Elvenborn

10

"I hope I don't look as nervous as I feel," Kyrtian muttered to himself, as he re-checked his appearance in the gilt-edged mirror to his right. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd glanced into mirrors today, making certain—of what? He wasn't quite sure; he only knew that he didn't want to look like Lord Kyndreth's son Gildor and his cronies, nor did he want to ape the appearance of Lord Kyndreth himself. He wanted to look mature, sober, perhaps a touch on the scholarly side, but able to hold his own in physical combat as well. Looking prosperous, but not necessarily opulent, was as important; on reflection, perhaps what he wanted was to look as if he could be Lord Kyndreth's intellectual equal, but not as if he already assumed that he was. After going through at least four changes of clothing and nearly driving his poor servants mad, he finally settled on a conservative tunic and tight-fitting trews of soft doeskin dyed a rich blue and slashed to display the silver satin of his shirt. Matching boots suitable for some hard walking completed the outfit, with a heavy silver chain and fillet confining his hair as his only jewelry. Jewels would not impress Lord Kyndreth, who was a powerful mage and knew how easily such things could be produced by illusion.

The mirror he kept glancing into was just outside the Portal Chamber; at any moment now Lord Kyndreth and his entourage should be coming through. The door to the chamber was open; it was really too small to allow for a graceful exit of so large a group. Servants in the household colors lined the chamber and the hall outside, but Kyrtian was the sole representative of the family; he was the head of the Clan now, and it would betray an unhealthy influence from his mother if she were here to receive the guests as well as he.

The servants, well-schooled in their roles, kept their eyes cast down as Kyrtian fidgeted with the chain around his neck. At long last, the Portal shimmered with energy, and Kyrtian snapped to attention, presenting a mask of calm, the perfect picture of a welcoming host.

The first figures through the Portal were, naturally, Lord Kyrtian's bodyguards, one of whom was the fighter called Kaeth that Kyrtian remembered from the combat. They deployed themselves on either side of the Portal with smooth, efficient, and practiced movements, making a barrier of themselves between the Portal and Kyrtian's servants. They must go through such maneuvers constantly; what surprised him was that they looked alert and suspicious, not bored. The servants took no notice; Gel had lectured them on what they could expect and what they should—or more appropriately, should not—do. They kept their places, as if this sort of quasi-military invasion happened every day.

Lord Kyndreth was next through the door, followed by his son Gildor. Kaeth moved in closer to his lord, standing unobtrusively nearby, close enough to intercept any aggressive action. Kyrtian moved immediately to welcome the Elvenlord, making sure that his own movements were non-aggressive.

"Welcome, my lord," he said, pitching his voice low, but putting warmth into it. "And thank you for being patient enough to wait until we could welcome you with all the honor and comfort that is your due. I hope that you will be pleased with what we have to show you."

Lord Kyndreth took Kyrtian's extended hand in his, in a firm clasp that was clearly a test. Kyrtian returned an equal pressure, and Lord Kyndreth smiled, ever so slightly, as he released Kyrtian's hand. "It is I who should be thanking you for your hospitality, Lord Kyrtian," he replied, as they moved forward to permit the rest of the entourage to come through. "Your household is a quiet one, and I understand that you have few visitors; we are creating quite a disruption for you."

Kyrtian made the expected disclaimers, as he kept one eye on Lord Kyndreth and the other on Lord Gildor and the part of the entourage that was composed of Gildor's friends. "I hesitate to mention this, my lord, but we were not expecting so large a group—perhaps some of the guests would accept accommodation in a pavilion?"

Lord Kyndreth east an eye back at his son and his son's followers, who were clearly intoxicated and likely to remain that way for some time. "Lord Gildor and his associates are not remaining," he replied smoothly. "They came only to view the pitched battle, and will depart as soon as the demonstration is complete."

Kyrtian did not let out a sigh of relief, but some of his concern left him. Housing Gildor and his cronies was the last of his potential problems, and the only one he hadn't anticipated.

