Andre Norton & Lackey, Mercedes - Elvenbane 3 - Elvenborn

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ELVENBORN

Book Three

of the

Halfblood Chronicles

Andre Norton and Mercedes Lackey

TOR

fantasy

ATOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK

PROLOGUE

V'kel Lyon Lord Kyndreth stood up, and loomed over the

Council table and the Councilors seated there. Most of his

fellow Elvenlords would not meet his eyes; those that did so

shared a congratulatory glance with him. The Council Chamber

was not a comfortable place today, and he had ensured—with a

few orders to the slaves who had prepared it— that it would

remain so. Cold. Dim. The cushions on the seats pounded flat.

And even the refreshments were ill-served—at a uniform

temperature that could only be described as "tepid." All to keep

everyone here wishing he was elsewhere, and less than

pleased with the one—not Lord Kyndreth—who was nominally

in charge.

Lord Kyndreth's star was in the ascendant once again, and this

time he would see to it that it did not fall a second time.

"How is it," he asked, to empty air, "that a rebellious pack of

children and former slaves have managed to hold off our

allegedly well-trained, well-led and well-supplied armies? And

have done so for long enough that people are beginning to call

this—temper tantrum—the Young Lords' Rebellion?"

"Lord Kyndreth—" ventured V'kel Anster Lord Rechan,

scrambling mightily for the upper hand he had—if he had only

known it—just lost, "this is, exactly as you say, no more than a

temper tantrum. Inconsequential. No more than a handful of

estates have been lost, our supplies continue to move without

more than the occasional ambush, there is no more than a

trickle of slaves escaping, and our lives continue as they always

have. In balance, the threat—"

"A trickle here, a loss there, the complete inability of our so-

called 'invincible' army to bring our own offspring to heel, and

you say it's inconsequential?" Lord Kyndreth roared, and had

the satisfaction of seeing his chief opponent wince. "By the

Ancestors, you fool, can't you see that a so-called 'trickle' is all

that is needed to bleed us to death?" Kyndreth saw with some

satisfaction a subtle and unspoken shifting among the other

Council members, and watched as power came over to his side.

"And what, may I ask, do you propose to do if these so-called

'errant children' of ours decide to ally with the Elvenbane and

her wizards and dragons?"

There. It was out in the open, the thing that no one had dared to

say, and he watched as a chill passed over all the rest of them.

Yes, even Lord Rechan.

"They wouldn't—" someone whispered.

"Don't ever believe that," one of Kyndreth's supporters said,

sharply. He took note of the speaker and reminded himself to

single that one out for some special favor. "Why shouldn't

they?"

"Because—because—because they're Elvenlords!" the first lord

spluttered, looking so horrified by the very notion that one would

think he'd been accused of fathering halfblooded children

himself.

"And when whatever magic they've discovered ceases to

prevent our magic from reaching and punishing them?" Lord

Kyndreth asked. "What then? Do you think, do you really think

that they will hesitate for one moment before going over to the

half-blood side?"

Silence.

"Now," Kyndreth said, into that silence, changing his voice from

challenging to calm, "I have some suggestions. The first of

which is one I think none of you will anticipate. I suggest that we

continue to allow our loyal offspring to continue their lives as

usual. I do not propose interfering with their pleasures. In fact, if

anything, I suggest a slightly looser leash for now. And you may

well be asking yourself why—"

"Well—yes," replied Lord Rechan, looking gratifyingly puzzled.

"If, as you say, the inroads are slowly bleeding us to death—"

"Firstly, we don't want the brats to know it's bleeding us to

death, and rest assured, they must have ears and eyes among

us, and it's probably some of our apparently-loyal children.

Secondly, we want to remind our apparently-loyal children just

how pleasant life is, when one's sire is pleased with one." He

smiled, slightly. "It is easier to catch a fly with a sweetmeat than

with vinegar. And meanwhile—" his eyes narrowed. "—I will be

a-hunting for a better commander."

And to his immense satisfaction, there was not one single

objection.

