Elvenborn (3 page)

"We've been discussing Kyrtian V'dyll Lord Prastaran," Tri¬ana 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."

Aelmarkin snorted. "He's certainly provincial, I'll grant you that, Lady Brynnire. He never leaves the estate unless he ab¬solutely has to. He could get a seat on the Great Council if he only worked at it, but he won't even try! Instead, he spends all

of his time collecting books and studying—of all the nonsensi¬cal subjects—military tactics!"

"Military tactics!" Triana erupted in peals of laughter. "Oh, Aelmarkin, even if he is serious and not seriously unbalanced, just who does he think he's going to use military tactics on? Everyone knows the humans and the halfbloods don't have real armies! They don't fight proper battles! And as for the Young Lords—"

She stopped, because it was entirely possible that this was a touchy subject for some of Aelmarkin's other guests. But Tennith, whose father was highly placed in the Great Council and thus was the highest-ranked Elvenlord present, finished her sentence for her.

"The Young Lords are a disorganized pack of rabble," he said loftily. "Once a solution is found that negates their ability to nullify magic, they'll dissolve and come crawling back to their fathers, begging forgiveness. In the meantime, it is impossible to use tactics against someone who doesn't know what the word means."

"Oh, that isn't the best of it," gloated Lord Pratherin. "He not only studies this nonsense, he practices it! Personally, I think he's never gotten over playing in the nursery with toy soldiers; he just does it now on a grander scale." When Brynnire still looked confused, he leaned over the couch in her direction and explained. "He makes up two opposing armies out of slaves, my dear, and personally leads one army into battle against the other, if you can believe it! Not to settle a grievance or for any other reasonable purpose, not even for the entertainment of watching them slaughter each other! No, he does this just to see how strategies work out with living subjects!"

As the others chortled, howled, or simply looked smug, ac¬cording to their natures, Lady Brynnire looked startled, then shocked, then amused. "Aelmarkin! If I didn't know you, I'd be tempted to think you were making this up!"

"Sadly, my dear, I am not," Aelmarkin replied, and looked to Tennith, who nodded in confirmation.

"Really!" Brynnire giggled, a little nervously. "Well, eccen¬tric is not what I would call him!"

"He takes after his father, dear lady," said Tennith smoothly. "Which might be said to demonstrate that, sadly, madness is in¬herited in his family. Surely you recall that poor demented fel¬low who vanished several years ago, out hunting some obscure relics of Evelon?"

"Yes!" Brynnire replied, brightening. "Ancestors! You don't mean to tell me that was Kyrtian's father?"

"The same," Aelmarkin told her, with a heavy sigh. "A sad case indeed. And it should have been obvious to the Great Council from that fiasco that the estate should not have been put in the hands of his son."

"I should say not." Lady Brynnire nodded her head, after ex¬changing a look with her escort. "At least, I would not have."

"Nor anyone else with any sense." Aelmarkin thought it more than time to change the subject, and signaled for the dancers.

The musicians, who had been playing soothing, quiet back¬ground music until this moment, abruptly changed mood and tempo, startling the guests with a thunder of percussion.

The lights dimmed, and a mist arose from the censers, a scented, cool mist that relaxed and yet stimulated the senses, even as it obscured the couches and their occupants. Only the space in the middle of the couches remained clear, lit from some invisible source.

The dancers ran in from all directions, dressed in the merest scraps of animal-hide, paint, beads, and feathers, and meant to represent wild humans. Not that any of Aelmarkin's guests had ever seen wild humans—nor had Aelmarkin himself, for that matter—but that would hardly matter. Most entertainments fea¬tured dancers mimicking the graceful and ethereal dances of their masters, or dancers changed to resemble animated flow¬ers, birds, or flames. Aelmarkin wanted to startle his guests with something different.

The dance began with astonishing leaps as the performers hurled themselves across the floor with total abandon, their un¬bound hair streaming out behind them. Then, as drums pounded, the females hurled themselves at the males, who caught them in various positions, whirled them around, and

flung them on to the next partner. There was frank and un¬flinching eroticism in their choreography. Even Aelmarkin, who had seen them practicing, felt his pulse quicken at their raw sensuality.

