Andre Norton - Elvenblade 02 - Elvenblood

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Elvenblood

Book Two of The Halfblood Chronicles

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 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 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 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

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.

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.

And yet, at the same time, she was afraid to stretch out her hand and take the ephemeral power that

beckoned her. No other elven woman had ever dared do so—perhaps there was a reason. Perhaps this

beckoning power was nothing more than an illusion of strength. True, she could make a colorful bird out

of a sparrow—but what good was that? What did it prove?

"If my lady could remove her foot from the sleeve, please?"

But what if it was not? What if it was real? What if she had discovered something no one else knew?

Her secret thoughts weighed in her soul and made it impossible to accept anything at face value

anymore. Hardest to bear was the way her father treated her mother and herself.

This very gown was an example of how little he thought of them, how little he trusted them with

anything of import. To Sheyrena's certain knowledge, the only time he ever came to Viridina's bower

with a pleasant face was when he wanted her to come play the proper wife before his influential friends.

In private, neither of them could ever truly please him. He preferred the company of the human slaves in

his harem, and constantly compared Viridina to his latest favorites, always unfavorably.

Not that I envy them, she thought, glancing out of the corner of her eye at one of the redheads.

Father's tastes are fickle, and his favorites never last long.

And when his favorites were out of favor, Lord Tylar seemed to take a malicious delight in sending

them to serve his wife or daughter in the bower. Sheyrena had never been able to guess whether he did

so to try to torment them with the still lovely presence of his former leman, or to torment the former

favorite with the presence of the lawful wife who could not be displaced. Perhaps it was both.

Viridina accepted this quietly and without a single comment, ever; just as she accepted with the

same serene resignation everything else that life bestowed on her. She was not envious of the harem

beauties either; there was really no difference in the world of the harem and that of the bower except that

Viridina could not be supplanted. They had neither more freedom than their putative mistress, nor less.

As Sheyrena had gradually come to understand, the distinction between the bower and the harem was

that the bower was a harem of one. Only when it came to Lorryn and Lorryn's well-being did Viridina

show any signs of interest—though a furtive, obsessive, fearful anxiety, as if she was terrified that

something would happen to him. She watched over Lorryn with the care and concern she could have

shown if he were an invalid, rather then the healthy creature he was. Or did his attacks of kryshein mean

he was not as healthy as Sheyrena thought? Was there some secret trouble with Lorryn, something Rena

could not be told? But if that was true, then why hadn't Lorryn told her? He never had kept any secret

from her before!

Viridina might accept her lot as an elven lady, but it was more than Sheyrena could stomach for

herself.

Better to be ignored as the daughter than humiliated as the wife of someone like Father.

She was surrounded by all of the slaves now, each of them making minute adjustments to the gown,

the lacings, as if she were nothing more than a mannequin inside it and the gown itself was the important

guest. Sheyrena had a sudden, absurd thought, that perhaps this was the real truth—that the gown had a

life and purpose of its own, and she was nothing more than the vehicle it required to propel it to the place

where it would be admired!

Yet, in a sense, that was the whole truth. The gown represented Lord Tylar, his power, his wealth,

his position. She was nothing more than the means to display all these things, a convenient banner-bearer.

It was the banner that was important, not the hand that held it, after all. Anything would have served the

same purpose.

If I'd been as feeble-wined as Ardeyn's mother, he would still have had me trussed up in this

gown and sent off to the fete. And if he were as wise as any of the High Lords, he would have

found a way to command my silence so as not to distract potential suitors from the message of his

importance.

She and her mother were nothing more than things to Lord Tylar—not that this was a new thought,

but it had never been driven home quite so obviously before. They were possessions, game-pieces, and

their whole importance lay in how they could be played to the best advantage.

She was encased in the layers of this gown as she was encased in the layers of his power over her,

and nothing would ever change that. She knew that, and yet a persistent little voice deep inside kept

asking, "Why not?"

Because that is the way things are, she told that little voice. They have always been that way,

and they will always be that way. Nothing will ever change them. Certainly not one insignificant

female, for females are of no consequence to anyone.