V'kel Aelmarkin er-Lord Tornal smiled down at the slave who

rested her pale-tressed head on his knee. She was his current

personal favorite, a delicate young human female nestled

trustingly against his leg. Her thin, fine-boned face and

porcelain complexion pleased him with their flawless symmetry

and perfection. She returned his smile shyly, yet with a touch of

the coquette, her round, blue eyes reflecting her callow,

unsophisticated nature. No rebellious thoughts dwelling in that

narrow skull—in fact, he would be surprised if she managed to

conjure up more than one or two thoughts of any kind in an

average day! Her pedigree was immaculate, out of a long line of

carefully chosen slaves famed for their beauty and delicacy to

be nothing more complicated than any other ornamental object.

He sighed with contentment, and smoothed the pale gold,

silken hair away from her brow with a gentle caress. She was

exquisite; lovely, eager to please, pliant, graceful, innocent and

incredibly easy to manipulate. Exactly the sort of slave that

gave him the most pleasure. He carefully cultivated that

innocence, and none of his other slaves would dare his wrath

by spoiling that naiveté. No tales of floggings or more extreme

punishments, no harem-stories of his other "favorites" and what

had become of them—nothing to hint that he had aspects she

had never experienced. So far as she was concerned, he was

the gentle, loving, ever-kind master that she believed him to be.

He turned his attention back to his most important guest.

"There, you see?" he said, gesturing expansively to the hall

before them and its raucous occupants. "Did I not promise you

would be far more amused here than in dancing attendance on

all the dull, hopeful maidens at your father's fete?"

Elvenlord Aelmarkin did not possess enough magic to create a

fanciful illusion in his Great Hall, so the luxurious surroundings

here were all quite real; guests at his entertainments would

always find themselves in the same opulent room that they had

graced at the last entertainment, rather than a new and exotic

setting vastly different from their last. He made up for the lack of

novel surroundings by the lavishness of his entertaining, which

had begun to earn him something of a reputation.

Take this room, for example: fortunately it had been beautifully

constructed in the first place, and he had only needed to

embellish it when it came into his possession. The north and

south walls were mostly of glass—northwards lay a natural lake,

artfully landscaped, and southwards were the pleasure-

gardens. The east and west walls, paneled in wood bleached to

silver, held silver-rimmed doors that led to the rest of the manor.

The ceiling with its bleached-wood beams from which hung

great silver fantasies of lights, crystals, tiny glass sculptures and

silver filigree, also boasted vast transparent skylights; just now

the reflection of the myriad lights made it impossible to see

anything of the outside world, but later, when the lights were

dimmed, the stars would shine impassively down on the

celebrants. The black carpet of the floor was kind to the bare

feet of the slaves, but Aelmarkin had selected black carpeting

largely because it was easy to clean after one of his

entertainments and was far more forgiving a surface for a

drunken reveler to fall on than marble or wood. The east and

west walls were hung with silver draperies, and the silver

dining-couches were upholstered in black to match the carpet.

Between each couch and the next stood an enormous silver

censer, from which came sensuous and intoxicating incense-

smokes. Silver tables stood before each couch, and the guests

provided the only touch of color in the room. The couches

themselves each held two occupants, an invited guest and a

companion of his (or her) choosing—either a fellow guest or

one of Aelmarkin's harem-slaves dressed in silver gossamer

and matching silver collar. Picturesque wine-slaves, dressed in

abbreviated silver tunics, stood at each couch with their silver

pitchers, and more slaves dressed in silver tunics and

gossamer skirts or trews served the guests with plates of

dainties. Enough wine had been drank by this time that the

guests were starting to raise their voices in less-than-delicate

jests, and lose what few inhibitions they had when they arrived

here.

V'sher Tennith er-Lord Kalumel raised one long, silver eyebrow

sardonically as he surveyed the occupants of the dining

couches before and below him. "I must admit," he drawled, "that

seeing Varcaleme making a fool of himself is far more

entertaining than fending off would-be brides and their anxious

fathers."

Aelmarkin laughed and continued to caress the platinum

tresses of his slave, chosen out of all the possible candidates

presented to him, because she most resembled a delicate

Elven maiden. He dressed her like an elven girl, too, in flowing

gowns of delicate pastel silks with huge, butterfly sleeves and

long embroidered trains, ordering her attendants to weave

strings of pearls in her silver-blond hair—and to arrange her hair

so that it covered the round tips of her ears. So long as one

didn't look too deeply into her eyes, the illusion was complete;

and he could use his magic to change her blue eyes to Elven-

green if he chose. Her name had been "Kindre" until he ordered

it changed to the Elven "Synterrathe."