"Ancestors!" Tennith muttered under his breath, his eyes wide. "What is this?"

"An ancient fertility rite, so I'm told," Aelmarkin said casu¬ally. "I thought it might be interesting to watch."

Tennith didn't reply; his eyes were glued to the dancers.

Half combat, and half mating-frenzy, it was sometimes diffi¬cult to tell if the dancers intended to couple or kill each other, and the performance built to a pulse-pounding crescendo that ended in a tangle of bodies suggestive of both.

By Aelmarkin's orders, the lights dimmed gradually as the dance ended, leaving the room bathed only in star- and moon¬light. As he had hoped, the performance had achieved the arousing effect he had intended. His guests had turned their at¬tentions to their couch-companions, and as the dancers and ser¬vants slipped away, Aelmarkin turned his attention to the censers, increasing the mist rising from them. The slaves al¬ready knew to dust more of the intoxicating drugs over the coals therein.

Magic did not come easily to him, and he had to close his eyes in concentration even to perform so minor a conjuration. As he opened his eyes, he realized that he and his little slave were no longer alone. A slim form sat on the end of his couch.

"Well, Triana," he said blandly, concealing his surprise. "Whatever brings you to my side? Forgive me if I doubt that you have erotic intentions."

She made a pouting motion with her lips. "Aelmarkin, I do believe you haven't a romantic particle in you!"

"Neither do you," he countered. "So?"

"I just wondered what it would be worth to you to see your cousin unseated," she said casually, casting her eyes down and tracing a little path on the fabric of the couch with her finger.

"I suppose that would depend on the circumstances," he replied just as casually. "It would do me no good at all if, for in¬stance, his estates were ruined in the process. Why do you ask?"

"No real reason. Just that women often have sources of infor¬mation that are closed to the men." She gave him an arch smile, but he refused to rise to the bait. The last thing he wanted was to give Triana something she could use to manipulate him!

"Just as men have sources that are closed to women," he countered, with an arch smile of his own. "Especially someone like me. Do recall what my stock-in-trade is, my dear. Concu¬bines don't speak to ladies."

She smiled with malicious delight. "If I hadn't made a vow never to marry, I swear, I would propose to you on the spot, Aelmarkin! You and I are two of a kind."

"You and I would kill one another before a year was out," he replied, and touched his finger to the bottom of her chin, draw¬ing her to him for a brief, dangerous kiss. "Now, you've left that handsome stud all alone. Better get back to him before he pines away."

"Or falls asleep." She rose with a sinuous grace worthy of any of his dancers. "I'll tell you what; I'll lay a bet with you. I bet that I can find something to discredit him before you do."

"And the stakes?" he asked.

Her smile was so sweetly poisonous that it took his breath away. "Something we both swore never to do. If you lose, you train a male slave for me. And if I lose, I train a female for you. But you can't limit me as to means. Is it a wager?"

The idea of owning a slave trained by Triana made his head swim and his breath come short. Now here were stakes worthy of the play!

"Done," he said immediately. She laughed, and glided away into the mist.

He felt a tentative touch on his wrist, and belatedly returned his attention to his current favorite. He looked down at her, and saw by the furtive color in her cheek, her moist lips, and her shining eyes that the dance—and the sighs and vague shapes moving in the mist around them—had produced the effect he had anticipated on her, as well.

"Lord," the slave breathed, looking up at him coyly from be¬neath her long, fluttering lashes, "Do you wish my—further service this evening?"

Though untouched, she was by no means unaware of the du¬ties of a concubine, and it was clear from the moist eagerness in her eyes that she was ready to fulfill those duties.

He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring what he was about to do. He had ways of controlling the slaves he trained that went beyond, far beyond, the slave-collar and magic coercion. He had subtle tortures that were far more sophisticated than anything Tennith dreamed of.

"I don't believe so," he said, just as casually as if he were rejecting a not-quite-ripe fruit. Then he looked down at her and frowned. "My dear child—is something troubling you? You seem to be a little—puffy tonight. Or perhaps you have just gained a little weight? Perhaps you should return to your quarters."