But the little voice would not accept that answer. As her slaves directed her to sit again so that they

might dress her hair, it replied, "Oh no? Then what about the halfblood wizards? What about the

Elvenbane? She is only one female."

Sheyrena had no answer for that. Certainly the High Lords had been certain they had disposed of all

the halfbloods long ago, and had thought they had made certain no others could be born. The halfbloods,

with their melding of human and elven magics, were holders of the only real power that had ever

threatened the elven lords' rule over this world they had conquered so long ago. Yet despite all the

precautions, more halfblooded children had been born—worse, had escaped to grow into their

powers—and had survived to learn how to use those powers. One of those children had been a girl who

had, by ill luck or conscious direction, matched the descriptions of a "savior" in human legend called "the

Elvenbane." She had found allies the High Lords hadn't even dreamed existed.

Dragons.

Sheyrena sighed as she thought of the dragons, her chest constricted by the tightly laced dress. Not

that she had ever seen one, but she had heard plenty of descriptions. Oh, how she would love to get just

a glimpse of one! Sinuous, graceful, glistening in the sunlight with the colors of precious gems as they

flew—dragons lilted through her dreams at night sometimes, leaving her yearning after them when dawn

came, sometimes with her cheeks wet with tears of longing and loss.

'Turn your head this way, my lady."

It was the dragons that had turned the tide for the wizards, and made it possible for them to hold off

the armies of no less than three of the High Lords. There had been a dreadful slaughter that included

many elves. Chief among those was the powerful, if half-mad, Lord Dyran. Sheyrena had heard it

whispered that it was his own son who had slain him. That hardly seemed possible, and yet, who would

have thought that dragons were possible a year ago?

In the end, the High Lords were forced to accede to a truce. The wizards retreated out beyond the

lands that the elves claimed, and the elves pledged to leave them in peace.

My father claims we drove them out, and that we only let them go because it wasn't worth

pursuing them. She allowed herself a treacherous iota of contempt. The last time he entertained

guests, he went on for hours about it. They all did. You'd think we actually defeated them, from

the way Father acted!

And that little voice inside spoke up without prompting. "Maybe they aren't as much in control as

they would like to think," it whispered insidiously. "Maybe they aren't anywhere near as powerful as you

think. Maybe you aren't as insignificant as they would like to make you think."

That's all very well, she told it sullenly, But what exactly am I supposed to do to prove how free

I am?

The voice finally went silent then, having no solutions to offer. After all, it was nothing more than her

own stubborn rebellion.

Still, that was a point. Lorryn called the second Wizard War "a draw at best, a rout at worst," and

he did not mean for the halfblood side. What if the power of the High Lords had weakened? Did that

mean there was room for a female to make a life for herself, in the midst of the High Lords' scramble to

retain what they had?

"Bend your head, please, my lady."

But how? That was the real question. How to escape the dreary life that had been laid out for her

from the moment of her birth? These plans had a life of their own, rolling along whether or not she agreed

to them.

And Father can force me if he wants to. That was another fact. He could visit any number of

unpleasant punishments on her if she refused to cooperate. He could confine her to a single room on

starvation meals.

He could even lock a slave-collar on me, and coerce me to obey with magic. She had heard

rumors of that happening to some maidens, faced with exceedingly unpleasant husbands-to-be. It was

easy enough to conceal such a device in a piece of elaborate jewelry; such things were constructed for

favored slaves all the time. She felt her throat close and her breath come shorter at the very idea. She

quickly controlled herself, before the slaves noticed.

No, there was no escape for her—only the minimal freedom she had now, as the daughter rather

than the wife. But if only there were!

Not that I have any idea what I would do, she admitted to herself. It was just that she had been

feeling so stifled for such a long time, locked up in the bower, doing next to nothing, listening to the gossip

of the slaves. I want to do something with my life, even if I don't know what. I don't want to become

another pretty puppet like Mother; that much I do know. I couldn't bear that.