The aforementioned Varcaleme was chasing one of the wine-

girls around his couch; the flower-wreath she had bound around

his brows had slipped sideways and was obscuring one eye,

and the fact that he had drunk most of the wine in her now-

empty flask was not aiding his ability to catch her. She had cast

one look at her master when she began eluding those clutching

hands, to see if he objected to her evasions; he had nodded

slightly, and she needed no further encouragement to keep

dodging his advances. Varcaleme's couch-companion, one of

his personal concubines, a tall, dark-haired wench gowned in

brilliant emerald that matched the beryl of her controlling collar,

seemed relieved that she no longer had to entertain him, and

was nibbling on spiced fruit, wearing a bored, but wary,

expression.

Now the rest of the guests had taken an interest in the

proceedings, calling out encouragement to Varcaleme or the

slave, taking bets on whether or not he would catch her, as she

dodged his outstretched hands and outpaced his stumbling

feet. Most of Aelmarkin's guests were male, with a scant pair of

Elven ladies. One of the ladies, clad in pearly silks that revealed

scarcely less than the slaves' costumes, had brought her own

couch-companion, a muscle-bound human gladiator; the other

Elven lady, swathed from nape to ankle in skin-tight black satin,

had come with another of the Elvenlords-—who was not her

affianced. Of the remaining twenty guests, half had brought

their own concubines, and half had made a selection from the

slaves offered to them by Aelmarkin.

All of the Elvenlords present, with the exception of Aelmarkin

and the lady who had brought her own male concubine, were

the sons of ruling Elvenlords—but had not joined the Young

Lords' Rebellion. Most of them saw themselves as losing far

more than they would gain by rebelling, and the rest were

cynically hoping for the rebellion to eliminate their fathers for

them.

Aelmarkin and V'dann Triana Lord Falcion—who, despite being

female, was Lord of the Falcion holdings in her own right, and

thus (it recently had been ruled) was entitled to the title of Lord

rather than Lady or er-Lord—were the only Elvenlords in the

room with their own estates and property. Aelmarkin, however,

was hardly a Great Lord—his property was a fraction of the size

of any of those with real power; most of his wealth came from

the sale of the exquisitely bred and trained concubines who

were literally worth their weight in gems. That gave him a

certain status, but no real power. As for Triana, her standing

had plummeted after her involvement in the debacle of the

Second Wizard War, and she was no longer a desirable ally to

anyone on the Great Council. She generally kept to herself on

her own estate. He suspected that she was biding her time,

waiting to see which way the wind blew in the Young Lords'

Uprising, before she tried to worm her way back into the good

graces of the powerful.

As a party guest, however, she was still of value; an acid wit

and a reputation for depravity gave her all the fascination of a

captivating serpent, and people enjoyed seeing what she would

say or do next. Any time Aelmarkin invited her to one of his

entertainments, he knew he would have full participation, and

her own parties continued to be extremely popular among the

younger sons, those who did not possess great power, and

those who did not have a Council seat.

Aelmarkin was by no means as certain as the Great Lords that

Triana would remain out of power for the foreseeable future.

She was clever, resourceful, and learned from her mistakes.

The Wizard Wars and the Rebellion were changing everything;

it was always possible that Triana would prove to be a potent

ally at some point. It was even possible that she would

somehow claw her way to power entirely on her own. The

extent of her boldness was demonstrated in her dress tonight;

gowned in transparent silks like a concubine, she knew very

well that however tempting she might be, there was no one here

with sufficient power to dare touch her without her consent—

and so she taunted them with her very appearance.

Besides, she had no scruples to speak of; he liked that in a

woman—provided he didn't have to marry her.

"Have you heard anything more from the Council about your

petition?" Triana called to him from across the room with a half

smile. Her gladiator offered her a choice tidbit with a servile

gesture; she allowed him to feed it to her, nibbling at it with

white, sharp teeth. He was new to Aelmarkin, but that was

hardly surprising; Triana went through male slaves at an

astonishing rate.

He concealed a wince; Triana had a vested interest in the

outcome of that petition, and it was one quite opposite to his.

She would bring up the subject; he'd cherished the notion, when

he'd scheduled this entertainment, that it might be a victory

celebration. Since it wasn't, he had hoped no one would bring

up the subject.

"They denied it," he said, trying to sound as if he didn't care

about the outcome, even though his defeat ate at him.

