able to convince Father that he was nothing but an insane old human.

“Sir …” said Lenthan, shaking off his daughter’s hand and catching hold of the old man’s. “Zifnab!”

The old man jerked awake. “Who?” he demanded, glaring around bleary-eyed.

“Where?”

“Papa!”

“Hush, my dear. Go run along and play, there’s a good girl. Papa’s busy, right now. Now, sir, you were talking about my wife—” Aleatha looked pleadingly at Paithan. Her brother could only shrug. Biting her lip, fighting back tears, Aleatha gave her father’s shoulder a gentle pat, then fled from the room. Once out of sight in the drawing room, she pressed her hand over her mouth, sobbing… .

… The child sat outside the door to her mother’s bedchamber. The little girl was alone; she’d been alone for the last three days and she was growing more and more frightened. Paithan’d been sent away to stay with relatives.

“The boy is too rambunctious,” Aleatha had heard someone say. “The house must be kept quiet.” And so Paithan had gone.

Now there was no one for her to talk to, no one to pay any attention to her. She wanted her mother—the beautiful mother, who played with her and sang to her—but they wouldn’t let her go inside her mother’s room. Strange people filled the house—healers with their baskets of funny-smelling plants, astrologers who stood staring out the windows into the sky. The house was quiet, so dreadfully quiet. The servants wept while they worked, wiping their eyes on the tips of their aprons. One of them, seeing Aleatha sitting in the hallway, said that someone should really be doing something about the child, but no one ever did.

Whenever the door to her mother’s room opened, Aleatha jumped to her feet and hied to go inside, but whoever was coming out—generally a healer or his assistant—would shoo the girl back.

“But I want to see Mama!”

“Your mama is very sick. She must stay quiet. You don’t want to worry her, do you?”

“I wouldn’t worry her.” Aleatha knew she wouldn’t. She could be quiet. She’d been quiet for three days. Her mother must miss her terribly. Who was combing out Mama’s lovely flaxen hair? That was Aleatha’s special task, one she performed every morning. She was careful not to tug on the tangles, but unraveled them gently, using the tortoiseshell comb with the ivory rosebuds that had been Mama’s wedding present.

But the door remained shut and always locked. Try as she might, Aleatha couldn’t get inside.

And then one darktime the door opened, and it didn’t shut again. Aleatha knew, now, she could go inside but now she was afraid.

“Papa?” She questioned the man standing in the door, not recognizing him. Lenthan didn’t look at her. He wasn’t looking at anything. His eyes were dull, his cheeks sagged, his step faltered. Suddenly, with a violent sob, he crumpled to the floor, and lay still and unmoving. Healers, hurrying out the door, lifted him in their arms and carried him down the hall to his own bedchamber.

Aleatha pressed back against the wall.

“Mama!” she whimpered. “I want Mama!”

Callie stepped out into the hall. She was the first to notice the child.

“Mama’s gone, Thea,” Calandra said. She was pale, but composed. Her eyes were dry. “We’re alone… .”

Alone. Alone. No, not again. Not ever.

Aleatha glanced frantically around the empty room in which she was standing, hurried back into the dining room, but no one was there.

“Paithan!” she cried, running up the stairs. “Calandra!” Light from her sister’s study streamed out beneath the door.

Aleatha made a dart for it. The door opened, and Paithan stepped out. His usually cheerful face was grim. Seeing Aleatha, he smiled ruefully.

“I … I was looking for you, Pait.” Aleatha felt calmer. She put her chilly hands to her burning cheeks to cool them, bring back the becoming pallor. “Bad time?”

“Yeah, pretty bad.” Paithan smiled wanly. “Come take a walk with me. Through the garden.”

“Sorry, Thea. I’ve got to pack. Cal’s sending me off tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow!” Aleatha frowned, displeased. “But, you can’t!

Lord Dumdrun’s coming to talk to Papa and then there’ll be the engagement parties and you simply have to be here—”

“Can’t be helped, Thea.” Paithan leaned down and kissed her cheek. “Business’s business, you know.” He started off down the hall, heading for his room. “Oh,” he added, turning back.

“A word to the wise. Don’t go in there now.” He nodded his head in the direction of Calandra’s study.

Aleatha withdrew her hand slowly from the door handle. Hidden beneath the silky folds of her gown, the fingers clenched.

“Sweet sombertime, Thea,” said Paithan. He entered his room and shut the door. An explosion, coming from the back of the house, set the windows rattling. Aleatha looked out, saw her father and the old man in the garden, gleefully setting off rockets. She could Hear, from behind the closed door of her sister’s study, the rustle of Cal’s skirts, the tap, tap of her high-heeled, tight-laced shoes. Her sister was pacing. A bad sign. No, as Paithan said, it would not do to interrupt Calandra’s thoughts.

Moving over to the window, Aleatha saw the human slave, lounging at his post near the carriage house, enjoying the rocket bursts. As she watched, she saw him stretch his arms above his head, yawning. Muscles rippled across his bare back. He began to whistle, a barbaric habit among humans. No one would use the carriage this late into shadow hour. He was due to go off-duty soon, when the storm began.

Aleatha hurried down the hali to her own room. Stepping inside, she glanced into her mirror, smoothing and arranging the luxuriant hair. Catching up a shawl, she draped it over her shoulders and, smiling once again, lightly glided down the stairs.

Paithan started on his journey early the following mistymorne. He was setting off alone, planning to join up with the baggage train on the outskirts of Equilan. Calandra was up to see him away. Arms folded tightly across her chest, she regarded him with a stern, cold, and forbidding air. Her humor had not improved during the night. The two were alone. If Aleatha was ever up at this time of day, it was only because she hadn’t yet been to bed.