But as she watched the slaves braiding and arranging her hair in the mirror, she was struck by how

much she did resemble her mother. And an uncomfortable thought occurred to her. Had Lady Viridina

always been the perfect elven lady? Or had she been forced to pretend that she was, until the last of her

spirit faded, and the pretense became reality, the facade became fact?

Could that happen to me?

A very uncomfortable thought, that. Sheyrena turned away from it nastily. There was not and never

had been a sign that Lady Viridina was anything but what she appeared to be. Sheyrena was not her

mother. Viridina could never understand her.

If only I'd been born a boy… Another thought-path, this one worn by travel. If only she had been

born a male, Lorryn's little brother instead of his sister They were nearly as close as brothers anyway, for

despite custom to the contrary, because of his mother's obsessive need to oversee his welfare, Lorryn

had spent plenty of time in the bower instead of being sequestered away with a series of male tutors.

Viridina encouraged this, and even dropped her fanatic watchfulness whenever her son and daughter

were together. He had shared plenty of lessons with Sheyrena as they grew. She had trailed along after

him countless times, dressed in his castoffs, without anyone seeming to notice. Even now he smuggled her

out in disguise as a male slave, sharing rides and hunts with her, whenever their father wasn't in residence.

Discipline was relaxed whenever Lord Tylar was gone; there wasn't such a close watch kept, and

Lorryn's age and status kept awkward questions from being asked.

She enjoyed the rides, although the inevitable conclusion of the hunts generally made her feel sick

and she avoided the kill whenever possible. It was Lorryn who had told her most of what she knew

about the real conclusion of what he called "the second Wizard War."

"Please close your eyes, my lady."

Sheyrena obeyed the request, and continued to follow her own thoughts. She assumed Lorryn

picked up most of what he knew from the other el-Lords, the young heirs and younger sons that he saw

socially. Most of what Lorryn had told her, she suspected, was not anything their elders would approve

of her hearing. -Very little of it was flattering; Lorryn and his contemporaries did not have a high opinion

of their elders' intelligence or ability.

She had the feeling that Lorryn secretly admired the now-deceased Valyn, Lord Dyran's heir, who

had actually joined forces with the wizards, turning traitor to his own kind. Lorryn swore that he had

done so to save his presumably halfblooded brother, Mere; though how he could know that, she hadn't a

clue. He seemed obsessed with that part of the story, but as for her, she could not hear enough about the

dragons.

Oh, the dragons…

The slaves were working on her face now, with tiny brushes and pots of cosmetic, trying to give her

some semblance of a living person. That was going to be difficult to do; her hair was the palest

white-gold imaginable, and her face completely without color in its natural state, her eyes so pale a green

as to seem gray. Anything they did with cosmetics was doomed to look artificial. At the best, she would

resemble a porcelain statue; at worst, a clown.

At the moment, she was inclined to hope for the clown.

Lorryn had also been the one to tell her about the Elvenbane, who summoned the dragons. Some of

what he had told her she had also overheard when her father had made conversation with guests, but not

that. Her father never even acknowledged that any such creature existed.

That wasn't particularly surprising. The Elvenbane was female and halfblood, and must represent

everything Lord Tylar hated and feared.

But if I could choose anything other than a boy—I would choose to be her. Oh, how that

would shock Lady Viridina! But that was what Sheyrena dreamed, in the secret dark of the deep night:

that she was the Elvenbane. Powerful in her own right, bending the world to her will and her magic,

riding across the sky on a dragon; that was the way to live!

If I was the Elvenbane, there would be no father to stop me, nothing I couldn't do if I wanted

to. I could go anywhere, see anything, be anything that I wished!

She settled back into her daydreams as the slaves worked on her face, tiny brushes flicking across

her cheeks, lips, and eyelids with the kiss of a thousand butterflies. She envisioned herself mounted on a

huge scarlet dragon, soaring under a cloudless sky, so high above the forest that the trees blurred into a

mossy carpet of green and there was no sign of walls or buildings. In her dreaming, the dragon carried

her toward the mountains she had never seen, which rose to meet them, towering spires sparkling with

fantastic crags of crystal and rose quartz, amethyst and—

A polite cough woke her out of her dream. Regretfully she opened her eyes and regarded the

handiwork of the slaves in her mirror.

