Lord Kyndreth took Kyrtian's extended hand in his, in a firm clasp that was clearly a test. Kyrtian returned an equal pressure, and Lord Kyndreth smiled, ever so slightly, as he released Kyrtian's hand. "It is I who should be thanking you for your hospitality, Lord Kyrtian," he replied, as they moved forward to permit the rest of the entourage to come through. "Your household is a quiet one, and I understand that you have few visitors; we are creating quite a disruption for you."
Kyrtian made the expected disclaimers, as he kept one eye on Lord Kyndreth and the other on Lord Gildor and the part of the entourage that was composed of Gildor's friends. "I hesitate to mention this, my lord, but we were not expecting so large a group—perhaps some of the guests would accept accommodation in a pavilion?"
Lord Kyndreth east an eye back at his son and his son's followers, who were clearly intoxicated and likely to remain that way for some time. "Lord Gildor and his associates are not remaining," he replied smoothly. "They came only to view the pitched battle, and will depart as soon as the demonstration is complete."
Kyrtian did not let out a sigh of relief, but some of his concern left him. Housing Gildor and his cronies was the last of his potential problems, and the only one he hadn't anticipated.
Lord Kyndreth and his servants should behave in predictable ways, but Gildor and his drunken friends were neither predictable nor safe for the servants to be around. They were used to getting their way in all things, used to taking what they wanted, and it was entirely possible that what they wanted would invoke automatic, unthinking rebellion in the human servants, who were not used to being treated as objects to be used and discarded at will. But if Gildor and his cronies were already planning to leave right after the demonstration—well, Kyrtian was confident his people could hold things together for that long.
"The demonstration is ready, my Lord," he said; and gestured, bringing several pre-selected servants forward. "My people will guide your servants to your quarters, so that all will be in readiness for your comfort when the battle is over."
"Excellent." Kyndreth did nothing, but Kaeth made a gesture, sending two of the bodyguards and several of Kyndreth's slaves laden with baggage to join Kyrtian's servants. Kyrtian's people quickly took over most of the burdens of the luggage and led the others down the corridor towards the guest-quarters. Lord Kyndreth gave an expectant glance at Kyrtian, who took the hint and led the rest of the group through the maze of corridors to the balcony outside the lesser dining-room. This same balcony overlooked the field usually used for celebrations; today it would be the site of a battle.
For this occasion, the balcony was sheltered from the glare of the sun with an awning made of tapestry, giving it the look of a viewing-stand for a formal tournament. Banks of comfortable seats awaited the visitors, and refreshments had been prepared and set out to greet them, all under the watchful eye of Lady Lydiell. Out of the corner of his eye, Kyrtian saw the smugly superior expressions of Gildor and his friends changed to looks of gratification and pleasure. Obviously they had not thought to find a sophisticated level of hospitality in this provincial household.
Now Kyrtian presented his mother to the guests; Lydiell had gone to great effort to appear as a typical Elven lady. Gowned and coiffed as her son had seldom seen her before, her expres-
sion that of a flawless statue, she resembled her everyday self very little indeed. Kyrtian had not seen her until this moment, and winced inwardly as he thought how long she must have spent in the hands of her servants to achieve her appearance. Her silver hair had been divided into hundreds of tiny braids, which had then been arranged in a series of draped loops and knots held in place with jeweled pins. Her pastel-hued gown, of multiple layers of misty, cobweb-like blue fabric, with sleeves and train that trailed behind her, could not possibly be more impractical for her normal duties. Each and every hem had been edged in lace so fine it was close to transparent, and likely to snag on everything unless great pains were taken to prevent such a disaster. Tiny, sparkling motes of gems winked amid the misty folds of the gown, and more gems strung on gossamer strands of silver wreathed her neck. From her toes to the last hair, Lydiell's costume was so fragile it invited ruin in the mere acts of moving and walking.
That, however, was not an Elven Lady's business to worry about; it was the duty of her slaves to manage sleeves and hems, and see to it that her gown remained perfect and pristine at all times. So it was today; any time Lydiell moved, she was trailed by four women whose only purpose was to see that she could move about as easily as a graceful image in a perfect daydream.
This, of course, was exactly what Lord Kyndreth expected to see, so he simply bowed over Lydiell's hand and escorted her back to her chair while Gildor and the rest chose seats. Lord Kyndreth took the place of honor at Lydiell's right hand, and Kyrtian assumed the seat at her left. As soon as each guest was in his chosen seat, a servant presented him with a chilled glass of sparkling wine and a platter of dainties from which to make a choice. Gel and Kyrtian had left nothing to chance, not even the number of guests; a young page had sprinted to the balcony while Kyrtian and Lord Kyndreth spoke to report the exact number of Elvenlords that had arrived. There was neither one chair too many, nor too few, and precisely the correct number of servants, one to each guest. The human slaves, Lord Kyn-dreth's bodyguards included, all stood, of course. No slave sat in the presence of his masters.
Only when everyone was settled, did the two "armies" move out onto the field. Lord Kyndreth leaned forward in his seat immediately, his attention riveted on the combatants. For his part, Kyrtian tried not to fidget nervously, though not because the success of the combat was in doubt. No, it was only that he was not on the field himself; this would be the first time he was only an observer rather than a participant. He found, somewhat to his own chagrin, that he did not make a very good observer.
As the two forces charged towards each other, shouting taunts and battle-cries, Gildor and his friends were momentarily diverted. But as the combat continued—and it was clear that it would be a bloodless combat, as man after man glowed scarlet or blue and had to retire to the sidelines—they quickly lost interest.