Lord Kyndreth and his servants should behave in predictable ways, but Gildor and his drunken friends were neither predictable nor safe for the servants to be around. They were used to getting their way in all things, used to taking what they wanted, and it was entirely possible that what they wanted would invoke automatic, unthinking rebellion in the human servants, who were not used to being treated as objects to be used and discarded at will. But if Gildor and his cronies were already planning to leave right after the demonstration—well, Kyrtian was confident his people could hold things together for that long.

"The demonstration is ready, my Lord," he said; and gestured, bringing several pre-selected servants forward. "My people will guide your servants to your quarters, so that all will be in readiness for your comfort when the battle is over."

"Excellent." Kyndreth did nothing, but Kaeth made a gesture, sending two of the bodyguards and several of Kyndreth's slaves laden with baggage to join Kyrtian's servants. Kyrtian's people quickly took over most of the burdens of the luggage and led the others down the corridor towards the guest-quarters. Lord Kyndreth gave an expectant glance at Kyrtian, who took the hint and led the rest of the group through the maze of corridors to the balcony outside the lesser dining-room. This same balcony overlooked the field usually used for celebrations; today it would be the site of a battle.

For this occasion, the balcony was sheltered from the glare of the sun with an awning made of tapestry, giving it the look of a viewing-stand for a formal tournament. Banks of comfortable seats awaited the visitors, and refreshments had been prepared and set out to greet them, all under the watchful eye of Lady Lydiell. Out of the corner of his eye, Kyrtian saw the smugly superior expressions of Gildor and his friends changed to looks of gratification and pleasure. Obviously they had not thought to find a sophisticated level of hospitality in this provincial household.

Now Kyrtian presented his mother to the guests; Lydiell had gone to great effort to appear as a typical Elven lady. Gowned and coiffed as her son had seldom seen her before, her expression that of a flawless statue, she resembled her everyday self very little indeed. Kyrtian had not seen her until this moment, and winced inwardly as he thought how long she must have spent in the hands of her servants to achieve her appearance. Her silver hair had been divided into hundreds of tiny braids, which had then been arranged in a series of draped loops and knots held in place with jeweled pins. Her pastel-hued gown, of multiple layers of misty, cobweb-like blue fabric, with sleeves and train that trailed behind her, could not possibly be more impractical for her normal duties. Each and every hem had been edged in lace so fine it was close to transparent, and likely to snag on everything unless great pains were taken to prevent such a disaster. Tiny, sparkling motes of gems winked amid the misty folds of the gown, and more gems strung on gossamer strands of silver wreathed her neck. From her toes to the last hair, Lydiell's costume was so fragile it invited ruin in the mere acts of moving and walking.

That, however, was not an Elven Lady's business to worry about; it was the duty of her slaves to manage sleeves and hems, and see to it that her gown remained perfect and pristine at all times. So it was today; any time Lydiell moved, she was trailed by four women whose only purpose was to see that she could move about as easily as a graceful image in a perfect daydream.

This, of course, was exactly what Lord Kyndreth expected to see, so he simply bowed over Lydiell's hand and escorted her back to her chair while Gildor and the rest chose seats. Lord Kyndreth took the place of honor at Lydiell's right hand, and Kyrtian assumed the seat at her left. As soon as each guest was in his chosen seat, a servant presented him with a chilled glass of sparkling wine and a platter of dainties from which to make a choice. Gel and Kyrtian had left nothing to chance, not even the number of guests; a young page had sprinted to the balcony while Kyrtian and Lord Kyndreth spoke to report the exact number of Elvenlords that had arrived. There was neither one chair too many, nor too few, and precisely the correct number of servants, one to each guest. The human slaves, Lord Kyn-dreth's bodyguards included, all stood, of course. No slave sat in the presence of his masters.

Only when everyone was settled, did the two "armies" move out onto the field. Lord Kyndreth leaned forward in his seat immediately, his attention riveted on the combatants. For his part, Kyrtian tried not to fidget nervously, though not because the success of the combat was in doubt. No, it was only that he was not on the field himself; this would be the first time he was only an observer rather than a participant. He found, somewhat to his own chagrin, that he did not make a very good observer.

