Andre Norton & Lackey, Mercedes - Elvenbane 2 - Elvenblood

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Elvenblood

Andre Norton and 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. 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

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ElvenbloodbyAndreNortonandMercedesLackeyChapter1SHEYRENAHADGROWNverywearyofcoosofadmirationoverthelasthourorso.Humanvoices,harshandheavybyelvenstandards,didnotnormallygrateonherears,buttheydidtoday."Oh,mylady,therehasneverbeenagownsolovely,Iswear!"Thenamelessblondslaveoutofhermother'shouseholdshookh...

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