Elvenborn
Book Three
of the
Halfblood Chronicles
Andre Norton and Mercedes Lackey
TOR
fantasy
ATOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK NEW YORK
PROLOGUE
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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.
1
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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 naivete. 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.