As the two forces charged towards each other, shouting taunts and battle-cries, Gildor and his friends were momentarily diverted. But as the combat continued—and it was clear that it would be a bloodless combat, as man after man glowed scarlet or blue and had to retire to the sidelines—they quickly lost interest.

"How many men can you hold this magic on at a time?" Lord Kyndreth asked quietly, as Kyrtian ignored the muttered jeers and scornful laughter of Gildor and his friends.

"I don't know for certain, my lord," Kyrtian said honestly. "I've never had occasion to try it on more than a thousand, so I have not yet found an upper limit."

"A thousand!" Kyndreth was clearly impressed, even if his son was underwhelmed. "By the Ancestors, that is remarkable! There should be no difficulty then in training battalions of fighters in field maneuvers so long as several mages are used to hold the magic in place!"

"I should think not, my lord," Kyrtian responded deferentially. "Especially if the mages concerned are powerful ones such as yourself. I am certain that you would find it a trivial task to hold the magic on twice that number."

Behind them, Gildor and his friends were making deep inroads on the wine, showing quite clearly just how bored they were with the combat. Nevertheless, given Lord Kyndreth's interest and approval, they didn't dare be too vocal in their contempt.

Finally their restlessness got to the point where it annoyed Lord Kyndreth himself. The battle had devolved into a mass of single combats between the most skilled of the fighters, and it was obvious it would be some time before sheer weariness became the undoing of many of the fighters. Lord Kyndreth abruptly stood up, and Kyrtian took that as he was meant to, blowing the shrill whistle that signaled the end of the demonstration.

Obedient to the signal, fighting ceased immediately, and in the sudden silence, Lord Kyndreth turned to his host with a broad smile.

"This has been a most impressive demonstration, Lord Kyrtian," he said, with as much warmth as Kyrtian had ever seen him display until now. "Even more so than the single-combat you originally showed us. I am looking forward to learning this new application of magic in the next few days—but I fear than my son and his friends have previous commitments and must be on their way—" Now he leveled a gaze on his bemused son that shook the young Elvenlord into momentary sobriety. "Mustn't you, Gildor?"

The younger lord, startled by his sire's abrupt change of mood, stammered out his reply. "Of—of course, certainly," he babbled. "Previous commitments, pressing engagements, and all that. So sorry. Excellent show. Be on our way now—"

"My people will show you the way back to the Portal Chamber, Lord Gildor," Kyrtian replied, with as fine a display of the height of good manners as anyone could have asked. He gave no hint that he had heard the disparaging remarks, nor that he was well aware that Gildor was so drank he probably could not have found the door without help. "I cannot tell you how gratified I was by your presence, or by your appreciation. I hope that we will be able to give you a better demonstration of our hospitality at some time in the future."

Gildor and his friends filed back into the dining hall, subdued by Lord Kyndreth's enthusiastic reception of the demonstration. There were no more jeering asides, no more snickers. Kyrtian was under no illusions about this; he fully expected that the moment the younger Elvenlords passed the Portal, they would begin their scornful gossip again. But for now, it was obvious who the master was, and what the master approved—and all the young lords fell obediently into line.

Odd, Kyrtian thought, as Lord Kyndreth exchanged some polite compliments with Lady Lydiell and the last of the unwanted visitors passed through the doors of the lesser dining hall. I would have thought, given the way he likes to puff himself up and bluster, that Gildor would have sided with the Young Lords against his father. Lord Kyndreth isn't going to pass over power any time in the foreseeable future, and I would have thought that by now Gildor would be hungry for that power.

Perhaps, though, Gildor liked comfort better than power. Perhaps he already knew he didn't dare to challenge his father. Or, perhaps Gildor was less ambitious than Kyrtian would have been in his place. As it was, Gildor had prestige, status, and a carefree, pampered existence. If he sat where his father now he'd sway, he might actually have to work.

Kyndreth turned to Kyrtian, who collected his scattered thoughts. "I believe that I would like to retire to my quarters to prepare for dinner and think about all you have shown me," he said. "Unless you have something more planned to show me today?"