The girl put her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob; her eyes brightened further with tears. Quickly as a fluttering bird, she fled into the mist.

He chuckled to himself. He had carefully manipulated her mind for weeks now, and this carefully chosen moment was the beginning of a delightful interlude.

He had made a point of praising her slender figure, of leaving no doubt that he treasured her slimness. Doubting her own mir¬ror, certain that she had lost her real beauty, and desperate to gain his regard, she would begin starving herself from this mo¬ment. At first he would taunt her by references to plump arms and chubby cheeks, by inquiries if she thought she ought to change her diet. Once she truly began to starve herself, he would switch to the next phase. She would begin refusing food. He, of course, would urge all manner of dainties on her, which she would eat unwillingly, only to purge herself of them at the earliest opportunity.

His lips curved in a slight smile. Watching her torture her¬self, all the while certain that he was still as gentle and consid¬erate as ever, would be highly amusing. Eventually, she would probably die, of course, but not before he gained a great deal of pleasure from watching her ridiculous sufferings. If he was feeling generous, he might even save her, wiping out her mem¬ories of everything up to this moment so that he could sell her

to someone else. In any case, there would be weeks, possibly months, of pleasure ahead.

And further pleasure. Between the two of them, he and Tri-ana would almost certainly find a way to bring his cousin Kyrt-ian down.

He laughed softly; how his fortune had suddenly turned! This might well turn out to be the victory celebration he had hoped for.

His appetite suddenly aroused, he reached for the nearest wine-wench to satisfy his needs of the moment.

Poor Kyrtian. He had no notion even that he had an enemy, much less how formidable that enemy was.

2

One did not normally see an Elvenlord smudged with dirt, twig-scratched, and rather the worse for several hours of tramping through untamed forest. I wonder how much scandal I would cause if even one of the Great Lords saw me in this state? Kyrtian mused, as he held aside an errant limb of a bush, taking care that it did not rattle, and making cer¬tain the human behind him had a firm grip on it before he re¬leased it. It was impossible to see the man's expression behind his helm, but the fellow sketched a respectful salute with his free hand. Ah well; knowing my reputation, they would proba¬bly not be at all surprised.

Kyrtian V'dyll Lord Prastaran led his skirmishing band of lightly armed humans in person; very few Elvenlords would ever have put themselves in that inferior and vulnerable a posi¬tion. Especially now, with humans, halfblooded Wizards and younger Elvenlords all in revolt against the Great Lords, the mere notion of leading a group alone, without the presence of a

fully collar-controlled and loyalty-spelled bodyguard, was something that would never occur to most of them.

Kyrtian cared nothing for their opinions, since little secret was made of the fact that they cared nothing for his. His reputa¬tion was as eccentric as his hobby, and that was the way he pre¬ferred things. His Grandfather had eschewed politics when the Great Lords disdained his advice; by now, staying out of poli¬tics was something of a family tradition, and Kyrtian was quite prepared to continue that tradition.

At this moment, as always when on maneuvers, all of his at¬tention was focused on his battle-strategies and his surround¬ings, to the exclusion of everything else. His initial battle-plan was so vague that at this point he was rather recklessly making decisions moment by moment. He suspected that his opponent was counting on that, assuming that Kyrtian's well-known cau¬tion would also make him inflexible. It was a reasonable as¬sumption; Kyrtian just hoped that he could prove that it was an incorrect one. That was the point of this exercise, after all. This was the first time he had ever met an opponent in anything other than a set battle. Where was the right balance of caution and initiative? Nothing in all of his books and studies had dealt with that magic formula.

Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, but a headband under his helm kept it from dripping into his eyes. He felt a brief flash of superiority as he climbed the steep and rock-strewn slope before him with no sense of strain, not even an in¬crease in his breathing. How many of the pampered Great Lords would be able to do as much? Certainly he was sweating, but he wasn't in the least tired, and if at last he managed to bring his skirmishers to a fight, he would be as ready for action as any of them.