“Now, mind, Paithan. Keep on eye on the slaves when you cross the border. You know those beasts will run the moment they get a whiff of their own kind. I expect we’ll lose a few; can’t be helped. But keep our losses to the minimum. Follow the back routes and stay away from civilized lands if possible. They’ll be Jess likely to run if there’s no city within easy reach.”

“Sure, Callie.” Paithan, having made numerous trips to Thillia, knew more about the matter than his sister. She gave him this same speech every time he departed, until it had become a ritual between them. The easygoing elf listened and smiled and nodded, knowing that giving these instructions eased his sister’s mind and made her feel that she retained some control over this end of the business.

“Keep sharp watch on this Roland character. I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t trust any humans, Cal.”

“At least I knew our other dealers were dishonest. I knew how they’d try to cheat us. I don’t know this Roland and his wife. I’d have preferred doing business with our regular customers but these two came in with the highest bid. Make certain you get the cash before you turn over one single blade, Fait, and check to see that the money’s real and not counterfeit.”

“Yes, Cal.” Paithan relaxed, and leaned on a fence post. This would go on for some time. He could have told his sister that most humans were honest to the point of imbecility, but he knew she’d never believe him.

“Convert the cash into raw materials as soon as you can. You’ve got the list of what we need, don’t lose it. And make certain the bladewood is good quality, not like that stuff Quintin brought in. We had to throw three-fifths of it out.”

“Have I ever brought you a bad shipment, Cal?” Paithan smiled at his sister.

“No. Just don’t start,” Calandra felt imaginary strands of hair coming loose from their tight coil. She smoothed them back into place, giving the hair pins a vicious jab. “Everything’s going wrong these days. It’s bad enough that I have Father on my hands, now I’ve got some insane old human, too! To say nothing of Aleatha and this travesty of a wedding—”

Paithan reached out, put his hands on his older sister’s bony shoulders. “Let Thea do what she wants, Cal. Durndrun’s a nice enough chap. At least he’s not after her for her money—”

“Humpf!” Calandra sniffed, twitching away from her brother’s touch.

“Let her marry the fellow, Cal—”

“Let her!” Calandra exploded. “I’ll have little enough to say about it, you can be sure of that! Oh, it’s all very well for you to stand there and grin, Paithan Quindiniar, but you won’t be here to face the scandal. This marriage will be the talk of the season. I hear the dowager’s taken to her bed over the news. I’ve no doubt she’ll drag in the queen. And I’ll be the one to deal with it. Father, of course, is less than useless.”

“What’s that, my dear?” came a mild voice behind them. Lenthan Quindiniar stood in the doorway, the old man beside him.

“I said you’ll be less than useless in dealing with Aleatha and this insane notion of hers—marrying Lord Durndrun,” Calandra snapped, in no mood to humor her parent.

“But why shouldn’t they get married? If they love each other—”

“Love! Thea?” Paithan burst out laughing. Noting the confused look on his father’s face and the scow! on his sister’s, the young elf decided it was high time to hit the bridges. “I’ve got to run. Quintin’ll think I’ve fallen through the moss or been eaten by a dragon.” Leaning over, the elf kissed his sister on her cold and withered cheek. “You will let Thea have her way in this, won’t you?”

“I don’t see that I’ve much choice. She’s been having her way in everything since Mother died. Remember what I’ve told you and have a safe trip.” Calandra pursed her lips, pecked Paithan’s chin. The kiss was nearly as sharp as a bird’s beak, and he had to restrain himself from rubbing his skin.

“Father, good-bye.” The elf shook hands. “Good luck with the rockets.” Lenthan brightened visibly. “Did you see the ones we set off last night?

Brilliant bursts of fire above the treetops. I attained real altitude. I’ll bet people could see the blasts all the way to “niillia.”

“I’m sure they could, sir,” agreed Paithan. He turned to the old man.

“Zifnab—”

“Where?” The old man whipped about.

Paithan cleared his throat, kept a straight face. “No, no, sir. I mean you. Your name.” The elf held out his hand. “Remember? Zifnab?”

“Ah, pleased to meet you, Zifnab,” said the old man, shaking hands. “You know, though, that name sure sounds familiar. Are we related?”

Calandra gave him a shove with her hand. “You better get going, Pait.”

“Tell Thea good-bye for me!” Paithan said.

His sister snorted, shook her head, her face grim.

“Have a good trip, Son,” said Lenthan in a wistful tone. “You know, sometimes I think maybe I should go out on the road. I think I might enjoy it… .” Seeing Calandra’s eyes narrow, Paithan struck in hastily, “You let me handle the travel for you. Father. You’ve got to stay here and work on your rockets. Leading the people forth, and all that.”

“Yes, you’re right,” said Lenthan with an air of self-importance. “I had better get started working on that, right now. Are you coming, Zifnab?”

“What? Oh, you talking to me? Yes, yes, my dear fellow. Be along in a jiffy. You might want to increase the amount of sinktree ash. I think we’ll achieve greater lift.”

“Yes, of course! Why didn’t I think of that!” Lenthan beamed, waved vaguely at his son, and hurried into the house.

“Probably won’t have any eyebrows left,” muttered the old man. “But we’ll achieve greater lift. Well, you’re off, are you?”

“Yes, sir.” Paithan grinned, and whispered confidentially, “Mind you don’t let any of that death, doom, and destruction start without me.”

“I won’t.” The old man gazed at him with eyes that were suddenly, unnervingly, shrewd and cunning. He jabbed a gnarled finger in Paithan’s chest. “Doom will come back with you!”