Elvenblood (4 page)

"I must go soon," she said then, bestowing a faint smile on him. "I only came to tell you that you were right. And we must walk even more carefully from this moment on. I still do not know how you guessed."

He made no reply to that, only bent to kiss her hand; she turned it and laid it against his cheek for a moment in affection.

He stood up again and began to pace. "When Tylar asked me to help create Rena's ornaments with my magic, I first suspected a trap. Why go to all the effort of making real, solid creations when simple illusions would be just as effective and a great deal easier to wear?"

She nodded, slowly, the crystals woven into her hair sparkling with the movement.

His nerves were not going to be eased by pacing, but at least it gave him some release for his energy. "When I learned from you that Tylar had ordered you to lend Rena some of your maids to enhance her looks with paint and powder, the suspicion deepened into certainty. That was when I
knew
."

"I see!" she exclaimed. "An illusion laid over her features would have been much more effective—and much more flattering than anything those poor clumsy creatures can do with cosmetics. How clever of you to know that!"

He shrugged. "Not clever, simply observant. So I went out of my way to create impossibly ornate jewelry for Rena, of heavy gold filigree and emeralds; not only necklace and rings, but an elaborate belt that reached to the floor, bracelets, and hair ornaments." His constructions would last for three or even four weeks, and exerting himself gave him every excuse to have an attack of
kryshein
as a consequence. Tylar would be able to brag about his son's prowess as a mage, while offering the reason for his absence, and since the trap was supposed to be secret, no one would guess the real reason why he was not at the fete. Only Rena would suffer for this, and only a little.

That did not make him happy—but he had a great deal more to worry about than Rena's welfare. It was beginning to look as if his own secret was in jeopardy.

"He is ridiculously proud of you," she replied, curling her lip a little, the mask of serenity cracking. Then she sighed. "Your true father would be much prouder of you, and with more reason."

He started; Lady Viridina did not often mention his real father. She had conceived him by a human slave, a trusted man who had come with her from her father's estate, when Tylar became increasingly abusive over her failure to conceive at all. The man had been completely devoted to her; what her feelings had been for him, Lorryn did not know and probably would never learn, for the one mind in all of this place he refused to ever try and read was hers. Viridina did not discuss such things with her son, and he would not violate her privacy. All he
did
know was that at some point before she became Tylar's wife, she had disabled Garth's slave-collar, freeing his human magepowers of thought-reading, and that Garth had used those powers to serve and protect her.

She
had
confessed to her son that she had never expected him to live past infancy; everything she had ever heard about halfbloods made her certain he would be weak and sickly, and would die before he reached his second year.

"Do you ever regret—" he began.

"Never," she said flatly. "Never once."

Her powers of magic were at least the equal of Tylar's; they might even have been superior. When Lorryn was born, he already wore the illusion of full elven blood, and she maintained that illusion, day and night, waking and sleeping, until he was old enough and strong enough in his powers to maintain it himself.

Tylar was overjoyed at the strong, healthy son she presented him with—
-and
if she was dismayed by Lorryn's vigor, she was too careful to show it. Ironically, she gave birth the following year to Sheyrena, Tylar's true daughter, who was as fragile in appearance as Lorryn was vigorous. Two children were enough for Tylar, who openly preferred the amorous company of his concubines; he left Viridina alone after that.

"I can never repay what you—" he whispered.

She interrupted him, fiercely. "You are my child," she said, a hint of the fiery will that had fueled the fight now showing in her eyes. "You are
my
child, all mine, not his. There is nothing to repay." The force of her words stopped him dead in his tracks.

He was not sure about that, although she could never have predicted what happened later. Everything would have been fine if events had proceeded normally. Viridina had no trouble holding her illusion on him;
he
would have had no trouble maintaining it. There would have been no need ever to worry that their secret would be discovered.

Except for the Elvenbane.

"I must go," she said then; and turned swiftly, slipping out the door before he could even reply.

He resumed his pacing.
Except for the Elvenbane. One small girl-child. And how much havoc that single child wrought
…

In many ways, that small girl-child had been very good for the House of Treves. If it had not been for her, there would never have been a second Wizard War, and the ranks of the high and securely placed would remain exactly as they had been for the last half-century or more. But there
had been
a second Wizard War, and the ranks of the high were decimated by the failure of battles and policy. Lord Tylar had been waiting, ready to pounce, and pounce, he had.

But the girl had made every elven lord painfully, fearfully aware that the day of the halfbloods was
not
passed, that there had been halfbloods born, smuggled off, and hidden in the wild lands all along. The secret was out, and now, with the wizards out of reach, the elves were assuaging their fear by searching for those halfbloods they
could
punish for merely existing.

In the abstract, of course, he could not blame them. How could any of them feel anything other than fear for people who had not only the elven magics to call on, but the forbidden magics of the human slaves, magics kept in check only by the controlling collars locked around the necks of all slaves as soon as they were old enough to be trained?

In the abstract—well, there was nothing abstract about
his
situation, that was the problem. And it was all the fault of one flame-haired girl.

He could not bring himself to hate her—after all, she probably had as little control over her situation as he had over his—

But I wish she could have appeared in someone else's lifetime. Or at least, 1 wish she could have appeared after I found some way to dispose of Lord Tylar and was securely Lord Treves myself…

A cold thought, that, but inescapable. He had been forced to watch the humiliation of his mother and sister for far too long.
Lord
Tylar had never shown him so much as a single instant of affection; he was another prized possession, no more, and no less. But Lord Tylar's cruelty to the possessions he no longer prized was more and more pointed, and he no longer prized Lady Viridina. It had occurred to Lorryn recently that he and Rena were not the only vehicles for alliance-by-marriage. There
was
Lord Tylar himself.

