"Lady, I pledge you, I will not let the boy out of my sight or care, no matter what Lord Kyndreth wants of him," he prom¬ised, coming back to concerns he could understand and see for himself. "I'm a treacherous old bastard, and if I think he's in trouble, I'll dose the boy's wine, make Kyndreth think he's had a fit, and drag him home myself." He surprised himself with his own sudden fierce protectiveness, and tried feebly to smile. "Once we've got him safe, we can talk him into playing witless. If he's lost his senses, he might not be of value to Kyndreth, but he won't be a threat, either."
And that was the best promise he could think of to give her, poor as it was.
Lydiell sent Gel back to his work without feeling much comfort from his words. She was very troubled, and could see no imme¬diate way out of the dilemma that had come at them out of nowhere. I had hoped to keep him isolated from all of this, but events have conspired against us, she thought somberly, staring out the window at the placid fields spread so invitingly below. Thanks to the two latest Wizard Wars, Kyrtian 's obscure skills are no longer without value; he will be drawn into Elvenlord politics whether he likes it or not. But Gel is right; telling him some of the realities of the situation won't help him. He might be better if he remains in ignorance. If he knows what the El¬venlords are really like, his own sense of honor just might drive him to make some very dangerous choices. If, however, Kyn¬dreth feeds him what the Old Lords want him to know, and con-
vinces him to help them—then keeps him ignorant of the truth— he will serve them well and stay out of trouble.
There was one positive effect of all the warfare and quarrel¬ing; there were nowhere near as many of the Old Lords as there once had been, and those that remained were mostly very shrewd. They have little power to spare, and won't waste any tool that comes to their hands when it costs little to keep that tool content. There are very few Dyrans about in the higher councils these days.
She sighed, tasting the bitterness of her own expedience, the sour knowledge that by keeping him ignorant she was playing the same manipulative games as those she despised.
Kyrtian would be used, indeed, but wasn't it better to be an unwitting tool than a dead hero?
I cannot see any other options.
Keeping him purposefully blinded about the true nature of his fellow Elvenlords might have been a mistake, but she could not see how she could have done anything else.
Gel did have a good idea, she reminded herself, if it looks as if Kyrtian is in danger. Everyone thinks his father was mad, and no one would be particularly surprised if he went mad under the strains they will probably put him under. Oh, Ancestors, why did I try to keep him sheltered? Why couldn 't I have given him some armor against the thorn-maze he is about to walk into?
She only prayed that her decision would not cause more harm than she had ever dreamt possible.
10
I hope I don't look as nervous as I feel," Kyrtian muttered to
himself, as he re-checked his appearance in the gilt-edged
mirror to his right. He'd lost count of the number of times
he'd glanced into mirrors today, making certain—of what? He
wasn't quite sure; he only knew that he didn't want to look like Lord Kyndreth's son Gildor and his cronies, nor did he want to ape the appearance of Lord Kyndreth himself. He wanted to look mature, sober, perhaps a touch on the scholarly side, but able to hold his own in physical combat as well. Looking pros¬perous, but not necessarily opulent, was as important; on reflec¬tion, perhaps what he wanted was to look as if he could be Lord Kyndreth's intellectual equal, but not as if he already assumed that he was. After going through at least four changes of cloth¬ing and nearly driving his poor servants mad, he finally settled on a conservative tunic and tight-fitting trews of soft doeskin dyed a rich blue and slashed to display the silver satin of his shirt. Matching boots suitable for some hard walking com¬pleted the outfit, with a heavy silver chain and fillet confining his hair as his only jewelry. Jewels would not impress Lord Kyndreth, who was a powerful mage and knew how easily such things could be produced by illusion.
The mirror he kept glancing into was just outside the Portal Chamber; at any moment now Lord Kyndreth and his en¬tourage should be coming through. The door to the chamber was open; it was really too small to allow for a graceful exit of so large a group. Servants in the household colors lined the chamber and the hall outside, but Kyrtian was the sole repre¬sentative of the family; he was the head of the Clan now, and it would betray an unhealthy influence from his mother if she were here to receive the guests as well as he.
The servants, well-schooled in their roles, kept their eyes cast down as Kyrtian fidgeted with the chain around his neck. At long last, the Portal shimmered with energy, and Kyrtian snapped to attention, presenting a mask of calm, the perfect picture of a welcoming host.
The first figures through the Portal were, naturally, Lord Kyrtian's bodyguards, one of whom was the fighter called Kaeth that Kyrtian remembered from the combat. They de¬ployed themselves on either side of the Portal with smooth, ef¬ficient, and practiced movements, making a barrier of themselves between the Portal and Kyrtian's servants. They must go through such maneuvers constantly; what surprised
him was that they looked alert and suspicious, not bored. The servants took no notice; Gel had lectured them on what they could expect and what they should—or more appropriately, should not—do. They kept their places, as if this sort of quasi-military invasion happened every day.
Lord Kyndreth was next through the door, followed by his son Gildor. Kaeth moved in closer to his lord, standing unob¬trusively nearby, close enough to intercept any aggressive ac¬tion. Kyrtian moved immediately to welcome the Elvenlord, making sure that his own movements were non-aggressive.
"Welcome, my lord," he said, pitching his voice low, but put¬ting warmth into it. "And thank you for being patient enough to wait until we could welcome you with all the honor and com¬fort that is your due. I hope that you will be pleased with what we have to show you."
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 Kyrt¬ian's hand. "It is I who should be thanking you for your hospi¬tality, Lord Kyrtian," he replied, as they moved forward to permit the rest of the entourage to come through. "Your house¬hold 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 accommoda¬tion in a pavilion?"
Lord Kyndreth east an eye back at his son and his son's fol¬lowers, who were clearly intoxicated and likely to remain that way for some time. "Lord Gildor and his associates are not re¬maining," 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 con¬cern 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 pre¬dictable 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 ser¬vants, who were not used to being treated as objects to be used and discarded at will. But if Gildor and his cronies were al¬ready 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 ges¬tured, bringing several pre-selected servants forward. "My peo¬ple 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 ges¬ture, 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 corri¬dors to the balcony outside the lesser dining-room. This same balcony overlooked the field usually used for celebrations; to¬day 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 comfort¬able seats awaited the visitors, and refreshments had been pre¬pared 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 im¬mediately, 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 momentar¬ily diverted. But as the combat continued—and it was clear that it would be a bloodless combat, as man after man glowed scar¬let 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 deferen¬tially. "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 in¬roads 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-