"Only one thing, and that is on the way," Kyrtian replied, with a slight smile. "Please, allow me to escort you. Perhaps some questions will occur to you that I can answer as we walk."

They both bowed to Lady Lydiell, who nodded gravely to both of them without speaking. Kyrtian waited while one of the servants held the door open for them; he also waited for the bodyguards to flank his guest before taking his own place beside Kyndreth. Other than that, he paid no attention to the bodyguards.

Kyndreth glanced sharply around as they passed along the hallways; for a moment, Kyrtian wondered what had caught his attention, then Kyndreth answered his question with a query of his own.

"You use no illusion here, do you?" Kyndreth asked, as if surprised.

"Very little, my lord," Kyrtian replied, and smiled slightly. "Perhaps we are somewhat conservative in nature, but we—my mother and I, that is—prefer the real to the illusory. Illusion is—" He groped for words.

"Cheap?" Kyndreth surprised him with the word he had been trying to avoid, and the ironic lifting of his eyebrow. "I tend to agree, actually. Any halfway competent mage can cloak rotting timber and moth-eaten tapestry in illusion. To maintain a gracious and attractive home without illusion requires dedication and effort. Illusion is, I believe, the lazy man's way."

"I agree, my lord. We here prefer substance to style, one might say." Again, he ventured a smile. "Our home may be old-fashioned in style, but that is the price of preferring substance."

By this time, they had reached the area of the old nursery— which was now the new harem—and Kyrtian paused. "I would like to offer you all the comforts of our house, my lord. If you would care to pass within?"

Lord Kyndreth could easily see the shimmer of power that cloaked the door, which meant his bodyguards would not be able to follow him inside. But there was also no doubt what Kyrtian's words had implied, and he was probably curious just what sort of harem the notoriously ascetic Kyrtian had. He signaled to his bodyguards to join the two guards at the door, and followed Kyrtian within.

The three young women were waiting for them, and rose instantly to their feet, pausing just long enough for Lord Kyndreth to get a good look at them before they sank to the ground in deep curtsies.

For the very first time, Kyrtian saw the Great Lord surprised. So surprised, in fact, that his jaw dropped, just a trifle. The he recovered his composure, and turned to Kyrtian with a sly grin.

"You young dog!" he exclaimed, and clapped Kyrtian on the shoulder. "No wonder nothing tempts you to mix with the other youngsters. They haven't anything to offer that could ever match these treasures!"

Kyrtian bowed his head slightly. "So I believe, my lord." He gestured, and the young women, flushing prettily, rose again. Lord Kyndreth surveyed them again, his eyes lingering on each in turn.

"I believe I shall take up your offer," he said with a chuckle. "But after dinner. There is, as the Ancestors said, a pleasure in anticipation that the wise man learns to cherish as much as the fulfillment of that anticipation."

"Very true, my lord," Kyrtian murmured deferentially. "Very true."

Lord Kyndreth was a surprisingly good dinner-guest. He ate and drank moderately, gave praise to the cook, and took care to involve Lady Lydiell in the conversation. Kyrtian gradually relaxed. The visit was going well; if it continued in this vein, the entire expenditure of time and energy would have been well repaid.

As the dessert course was brought in, Lord Kyndreth turned to Kyrtian, and for the first time there was a hint of hesitation in his expression. "Lord Kyrtian, there is something that I have been curious about for a very long time, but I hesitate to bring up a subject that would cause you or your Lady-Mother any discomfort."

"What subject would that be?" Kyrtian asked, cautiously.

"I am—and have been—very curious about your late father," came the surprising answer. "More to the point, I am curious as to his reasons for vanishing into the wilderness. I know some have made inappropriate observations about him, but I saw nothing in your father's demeanor before he vanished to make me believe that he had anything but very good reasons for his actions."

Kyrtian glanced at his mother, who nodded slightly. The unspoken message was clear: he could go ahead and reveal some of what he already knew.