It was appalling. It was also the best they could do, and she knew it. Her eyes were washed out by

the heavy peacock-blue they had painted on her lids; her cheeks had hectic red circles that looked as

clownlike as she had imagined, and her rosy, pouting lips simply did not look as if they belonged on her

face.She dared not approve it, but she did not disapprove either. If Lord Tylar didn't like it, let him be

the one to say so.

When she said nothing, the slaves went back to the final arrangement of her hair.

Left alone, it was her one beauty, but they were building it into an edifice that would match the

dress, and as a result, it looked like a wig made of bleached horsehair. They had piled most of it on the

top of her head in stiff curls, coils, and braids, leaving only a few tendrils, stiffened with dressing and

trained into wirelike spirals, to trail artificially about her face. Now they were inserting all the bejeweled

hair ornaments her father had dictated; heavy gold and emerald, of course.

If I had been dressing myself—I would have chosen the pale rose silk, with flowers and

ribbons, pearls and white gold. Nothing like this. I would fade into the background, but at least I

would not look like a clown.

By the time they were done, no one would ever recognize her. Which was just as well. She wouldn't

want anyone to recognize her, looking like this.

It wouldn't have been so bad if only Lorryn could be with her. He'd have been able to make her

laugh, he'd have helped her to keep her sense of humor about it all, and he would have kept anyone she

actually disliked from getting too close. But Lorryn was subject to spells of terrible pain in his head—the

one affliction that elves were subject to—and he had been overcome by one of those spells just this

morning.

It's just as well. I wouldn't even want Lorryn to see me looking like this.

Lorryn lay on his bed, with one eye on the door, one eye on his hard-won book about an ancient

and extinct tribe of humans called the Iron People, and one ear cocked for the sound of footsteps. He

had carefully positioned himself so that he could drop the book to the floor and fling his arm over his eyes

at the slightest sound or movement of the door to his bedroom. Fortunately, Lord Tylar was more likely

to come striding into his son's chambers with a fanfare and an entourage than he was to try and catch

Lorryn unawares.

He hated having to feign kryshein, a dreadful head pain accompanied by disorientation that had no

counterpart in any human illness, and was supposedly brought on by overuse of magic. This deception

meant he dared not leave his bedroom even after Lord Tylar left for the fete. He never had suffered from

this particular affliction, though many elves did—it was considered to show either a great deal of ambition

or the precocious onset of magical power in a child. Viridina had chosen to have him pretend to kryshein

attacks long ago, precisely because such attacks were crippling, easy to counterfeit, and impossible to

disprove. And because to be afflicted by kryshein implied that Lorryn was a powerful mage. Lord Tylar

was predictably and perversely proud of the fact that his son suffered from the affliction.

He particularly hated having to feign yet another attack on this occasion. He had wanted to attend

the fete—not because he was particularly looking forward to what was going to be a tedious evening at

the very best, but because he had not wanted to leave poor little Rena to fend for herself. Lord Tylar

would not be bothering himself about her whereabouts and welfare; he would be cultivating Lord

Ardeyn's other supporters. Lorryn knew what happened at huge fetes like this one; they were too large

to properly supervise, and things happened when people became intoxicated. Rena could find herself

being teased or humiliated, made the butt of unpleasant or cruel jokes, or fending off the unwanted

advances of half-drunk old reprobates or callow young hotheaded fools. The Ancestors knew he had

made his share of drunken, unwanted advances when he was younger, before he learned his limits. No

real harm would come to her, of course; there would be plenty of Lord Ardeyn's sober underlings on the

watch for a male trying to carry off an unwilling or inexperienced elven maid. Before anything could

really happen, one or more of them would move in, separate the gentleman from his quarry, and

substitute a human slave-girl, before sending him on to his original destination in the garden or other

secluded place. The virtue and presumed chastity of the elven maiden would remain intact. No one

worries about what the slave-girls think about the situation. Poor things.

