Up on the hillside above the house, in Alaire's line of sight with the watchtower, he caught movement.
Up there was the only road leading into the estate, and the moving figure on it might have been a man on a horse, or a carriage. It was too far away for the bardling to make out exactly what it was, much less who. Naitachal apparently noticed too, regarding the approaching visitor with interest.
"Messenger," Naitachal said simply. "From the court." Alaire squinted, but still couldn't make out the outline. Naitachal had demonstrated, repeatedly, that his eyesight was superior to any humans, so Alaire took his word f "Messenger?" he asked. "Is he armed? Is he Father's personal guard?"
"No," Naitachal replied, and Alaire sighed with relief. A messenger from the Royal Bodyguard would have been a certain sign that the news was bad. It would have meant, at the very least, a death in the family. Or an invasion from a foreign land, or some other earth-shattering calamity.
Naitachal frowned. "Odd. There must be some urgency to whatever he's delivering. His horse is exhausted. He's been riding hard for some time now."
Visitors were a rare treat, but Alaire awaited this one with mixed emotions. If he merely bore a friendly message from home, why would the messenger run his horse into the ground? What could have hap- pened? he wondered. He tried not to let his imagination get the better of him.
The messenger and his horse drew closer, and slowed. The boy was sixteen at most, and was wearing the dark blue riding uniform and plain blue sadd Reynard's livery. Perhaps he had simply ridden hard to impress his own Master with his diligence. Inwa Alaire groaned. No! Not another fancy, gaudy, foofy, royal visit from some princess at the castle!
"I come bearing a message for Master Naitachal from his Majesty King Reynard!" the young man announced even before coming to a stop. The horse, a beautiful gray palfrey Alaire recognized as one of the best in the messengers' stable, did a weary little dance as the boy pulled up next to them. The messenger, obviously winded and tired, waved a blue envelope Alaire changed his mind again. He would have had to ride straight through two days to get here looking like that. The horse doesn't look much better. A visit from one of Derek's would-be brides would not justify this degree of urgency, and the Master of the Horse would take this youngster apart for exhausting his beast if he had only done it to impress. Naitachal reached up for message, an envelope sealed in wax with the family crest.
"Please, take your horse to the stables," Naitachal said, motioning toward the somewhat dilapidated barn behind the house. 'There is a water pump with the trough. When you are done, you may go into the house to wash."
'Thank you, sir," the young man said, saying noth- ing to Alaire. He directed the palfrey toward the stables.
He apparently doesn't know I'm the King's Alaire thought. All he sees is Naitachal's bardling. It was rather refreshing, and he grinned to himself with a certain amount of relief. They really had forgotten all about him at court! He might even be able to sneak back some time and enjoy himself without having to put up with all the nonsense.
"Well, what is it?" Alaire said, unable to stand patiently any longer. Is it about me?
Naitachal flipped open the wax seal and read the message quickly, at a glance. Then he looked up.
"Well?"
Naitachal's expression was neither grim nor dark- ened, as it would be in response to bad news. It wasn't quite neutral, either. Alaire quivered with barely restrained excitement It's about me. It has to be!
Naitachal raised an eyebrow, then folded the paper back up and returned it to the envelope. Then, as it lay flat on his palm, the envelope burst into flame.
Startled, Alaire stepped back. He wasn't expecting that.
Naitachal calmly brushed the ashes from his hands and fixed Alaire with a measuring and unreadable look.
'Tell me!" Alaire said, barely restraining himself.
The Dark Elf never became melodramatic, and burn- ing the message like that required an exercise of magics he seldom "Your father," Naitachal said, after a lengthy and infuriating pause, "wants to send us on a little errand."
Without elaborating, Naitachal started back towards the house.
For a moment Alaire stared at his retreating back.
Then, flustered, he hurried into the house after him.
Naitachal's study was usually a private place where he wouldn't allow anyone, not even a maid. Alaire had set foot in the study only six times in the years he lived there, and then only because Naitachal had invited him, when some royal crisis was a-brewing.
Now Naitachal stood at the door and bec Alaire to follow. He cautiously followed his Master into the mysterious den, shivering in its chill. The place gave him the creeps.