Kyrtian cleared his throat. "There is a tradition—some might call it a legend—in our family that when the Elves first came across from Evelon, the machines and most of the books they had brought with them were too burdensome to carry. More pressing concerns had to be dealt with—in the hunt for a place to live and the means to do so, ancient knowledge was of no use in such a brand new world. So all these things were more of a handicap than an advantage, and they were cached shortly after the search for more hospitable territory began. For some reason, no one ever went back for them—perhaps only because the Elvenlords were too busy subduing the natives. Those caches of ancient knowledge were what my father was hunting when he vanished."

"Interesting." Lord Kyndreth pulled at his lower lip in thought. "Assuming that there is useful knowledge there that we have lost, which is quite possible, whoever found those cached materials could have a distinct advantage."

"Since I replicated my methods of combat-training by means of research into the old books we still have, I suspect there is a great deal of knowledge that has been lost or forgotten," Kyrt-ian replied, somberly. "Frankly, I have no idea what might lie out there, nor did my father. We simply haven't got enough information even to make a guess."

What he did not observe was that Lady Lydiell knew something more and had told Kyrtian her family traditions as well as his father's. And it was not particularly flattering to the Great Lords of this land.

The tale of the Crossing was one that the Great Lords had probably done their best to forget. There had been a civil war in Evelon, and their side was the one that was, at the time of the Crossing, the losing side. The ancestors of the current Erven-lords decided to escape through the Gate they would build together, taking their chances on finding a hospitable land with easily cowed natives on the other side. It was either that, or face surrender, and have their power reft from them by the winners. The result would be that the losers would live on, but enslaved, and disgraced.

"Official" history said little of the war, and did not even hint that the Elvenlords might have been getting the worst of the conflict. Instead, by common consent, the Ancestors were regarded as bold, fearless pioneers, striking out on their own when life in Evelon grew wearisome through its never-changing sameness.

Lady Lydiell knew more, preserved through the female line. Even though it had been agreed that all of the Elven mages would pool their strength and magic, the more unscrupulous and selfish held back. As a result, when the Gate went up, some were drained of magic power, while others still had enough to make them the rulers on the other side.

That was the difference between the original Great Lords and the Lesser Lords, and not, as the Great Lords would have everyone believe, a matter of intelligence and inherited power.

"The machines that came over seemed to encounter difficulties, possibly due to the disruptive effect of the Gate on their spells, and may have been abandoned as a consequence. My father had found a speculative document suggesting that the war-machines they brought with them could be drained for power, even if they no longer worked correctly," Kyrtian went on. "If so, they could provide a reservoir of magic to fall back on when a mage's own powers were depleted."

Once again, he saw Lord Kyndreth's eyes narrow slightly, as he contemplated this possibility. Kyrtian's father had intended—if it could be done—to restore the magic to those Elves who lacked it. Lord Kyndreth was probably thinking in terms of keeping all that power to himself, to be doled out as he chose.

That would give him unprecedented power among his own peers, and an unprecedented tool to manipulate them. A mage with such a resource at his disposal would be what the Elven-lords had never yet had.

A King.

"At any rate, that was why Father was out hunting—looking for the machines and the books, and obviously this was not something that a rational man would have human slaves doing, because of the dangers implicit in exposing slaves to things so unknown and unpredictable," Kyrtian finished. "The humans do have their own form of magic, after all—and who knows what exposure to those machines would do? It might free them of their collars—might give them powers to match ours! No, that was a task he preferred to keep to himself."

"I can see why—and your father was a far wiser man than anyone has given him credit for being," Lord Kyndreth said gravely. "Now you have given me twice as much to think about...."

Kyrtian shook his head. "But this talk of lost machines and cached books—such things surely must wait until we have dealt with the Halfbloods and our own rebellious youth." He deliberately framed the reply to include himself in the opposite party to the Young Lords, and he saw Lord Kyndreth smile in reply.

"You are correct," the Great Lord replied. "And long before we do that, there is much we must accomplish—not the least of which is to do justice to the finale of this excellent meal."

Kyrtian signed internally, and answered Kyndreth's smile with one of his own. He had been accepted—perhaps not as an equal, but certainly as an ally. And that should put paid to Cousin Aelmarkin's plans for the near future, at least.

"Very true, my lord," he murmured. "You are entirely correct, as usual."