2 To Light A Candle.13 (10 page)

"No, no—nothing like that," Idalia said hastily, remembering suddenly that Idalia's mother had given up twenty years of her lifespan in exchange for Ves-takia's human spirit. Quickly she explained Kellen's obligation—and the reason why Kellen was able to spend so very much time in the company of a unicorn.

"Not many people know," she finished. "Most of the time it doesn't… impinge."

To her surprise—and secret delight—Vestakia gave a great whoop of laughter, startling the Elves walking nearby.

"Oh! Oh, my," the girl said. She sobered quickly, glancing around, then looked back at Idalia. "Does that mean I—he and I—won't see each other at all?"

"I don't know," Idalia said honestly. "But if you don't see him, try not to mind too much. It won't be because he doesn't like you, or care about you. Rather too much the reverse, perhaps. I know he wants you to be happy here; he is very, very concerned that you are comfortable."

"With water—and hot water, too—available for the turning of a handle? And every kind of food—fruit, too!—there when I reach out my hand? And such a warm soft bed that I don't think I shall ever be cold again? How can he wonder?" Vestakia asked in bafflement.

"I think he is worried that the people may be unkind," Idalia said gently, trying not to smile.

Vestakia sniffed, shaking her head. "It isn't important, now that they know in their heads that I want to help, and I know that eventually their hearts will understand. Yes, they stare—and point at me when they think I am not looking. But no one will try to kill me here for what I am, and… there are goats here, too. I can herd them, and milk them, and make curds and cheese. I can deliver a kid if the nanny has trouble. I can be useful, even beyond making sure that They do not come here. The Elves will see that, too, with time." She smiled shyly. "You know, and they surely know, that you cannot lie to an animal. They know when someone is good or bad. Sooner or later most people here will understand in their hearts. And until then, there are so many wonderful things to see, and to do—and not everyone turns and runs, you know. Some talk to me, and—" Ves-takia's eyes grew wide, and she lowered her voice, as if about to confide a great wonder. "There are books here, Idalia! Oh, hundreds of them! I do not read very well—we only had one or two that Mama traded for—beyond her three Books, and those of course I could not read—so I learned my letters out of them and memorized them long ago. But with all the books here to practice on, soon I shall read so much better than before…"

Vestakia was quite right about being able to make a place for herself in Sen-tarshadeen, Idalia thought. She'd probably been a very good goatherd back in the Lost Lands—calm, cheerful, and patient, all qualities one needed when dealing with goats. Idalia tried to imagine one of the spoiled daughters of the City in Vestakia's situation—wrenched away from everything she knew, and dropped among a strange people who despised her. No matter how luxurious the surroundings, Idalia knew that the Armethaliehan girl would be weeping and complaining, demanding that things be adjusted to her liking.

But Vestakia had not complained once. She sounded so happy—and so determined to be happy—that Idalia kept her fears of the future to herself. If war came—when war came—there would be no room in it for the quiet, gentle future Vestakia spoke of so easily.

And yet—

And yet Vestakia surely knew that too. Or guessed it, at least. She was the daughter of a Demon. She knew what the Endarkened did, and wanted. So the quiet, gentle future she was envisioning was one she must know could not last for long.

She and Idalia were very much more alike than Idalia had thought, for Vestakia was seizing her own chance for peace and joy while it was there, and would live every moment that had been granted her to the fullest.

And when trouble came, as it would—well, Idalia had the feeling that Vestakia would meet it head-on.

ONE thing about the evening did match Kellen's expectations of how a formal banquet would go, and that was that he was seated at the same table as the King and Queen. Idalia and Jermayan were there as well, and Vestakia, and Sandalon with Lairamo.

He was glad to see both Vestakia and Sandalon, and surprised to see both of them together, though Sandalon was next to him, and Vestakia was at the far end of the table. He supposed that Andoreniel and Ashaniel were making a point. And Vestakia deserved to be here as much as he and Jermayan did.

Sandalon was gleefully delighted to be among the adults, and painfully conscious of his manners.

