Margaret Weis - Elven Star

“Destruction?” suggested Paithan.

Zifnab gave him a grateful look. “Yes, destruction. Doom and destruction. Shocking! Shocking!” Reaching out a gnarled hand, the old man gripped Lenthan Quindiniar by the arm. “And you, sir, will be the one who leads his people forth!”

“I—I will?” said Lenthan, with a nervous glance at Calandra, positive she wouldn’t let him. “Where shall I lead them?”

“Forth!” said Zifnab, gazing hungrily at a baked chicken. “Do you mind? Just a tad? Dabbling in the arcane, you know. Whets the appetite—” Calandra sniffed, and said nothing.

“Callie, really.” Paithan winked at his irate sister. “This man’s our honored guest. Here, sir, allow me to pass it to you. Anything else? Some tohahs?”

“No, thank you—”

“Yes!” came a voice that was like the rumble of thunder stalking the ground. The others at the table appeared alarmed. Zifnab cringed.

“You must eat your vegetables, sir.” The voice seemed to rise up from the floor. “Think of your colon!”

A scream and piteous wailing emanated from the kitchen.

“There’s the maid. Hysterics again,” said Paithan, tossing aside his lapcloth and rising to his feet. He intended to escape before his sister figured out what was going on. “I’ll just go—”

“Who said that?” Calandra grabbed his arm.

“—have a look, if you’d let loose—”

“Don’t get so worked up, Gallic,” said Aleatha languidly. “It’s only thunder.”

“My colon’s none of your damn business!” The old man shouted down at the floor. “I can’t abide vegetables—”

“If it was only thunder”—Calandra’s voice was heavily ironic—“then the wretch is discussing his colon with his shoes. He’s a lunatic. Paithan, throw him out.”

Lenthan shot a pleading glance at his son. Paithan looked sidelong at Aleatha, who shrugged and shook her head. The young elf picked up his lapcloth and subsided back into his chair.

“He’s not crazy, Cal. He’s talking to … uh … his dragon. And we can’t throw him out, because the dragon wouldn’t take it at all well.”

“His dragon.” Calandra pursed her lips, her small eyes narrowed. The entire family, as well as the visiting astrologer, who was seated at the far end of the table, knew this expression, known privately to younger brother and sister as “pinch-face.” Calandra could be terrible, when she was in this mood. Paithan kept his gaze on his plate, gathering together a small mound of food with his fork and punching a hole in it. Aleatha stared at her own reflection in the polished surface of the porcelain teapot, tilting her head slightly, admiring the sunlight on her fair hair. Lenthan attempted to disappear by ducking his head behind a vase of flowers. The astrologer comforted himself with a third helping of tohahs.

“That beast that terrorized Lord Durndrun’s?” Calandra’s gaze swept the table.

“Do you mean to tell me you’ve brought it here? To my house?” Ice from her tone seemed to rime her face with white, much as the magical ice rimed the frosted wineglasses.

Paithan nudged his younger sister beneath the table with his foot, caught her eye. “I’ll be leaving this soon, back on the road,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“Soon I’ll be mistress of my own house,” Aleatha returned softly.

“Stop that whispering, you two. We’ll all be murdered in our beds,” cried Calandra, her fury mounting. The warmer her anger, the colder her tone. “I hope then, Paithan, you’ll be pleased with yourself! And you, Thea, I’ve overheard you talking this nonsense about getting married …” Calandra deliberately left the sentence unfinished.

No one moved, except the astrologer (shoveling buttered tohah into his mouth) and the old man. Apparently having no idea he was a bone of contention, he was calmly dismembering a baked chicken. No one spoke. They could hear, quite clearly, the musical chink of a mechanical petal “unfolding” the hour. The silence grew uncomfortable. Paithan saw his father, hunched miserably in his chair, and thought again how feeble and gray he looked. Poor old man, he’s got nothing else but his wacky delusions. Let him have ’em, after all. What harm is it? He decided to risk his sister’s wrath.

“Uh, Zifnab, where did you say father was leading … er … his people?” Calandra glared at him, but, as Paithan had hoped, his father perked up. “Yes, where?” Lenthan asked shyly, blushing.

The old man raised a chicken leg toward heaven.

“The roof?” Lenthan was somewhat confused.

The old man raised the chicken leg higher.

“Heaven? The stars?”

Zifnab nodded, momentarily unable to speak. Bits of chicken dribbled down his beard.

•

“My rockets! I knew it! Did you hear that, Elixnoir?” Lenthan turned to the elven astrologer, who had left off earing and was glowering at the human.

“My dear Lenthan, please consider this rationally. Your rockets are quite marvelous and we’re making considerable progress in sending them above treetop level but to talk of them carrying people to the stars! Let me explain. Here is a model of our world according to the legends handed down to us by the ancients and confirmed by our own observations. Hand me that pricklepear. Now, this”—he held up the pricklepear—“is Pryan and this is our sun.” Elixnoir glanced about, momentarily at a loss for a sun.

“One sun,” said Paithan, picking up a kumquat.

“Thank you,” said the astrologer. “Would you mind—I’m running out of hands.”

“Not at all.” Paithan was enjoying himself hugely. He didn’t dare look at Aleatha, or he knew he’d break out laughing. Acting on Elixnoir’s instructions, he gravely positioned the kumquat a short distance from the pricklepear.

“Now this”—the astrologer lifted a sugar cube. Holding it a long distance from the kumquat, he began to rotate it around the pricklepear—“represents one of the stars. Just look at how far it is from our world! You can imagine what an enormous amount of distance you would have to travel …”

“At least seven kumquats,” murmured Paithan to his sister.

“He was quick enough to believe in Father when it meant a free meal,” Aleatha returned coolly.

“Lenthan!” The astrologer looked severe, pointed at Zifnab. “This man is a humbug! I—”

“Who are you calling humbug?”

The dragon’s voice shook the house. Wine sloshed from glasses, spilling over the lace tablecloth-Small, fragile items slid from end tables and tumbled to the floor. From the study came a thud, a bookcase toppling. Aleatha glanced out a window, saw a girl running, shrieking, from the kitchen.

“I don’t believe you’ll have to worry about the scullery maid any longer, Cal.”

“This is intolerable.” Calandra rose to her feet. The frost that rimed her nose had spread across her face, freezing the features and freezing the blood of those who saw her. Her thin, spare body seemed all sharp angles and every angle liable to hurt anyone who got near her. Lenthan cowered visibly. Paithan, lips twitching, concentrated on folding his lapcloth into a cocked hat. Aleatha sighed and drummed her nails on the table.

“Father,” spoke Calandra in awful tones, “when dinner is concluded I want that old man and his … his …”

“Careful, Cal,” suggested Paithan, not looking up. “You’ll have the house down around our ears—”

“I want them out of my house!” Calandra’s hands gripped the back of her chair, the knuckles white. Her body shook with the chill wind of her ire, the only chill wind that blew in the tropical land. “Old man!” Her voice rose shrilly.

“Do you hear me?”

“Eh?” Zifnab glanced around. Seeing his hostess, he smiled al her benignly and shook his head. “No, thank you, my dear. Couldn’t possibly eat another bite. What’s for dessert?” Paithan gave a half-giggle, smothered the other half in his lapcloth. Calandra turned, and stormed from the room, her skirts crackling about her ankles.