No, Rena would not be allowed to come to any physical harm, but she could be hurt or frightened,

and he did not want to see either. She was so fragile, so vulnerable.

She'd be all right, even at a wilder affair than this, if she were just a little braver. Ancestors! I

wish she'd grown a bit more spine sometimes! She acts as if she just might actually start to assert

herself—then she just folds up and does what anyone tells her to do. She wouldn’t need me if she'd

just learn to stand up for herself!

That was an uncharitable thought, and he felt ashamed of it immediately. After all, when would Rena

ever learn to stand up for herself? That was absolutely the very last thing Lord Tylar wanted her to learn.

A properly submissive daughter, well bred, well trained, meekly bowing to whatever her father wanted

from her—that was what Lord Tylar wanted.

And that was what Lord Tylar was likely to get, too. Lady Viridina was already risking her very life

for the sake of her son, and she had very little time or energy to spare to worry about her daughter…

A light tap at his door, two knocks, a pause, then three more, made him drop the book and slide off

the bed even as Viridina opened the door a crack and slid inside. She was gowned and coiffed for the

fete in silver silk and diamonds; she could have been a living statue of crystal, carved by the hand of a

master.

"I cannot stay," she said in a low, urgent voice. "I only came to tell you that I overheard Tylar on the

teleson and the guess you made was right."

"So the High Lords have set a trap for any halfbloods among the youngsters attending this fete." He

felt his blood run cold at the nearness of his escape. "I wondered, when Tylar gave all those orders about

Rena. He could have made her look any way he wished with subtle illusions—unless there was going to

be some reason why he dared not."

His mother nodded solemnly. "There is to be an entire gauntlet of illusion-banishing spells in place,

cast by the most powerful members of the Council, through which every guest must pass. There is a

rumor now that it was Valyn, and not his slave Mero, who was the halfblood."

"As if they couldn't believe that a fullblood would revolt against a mad sadist like Dyran." Lorryn's lip

curled with contempt.

But Viridina shook her head. "No. It is just the old men, being afraid, pretending that it was not

revolt, but the inherent evil and instability of a halfblood. But now, having decided that there was one

halfblood among the young lords and el-Lords, there may be more. They are afraid, and acting out of

fear."Lorryn coughed. "They might be afraid, but they are right," he reminded her with gentle irony. "There

is at least one halfblood among them."

Viridina swiftly crossed the space between them and placed a finger on his lips before he could say

more. "There are ears everywhere," she whispered warningly.

"Not here," he replied, with a certainty she could not share—could not, for she was only elven. He

was halfblood, and had the magics of both his mother and true father—and his true father had taught him

how to use the latter, before Viridina had freed him and sent him away to join the outlaw humans that had

escaped their lives of slavery. There was not a single mind in this manor he could not read if he

wished—and he knew there was no one listening to them.

"I must go soon," she said then, bestowing a faint smile on him. "I only came to tell you that you

were right. And we must walk even more carefully from this moment on. I still do not know how you

guessed."

He made no reply to that, only bent to kiss her hand; she turned it and laid it against his cheek for a

moment in affection.

He stood up again and began to pace. "When Tylar asked me to help create Rena's ornaments with

my magic, I first suspected a trap. Why go to all the effort of making real, solid creations when simple

illusions would be just as effective and a great deal easier to wear?"

She nodded, slowly, the crystals woven into her hair sparkling with the movement.

His nerves were not going to be eased by pacing, but at least it gave him some release for his

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ElvenbloodBookTwoofTheHalfbloodChroniclesbyAndreNorton&MercedesLackeyChapter1SHEYRENAHADGROWNverywearyofcoosofadmirationoverthelasthourorso.Humanvoices,harshandheavybyelvenstandards,didnotnormallygrateonherears,buttheydidtoday."Oh,mylady,therehasneverbeenagownsolovely,Iswear!"Thenamelessblondslaveou...

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