Margaret Weis - Elven Star

“Paithan!” Lord Dumdrun came running out of the house, railbow and quiver in hand. He pointed. “Who the devil is that walking around down there by the lake? Didn’t we bring everyone up here with us?”

“I thought so.” Paithan stared, squinting. The sunlight off the water was blinding, it was difficult to see. Yet, sure enough, he could make out a figure moving about down by the water’s edge. “Hand me that railbow. I’ll go. We could have easily lost someone in the confusion.”

“Down … down there … with the dragon?” The lord stared at Paithan in amazement.

Much as he did everything else in his life, Paithan had volunteered without thinking. But before he could announce that he’d suddenly remembered a previous engagement, Lord Durndrun was pressing the bow in the young elf’s hands and murmuring something about a medal of valor. Posthumous, no doubt.

“Paithan!” Aleatha caught hold of him.

The elf took his sister’s hand in his, squeezed it, then transferred it to Lord Dumdrun’s. “Aleatha has offered to go and bring the Shadowguard [15] The eleven army is divided into three branches, the Queen’s Guard, the Shadowguard, and the City Guard. The Shadowguard keep to the lower regions of the city and are presumably adept at dealing with the various monsters that dwell beneath the moss plains. to our rescue.”

“Brave heart!” murmured Lord Durndrun, kissing the hand that was cold as ice.

“Brave soul.” He gazed at Aleatha in fervent admiration.

“Not braver than those of you staying behind, My Lord. I feel like I’m running away.” Aleatha drew a deep breath, gave her brother a cool glance. “Take care of yourself, Pait.”

“You, too, Thea.”

Arming himself, Paithan headed down toward the lake at a run. Aleatha watched him go, a horrible, smothering feeling in her breast—a feeling she had experienced once before, the night her mother died.

“Mistress Aleatha, let me escort you.” Lord Durndrun kept hold of her hand.

“No, My Lord. That’s nonsense!” Aleatha answered sharply. Her stomach twisted, bowels clenched. Why had Paithan gone? Why had he left her? She wanted only to escape from this horrid place. “You’re needed here.”

“Aleatha! You are so brave, so beautiful!” Lord Durndrun clasped her close, his arms around her waist, his Hps on her hand. “If, by some miracle, we escape this monster, I want you to marry me!”

Aleatha started, jolted from her fear. Lord Durndrun was one of the highest ranking elves at court, one of the wealthiest elves in Equilan. He had always been polite to her, but cool and withdrawn. Paithan had been kind enough to inform her that the lord thought her “too wild, her behavior improper.” Apparently, he had changed his mind.

“My Lord! Please, I must go!” Aleatha struggled, not very hard, to break the grip of the arm around her waist.

“I know. I will not stop your courageous act! Promise me you’ll be mine, if we survive.”

Aleatha ceased her struggles, shyly lowered the purple eyes. “These are dreadful circumstances, My Lord. We are not ourselves. Should we survive, I could not hold your lordship to such a promise. But”—she drew nearer him, whispering—“I do promise your lordship that I will listen if you want to ask the question again.”

Breaking free, Aleatha sank in a low courtesy, turned and ran swiftly, gracefully across the moss lawn toward the carriage house. She knew he was following her with his eyes.

I have him. I will be Lady Durndrun—supplanting the dowager as first handmaiden to the queen.

Aleatha smiled to herself as she sped across the moss, holding her skirts high to avoid tripping. The dowager’d had hysterics over a dragon. Wait until she heard this news! Her only son, nephew of Her Majesty, joined in marriage with Aleatha Quindiniar, wealthy trollop. It would be the scandal of the year. Now, pray the blessed Mother, we just live through this!

Paithan made his way down across the sloping lawn toward the lake. The ground began to rumble again, and he paused to glance about hastily, searching for any signs of the dragon. But the rolling ceased almost as soon as it had started, and the young elf took off again.

He wondered at himself, wondered at his courage. He was skilled in the use of the railbow, but the puny weapon would hardly help him against a dragon. Orn’s blood! What am I doing down here? After some serious consideration, given while he was skulking behind a bush to get a better view, he decided it wasn’t courage at all. Nothing more than curiosity. It had always landed his family in trouble.

Whoever the person was wandering down around the lake’s edge, he was beginning to puzzle Paithan immensely. He could see now that it was a man and that he didn’t belong to their party. He didn’t even belong to their race! It was a human—an elderly one, to judge by appearances: an old man with long white hair straggling down his back and a long white beard straggling down his front. He was dressed in long, bedraggled mouse-colored robes. A conical, shabby hat with a broken point teetered uncertainly on his head. And he seemed—most incredibly—to have just stepped out of the lake! Standing on the shoreline, oblivious to the danger, the old man was wringing water out of his beard, peering into the lake, and muttering to himself.

“Someone’s slave, probably,” said Paithan. “Got muddled and wandered off. Can’t think why anyone would keep a slave as old and decrepit as that, though. Hey, there! Old man!” Paithan threw caution to Orn and careened down the hill. The old man paid no attention. Picking up a long, wooden walking staff that had clearly seen better days, he began poking around the water!

Paithan could almost see the scaly body writhing up from the depths of the blue lake. His chest constricted, his lungs burned. “No! Old man! Father,” he shouted, switching to human, which he spoke fluently, using the standard form of human address to any elderly male. “Father! Come away from there! Father!”

“Eh?” The old man turned, peering at Paithan with vague eyes. “Sonny? Is that you, boy?” He dropped the staff and flung wide his arms, the motion sending him staggering. “Come to my breast, Sonny! Come to your papa!” Paithan tried to halt his own forward momentum in time to catch hold of the old man, toddling precariously on the shore. But the elf slipped in the wet grass, slid to his knees, and the old man, arms swinging wildly, toppled backward into the lake, landing with a splash.

Slavering jaws, lunging out of the water, snapping them both in two … Paithan plunged in after the old man, caught hold of him by something—perhaps his beard, perhaps a mouse-colored sleeve—and dragged him, sputtering and blowing, to the shore. “Damn fine way for a son to treat his aged parent!” The old man glared at Paithan. “Knocking me into the lake!”

“I’m not your son. Fa—I mean, sir. And it was an accident.” Paithan tugged the old man along, pulling him up the hillside. “Now, we really should get away from here! There’s a dragon—”

The old man came to a dead stop. Paithan, caught off balance, almost fell over. He jerked on the thin arm, to get the old man moving again, but it was like trying to budge a wortle tree.

“Not without my hat,” said the old man.

“To Orn with your hat!” Paithan ground his teeth. He looked fearfully back into the lake, expecting at any moment to see the water start to boil. “You doddering idiot! There’s a drag—” He turned back to the old man, stared, then said in exasperation, “Your hat’s on your head!”

“Don’t lie to me, Sonny,” said the old man peevishly. He leaned down and picked up his staff, and the hat slipped over his eyes. “Struck blind, by god!” he said in awed tones, stretching out groping hands.