"You won't go away again, will you, Kellen—I mean, it would be interesting to know if you contemplated a journey soon, wouldn't it?" he said, looking up at Lairamo for approval.

"I don't know if I'll have to go away again, Sandalon," Kellen said gently. "I hope I won't. I'll tell you as soon as I know. I can promise that."

"Good!" the boy said. "I hope you won't have to go away either. Idalia was sad while you were gone. She stayed in her house and wouldn't talk to anyone."

THE banquet went on until quite late. There were more—and more elaborate— dishes offered than Kellen had yet seen, but fortunately he quickly realized he didn't have to try everything offered, and stuck to the things he could identify.

Or so he thought. The Elven love of illusion extended even to their culinary arts—the slice of venison in sauce he took turned out to be made of mushrooms, and the "roast goose" was not fowl, but fish. Still, both were perfectly edible, even delicious. And a roast turnip could look like few other things—though he was a little surprised to find it had been hollowed out and stuffed with apple.

At one point Kellen looked up to find Vestakia gone, and realized that she must have slipped out sometime after the main courses were served—at least, he didn't see her again during the evening.

He wished he could do the same. Though the banquet was entertaining in an exotic fashion, it was tiring, and Kellen couldn't help feeling that there were more important things to be doing than throwing a big party right now. While he tried to keep from worrying about tomorrow's Council meeting, he was a human, not an Elf, and he didn't have their seeming ability to let tomorrow take care of itself.

And he did know what was proper good manners in this situation, having checked with Jermayan to make sure. So despite the fact that he'd rather have been out in the meadow with the unicorns—despite the rain—or back in his own home, he stayed at the banquet through the long dessert course—iced cakes, candied fruits, flavored ices, custards, and even xocalatl—did his best to make polite conversation with dozens of people whose names he was sure he wouldn't remember in the morning, and entertained himself with thinking how horrified his peers back in Armethalieh would be if they could only see him now.

Eventually the last round of fruit cordials had been poured and drunk. Fortunately there didn't seem to be very much alcohol at all in Elven wines and cordials, but since custom required everyone to change tables for every course of the desserts—and there were a lot of courses—Kellen was just about as confused as to just where in the garden he was as if he'd been drinking strong Armath-aliehan ale.

"But now the hour grows late, and we do not wish to weary those whom we also honor," Ashaniel said, rising gracefully to her feet. "And so we give grace to the night and to the season, and bid you all fair rest and refreshment in the name of Leaf and Star!"

At that signal, the guests began to prepare to depart. Kellen was already on his feet. He looked around, but couldn't see Jermayan or Idalia anywhere. It didn't matter. He could catch up with Idalia at home.

BUT when he reached the house once more, Idalia wasn't there.

No reason to wait up for her, Kellen told himself, hanging up his cloak and shaking out his rainshade before setting it in its tray to finish drying. She'd probably stopped to talk to friends. He'd just make sure to leave a few lamps burning for her, and make sure the stove had plenty of fuel.

All in all, his first Elven banquet hadn't been all that bad, he decided, fold' ing his new finery neatly and climbing into bed.

SINCE the rains had returned—with a vengeance—the brooks and streams that criss-crossed Sentarshadeen had refilled, and in some cases done more than that. It was not the ruinous flooding that could have occurred if the rains had been let to reach the Elven Lands unchecked, but it could have been messy and inconvenient, so the banks of some of the shallower tributaries had been shored up and reinforced. Since the work had been done by Elves, it had been done beautifully, with walls of brick and stone and tile edging the rivulets, until they took on much the look of canals.

Whoever had been looking after Jermayan's house while he was gone was apparently someone with a lot of free time to make certain that Jermayan never be inconvenienced by the flooding of his home. This highly industrious individual had built the restraining walls especially high. Higher, in fact, than the footbridge to the front door, which fitted as neatly into it as if they had always been meant to be together.

In one way, that was a good thing, because the little stream that flowed around the cottage was running very high. However, this conscientious person had not been particularly good at imagining what would happen if the stream actually did get that high, because that little footbridge should have been raised along with the walls.