"How many men can you hold this magic on at a time?" Lord Kyndreth asked quietly, as Kyrtian ignored the muttered jeers and scornful laughter of Gildor and his friends.
"I don't know for certain, my lord," Kyrtian said honestly. "I've never had occasion to try it on more than a thousand, so I have not yet found an upper limit."
"A thousand!" Kyndreth was clearly impressed, even if his son was underwhelmed. "By the Ancestors, that is remarkable! There should be no difficulty then in training battalions of fighters in field maneuvers so long as several mages are used to hold the magic in place!"
"I should think not, my lord," Kyrtian responded deferentially. "Especially if the mages concerned are powerful ones such as yourself. I am certain that you would find it a trivial task to hold the magic on twice that number."
Behind them, Gildor and his friends were making deep inroads on the wine, showing quite clearly just how bored they were with the combat. Nevertheless, given Lord Kyndreth's interest and approval, they didn't dare be too vocal in their contempt.
Finally their restlessness got to the point where it annoyed Lord Kyndreth himself. The battle had devolved into a mass of single combats between the most skilled of the fighters, and it was obvious it would be some time before sheer weariness be-
came the undoing of many of the fighters. Lord Kyndreth abruptly stood up, and Kyrtian took that as he was meant to, blowing the shrill whistle that signaled the end of the demonstration.
Obedient to the signal, fighting ceased immediately, and in the sudden silence, Lord Kyndreth turned to his host with a broad smile.
"This has been a most impressive demonstration, Lord Kyrtian," he said, with as much warmth as Kyrtian had ever seen him display until now. "Even more so than the single-combat you originally showed us. I am looking forward to learning this new application of magic in the next few days—but I fear than my son and his friends have previous commitments and must be on their way—" Now he leveled a gaze on his bemused son that shook the young Elvenlord into momentary sobriety. "Mustn't you, Gildor?"
The younger lord, startled by his sire's abrupt change of mood, stammered out his reply. "Of—of course, certainly," he babbled. "Previous commitments, pressing engagements, and all that. So sorry. Excellent show. Be on our way now—"
"My people will show you the way back to the Portal Chamber, Lord Gildor," Kyrtian replied, with as fine a display of the height of good manners as anyone could have asked. He gave no hint that he had heard the disparaging remarks, nor that he was well aware that Gildor was so drank he probably could not have found the door without help. "I cannot tell you how gratified I was by your presence, or by your appreciation. I hope that we will be able to give you a better demonstration of our hospitality at some time in the future."
Gildor and his friends filed back into the dining hall, subdued by Lord Kyndreth's enthusiastic reception of the demonstration. There were no more jeering asides, no more snickers. Kyrtian was under no illusions about this; he fully expected that the moment the younger Elvenlords passed the Portal, they would begin their scornful gossip again. But for now, it was obvious who the master was, and what the master approved—and all the young lords fell obediently into line.
Odd, Kyrtian thought, as Lord Kyndreth exchanged some
polite compliments with Lady Lydiell and the last of the unwanted visitors passed through the doors of the lesser dining hall. I would have thought, given the way he likes to puff himself up and bluster, that Gildor would have sided with the Young Lords against his father. Lord Kyndreth isn't going to pass over power any time in the foreseeable future, and I would have thought that by now Gildor would be hungry for that power.
Perhaps, though, Gildor liked comfort better than power. Perhaps he already knew he didn't dare to challenge his father. Or, perhaps Gildor was less ambitious than Kyrtian would have been in his place. As it was, Gildor had prestige, status, and a carefree, pampered existence. If he sat where his father now heJd sway, he might actually have to work.
Kyndreth turned to Kyrtian, who collected his scattered
thoughts. "I believe that I would like to retire to my quarters to
prejpare for dinner and think about all you have shown me," he
said. "Unless you have something more planned to show me
today?"
"Only one thing, and that is on the way," Kyrtian replied, with a slight smile. "Please, allow me to escort you. Perhaps some questions will occur to you that I can answer as we walk."
They both bowed to Lady Lydiell, who nodded gravely to both of them without speaking. Kyrtian waited while one of the servants held the door open for them; he also waited for the bodyguards to flank his guest before taking his own place beside Kyndreth. Other than that, he paid no attention to the bodyguards.
Kyndreth glanced sharply around as they passed along the hallways; for a moment, Kyrtian wondered what had caught his attention, then Kyndreth answered his question with a query of his own.
"You use no illusion here, do you?" Kyndreth asked, as if surprised.
"Very little, my lord," Kyrtian replied, and smiled slightly. "Perhaps we are somewhat conservative in nature, but we—my mother and I, that is—prefer the real to the illusory. Illusion is—" He groped for words.
"Cheap?" Kyndreth surprised him with the word he had been
trying to avoid, and the ironic lifting of his eyebrow. "I tend to agree, actually. Any halfway competent mage can cloak rotting timber and moth-eaten tapestry in illusion. To maintain a gracious and attractive home without illusion requires dedication and effort. Illusion is, I believe, the lazy man's way."
"I agree, my lord. We here prefer substance to style, one might say." Again, he ventured a smile. "Our home may be old-fashioned in style, but that is the price of preferring substance."
By this time, they had reached the area of the old nursery— which was now the new harem—and Kyrtian paused. "I would like to offer you all the comforts of our house, my lord. If you would care to pass within?"