Not while Lady Viridina was alive, of course, but—

But elven women are notoriously fragile, and once Rena is wedded and out of the manor, and I am packed up to one of the liege men for more lessons in the management of an estate, there would be no awkward witnesses.

Except for human slaves, of course, but they were easily silenced.

If this had occurred to Lorryn, it had certainly occurred to Lord Tylar. Lorryn had seen the elven lord eyeing his wife with a light in his eyes that Lorryn did not particularly like, of late. So without saying anything to his mother, he had begun planning ways to turn the tables on her husband, and make him the "disposable" one.

All those plans had been overturned by the advent of the Elvenbane, of course.

He flung himself down on the bed, all interest in his book long lost. Oh, if only she could have appeared some other time!

Well, she had no choice, and neither did he. Now his plans were much different. Now they were concerned with his survival. Somehow he was going to have to negotiate this difficult time, until the older elves lost some of their fear and stopped looking for halfbloods in their own ranks.

His stomach turned over as he thought of the consequences awaiting him if they found him.
Or else
—
I'm going to have to plan something more basic. How to get away, and where to flee. Considering the number of times I've had to feign illness to avoid exposure lately, maybe I had better begin planning an escape right now, while I still have the leisure to
plan
it
.

Chapter 2

THE SLAVES DREW their "mistress" to her feet, and led her over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror to survey their handiwork for herself. Rena stared at the reflection in the mirror and felt her stomach churn with dismay. The effect of hair, gown, jewelry, and cosmetics was just as dreadful as she had imagined.

No
, she decided after a moment more of contemplation.
It isn't as bad as I imagined. It's worse
.

Both gowns were of silk, the undergown lighter in color and weight than the overgown. They were supposed to create a flowing line, as if she was a wave upon the sea—curving over her body gently and voluptuously, hinting at what lay beneath without actually revealing anything.

Instead, they hung upon her slight frame, falling straight from her shoulders, hinting at nothing beneath because there was, frankly, nothing there to hint at. Both gowns boasted long trains that were supposed to sweep gracefully behind her, trains that would be pure hell to manage in a crowded room. She kicked at the trains a little, sourly.
All very well if you are someone like my mother, with prestige and presence
—
or if you're a real beauty, like Katarina an Vines. People notice not only you, but whether or not you're dragging six ells of fabric behind you, and they take care not to step on it. I'll be lucky if someone doesn't half-disrobe me by treading on my train while I'm walking
.

The sea-green silk of the undergown was plain, decorated only at the hems and cuffs with borders of plain gold, but the silk of the peacock-green overdress was patterned with iridescent emerald threads woven in a motif of moonbirds, the symbol of the House of Treves. If anything, this was worse on her slight body than plain silk would have been, since the pattern had been woven large, and there wasn't a
whole
moonbird visible in the dress until you got to the train. It was supposed to show that she was the pride of her House; instead, it looked rather as if someone had made her dress out of leftover drapery fabric.

Or else people are going to wonder if we've taken to displaying our symbol decapitated, detailed, or dewinged.

The darkness of the color made her pale skin appear even whiter than usual. She
did
look like a corpse. Thanks to her stiff expression, the cosmetics only made her look like a corpse that had been painted for the funeral.

Charming. Absolutely charming. But as long as I don "t try to smile, at least I won't look like a clown.

Her hair—no, she didn't want to think about her hair. It was a disaster, an artificial construction cemented over her head, a monument to vanity, an architect's worst nightmare. But from her point of view, it was worse to wear than it was to look at; the emerald and gold ornaments were so weighty that she feared she would have a headache long before the fete was over. An enormous emerald necklace lay heavily on her white throat, and looked
far
too much like a slave-collar for her own comfort; huge bracelets encircled her wrists under the oversleeves, rings weighed down her hands, and a belt that clasped tightly at her waist with a long end that hung down to the ground in front made her feel chained to one place.

I
hope no one asks me to dance, I can't move in all of this
.

Each of the emeralds was the size of her thumbnail at least, and the gold that anchored them was often in palm-sized plates. The jewels might have been suited to a particularly vain warrior or a very vivid (and strong!) concubine; they certainly were ill suited to
her
.

She sighed and turned away from the mirror. It didn't matter anyway.
She
didn't matter. She was nothing more than a display. The very best thing she could do tonight would be to stay seated somewhere where Lord Ardeyn (or any other would-be suitor) could admire her jewels, her gown, and the power they implied—power that any children she bore would be presumed to inherit. After all, Lorryn had inherited that power, hadn't he?

The maids waited for her to say something, either in praise or blame. She waved a heavy hand at them. "My father will probably be very pleased with you," she told them, unable to offer either on her own behalf. "Myre, please stay; the rest of you may go."

The maids curtsied, with relief evident on every face, and swiftly left the room, leaving only Rena's favorite slave, Myre, behind. The girl was not one of Lord Tylar's former concubines, one of the few who wasn't, and that alone would have endeared her to Rena. Myre had other virtues, however.

There was nothing particularly distinguishing about Myre; she was neither plain nor pretty, tall nor dwarfish, her hair and eyes were an ordinary enough brown. That was the outside, an exterior that Rena now knew was purely protective. That was because Myre was the only one of all her slaves who actually
knew
some of what was going on outside the walls of the estate, although she was very mysterious and elusive about her sources of information. What was the most important, though, was that she was willing to share that knowledge with her mistress. She had begun by calling that news "tales" and "stories," but that particular pretense had been dropped a long time ago.

With the rest of the maids gone, Rena dropped her illusion (thin as it was) of satisfaction, then chuckled as Myre made a grimace of distaste.

"I know," Rena said to the human. "I know. Dreadful, isn't it?"