Norton, Andre - Mercedes Lackey - Elvenblood

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Norton, Andre & Lackey, Mercedes - Elvenblood
Scanned by Highroller and proofed more or less by Highroller
Andre Norton and Mercedes Lackey’s Elvenblood
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.
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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.
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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
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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 that 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
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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
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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.
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"—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
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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 Sheyrena 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
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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.
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She would never know if her magic was the equal of Lorryn's, because no elven
maiden would ever be taught anything but useless skills like flower-sculpting,
water-weaving, and the like. Oh, she had heard vague rumors of a few, a very few,
elven women who wielded their power like a man, but she had never met any, and
she doubted that any of them would be willing to share their secrets with her. Yet
before that lesson, it would never have occurred to her that she had a certain
power in her own hands that no elven lord would ever suspect.
For it was during the course of that lesson that she realized something strange,
exciting, and a little frightening.
The same skills I used to shape the flower could be used in other ways—stopping
a heart, for instance. Those useless lessons? If she ever needed that power, those
lessons might not be so useless after all.
"What is this? A thread? No, cut it off."
She had not mentioned her revelation to her mother, knowing that Viridina would
have been horrified. And she had not really known that the idea would work until
a few days later, when she had found a bird in the garden that had flown into a
window and broken its neck. Without thinking, she had moved to end the poor
thing's pain—and stopped its heart.
She had run back to her own room in horror, fleeing what she had done. But the
deed remained, and the power, and the knowledge of what she had done.
Since that moment she had not been able to look at anything the same way. She
had surreptitiously experimented with her power, working with the sparrows and
pigeons that flocked to the garden. At first she had only made tiny alterations in
their color, or the length of their feathers. Then she grew bolder, until now her
garden was full of exotic creatures with feathers of scarlet and blue, gold and
green, with trailing tails and flaring crests, all of them tame to her hand.
Something told her that making subtle changes with her power could be as
important—and as dangerous—as the kinds of magic that Lorryn wielded.
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Norton,Andre&Lackey,Mercedes-ElvenbloodScannedbyHighrollerandproofedmoreorlessbyHighrollerAndreNortonandMercedesLackey’sElvenbloodChapter1SHEYRENAHADGROWNverywearyofcoosofadmirationoverthelasthourorso.Humanvoices,harshandheavybyelvenstandards,didnotnormallygrateonherears,buttheydidtoday."Oh,mylady,...

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