When he and Idalia reached it, Jermayan cleared his throat uncomfortably, regarding the bridge.

"Generally it is, ah—"

"Drier?" Idalia suggested mischievously.

"Yes. Drier. In the sense that the bridge is not quite so wet."

"It would, of course, be drier if it were not raining," Idalia said agreeably, watching the river foam over the planks of the bridge. To be fair, the bridge was not so very much underwater.

"It would be churlish of me to expect an honored guest to ruin her dancing shoes because of my unruly stream," Jermayan said decisively. He advanced upon Idalia and swooped her up into his arms before she could protest.

Idalia was not a small woman, but she'd felt in no danger of being dropped as Jermayan carried her across the bridge and up the walk, managing both their rainshades with elegant ease. In fact, it was a remarkably pleasant experience; there was something significant in allowing someone else to take charge of her safety for once. Even in so small a thing as keeping her feet from being soaked. As Jermayan carried her over the stream, she had the rather light-headed sensation of crossing something more important than just a bit of running water.

The bridge was hung with pale blue lanterns, and there were more at the door. The ones at the door were in the shape of seashells, a watery motif particularly suited to the weather, and their surfaces were starred and speckled with flecks of green.

Jermayan thrust the door open and set her down inside.

"We arrive without incident," he observed. "Be welcome, Idalia, in my home and at my hearth."

"I am welcome," Idalia said, removing her raincape and furling her rain-shade. "And it's quite… dry."

"And perhaps the stream will subside by morning, though I do doubt it. There is tea, of course, or if you prefer, I might warm some cordial."

"Tea, I think," Idalia said. "There has been quite enough cordial this evening."

Jermayan went off to prepare the tea, after setting his cloak aside. The cottage was larger than the guesthouses, and had a separate kitchen. While he was gone, she looked around.

It much resembled his home in Ondoladeshiron, where she had once been a frequent guest. There were several familiar tapestries hung upon the walls, and between them, on small shelves, exquisite pieces of Elvenware, meant for display and not for use.

A low table was pulled up to one of the long padded benches that lined the room. It was heaped with books—both conventional bound books, and the older scrolls that some Elves still preferred. A xaqiue board with a half-finished game took up about half the table.

In an open case on the bench was Jermayan's harp.

It was a small instrument that could be held in the crook of one arm, suitable for carrying into the field. The wood was black with age, and polished smooth by the caress of countless hands over the centuries, and it was strung with silver.

An Elven Knight was expected to learn to master at least one of the "gentler arts" as well as those of war and warfare; most chose something like carving, mosaic-setting, or gardening, all things where beauty could be achieved in the laying out of mathematical designs according to established rules. A slightly smaller number became musicians, but were players rather than composers. Very few chose the more challenging realms of music composition, poetry, or the creative visual arts.

But Jermayan, being Jermayan, could never do anything by halves. He had taken up and mastered several instruments, the harp becoming his favorite—and he wrote music for it. Or at least, he had done so when Idalia had last known him.

She did not touch the harp herself, for she was feeling unwontedly sensitive, and was afraid she might pick up far more than she wanted or he intended if she did so. Instead, she settled herself beside the fire to wait.

He came in with tea set out on a footed tray; the ones like it in her home were of carved wood, but this one was actually more practical if you were going to carry liquid about, being made of sculpted metal with an inlay of glass mosaic. She made a mental note to commission one like it, but knew better than to admire it—because Jermayan would immediately try to give it to her.

Instead, when he put it down carefully between them and settled himself, she poured tea for both of them and nodded toward the harp. "I'd been wondering if you still played," she'd said, in order to keep the stillness from deepening into the uncomfortable. "I was hoping nothing had happened to make you lose interest—" Then she smiled. "Or worse, decide that the harp wasn't challenging enough and move on to the pandehorn!"

"Ah, the ill woodwind that never blows good," he replied with a rare chuckle. "No indeed. I have found a great deal of comfort in music. And I have continued to compose as well." And without waiting for her to ask, he set down his tea and reached for the harp and began to play.