Triana made a little pout of sympathy, and Tennith turned his

head to gaze at Aelmarkin with astonishment. "No, really? I

should have thought that your cousin had proved himself

mentally unbalanced a hundred times over by now!"

About half of the guests looked puzzled; they didn't know who

Aelmarkin's cousin was and he really didn't wish to enlighten

them.

"Really!" chimed in another, sending away a server with a flick

of an impatient hand, "Your cousin is quite a piece of work,

Aelmarkin. Playing soldier with human slaves as if he was still

an infant playing with toys! It's ridiculous! If he was going to

have an obsession, it at least ought to be a dignified

obsession!"

"Oh, I don't know," purred Triana, running her finger along the

arm of her gladiator. "Some of us like to play with soldiers." The

slave blushed from the top of his head to well past his waist.

"On what grounds did they deny you?" Tennith asked, and

Aelmarkin wondered if he detected a certain malicious

enjoyment in Tennith's tone. Tennith might not be a lord in his

own right, but he outranked Aelmarkin, and he wasn't above

flaunting that fact and embarrassing Aelmarkin at the same

time.

But Tennith would find out for himself what the Council had said

if he simply bothered to ask his father. Aelmarkin's best

protection lay in pretending the decision meant very little to him.

"They did a very tiresome thing; they had the production

records from the estate for the last fifty years brought out, and

nothing there shows that cousin Kyrtian is neglecting his estate

or his duties. They decided that he isn't unbalanced, merely

eccentric, and that eccentricity is hardly grounds for taking his

inheritance and giving it to the next male heir."

"Next male heir?" Triana asked significantly, with a little frown.

"Isn't his mother still alive? Wouldn't she be the appropriate heir

even if he was disinherited on the grounds of insanity?" That

was Triana's interest; anything that barred another female from

inheriting could eventually be used against her.

"His mother is not my sister," Aelmarkin replied. "She's not the

next heir of blood-descent, as you so clearly were for clan

Falcion. If Kyrtian were removed, the estate would come to me,

naturally and legally."

"She's probably the one running things, then," Tennith pointed

out. "If she doesn't want to be sent back to live in her father's

household, she has to make it look as if your cousin is

competent."

"That may be, but I've no hope of proving it," Aelmarkin

growled, wishing that Lady Lydiell had resembled the child at

his feet rather than the clever creature she was. He recalled his

intended pose, and forced a laugh. "Well, I suppose the Council

had to rule the way that they did. Lord Jaspireth told me rather

tartly that if fitness to hold title and property was to be judged on

the basis of unusual hobbies, half the Council would lose their

seats."

"Half?" Tennith laughed. "More like three-quarters! Looked at in

that light, it's obvious you are a victim of necessity."

Aelmarkin signaled to his wench to refill his goblet, and sipped

at the vintage with deliberation. "Much as I would like to see the

lands of my clan administered properly, I suspect they will come

to me in time, anyway. Kyrtian shows no sign of marrying, which

in itself ought to prove his unfitness, and it's entirely possible

he'll manage to break his neck, or do something equally foolish

to himself, as he careens around the countryside."

"Break his neck?" queried the second lady, looking puzzled, as

did her escort. "I'm afraid I'm rather lost, Aelmarkin. I don't know

anything about your cousin. Who is he? Is he doing something

dangerous?"

That triggered laughter among some of the others, who were

more familiar with Aelmarkin's cousin than she was. Triana took

pity on her—probably because the lady's escort was neither

clever nor outstandingly handsome—and explained.

"We've been discussing Kyrtian V'dyll Lord Prastaran," Triana

said, giving Aelmarkin's cousin his full name and title. "Surely

you've heard something about him?"

The lady shook her head. "Not really," she confessed, then

realized that Triana was patronizing her, and put on a cool air

as she tried to save the situation. "But I don't pay much

attention to the provincials."

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ELVENBORNBookThreeoftheHalfbloodChroniclesbyAndreNortonandMercedesLackeyTORfantasyATOMDOHERTYASSOCIATESBOOKNEWYORKPROLOGUEV'kelLyonLordKyndrethstoodup,andloomedovertheCounciltableandtheCouncilorsseatedthere.MostofhisfellowElvenlordswouldnotmeethiseyes;thosethatdidsosharedacongratulatoryglancewithhim...

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