Margaret Weis - Elven Star

“And so I’m to let a man step in and take over and ruin what it’s cost me years to build just for the sake of seeing his face every morning whether I like it or not? No, thank you. There are worse things than being alone. Pet.” Aleatha’s purple eyes darkened almost to wine. “Death, maybe.” Her sister didn’t hear her.

The elfmaid shook back her hair, shaking off the gloomy shadow at the same time. “Shall I tell Paithan you’re wanting to see him?”

“Don’t bother. He must be near to running out of money by now. He’ll be around to see me in the toiltime.” Calandra marched toward the door. “I have the books to balance. Try to come home at a reasonable hour. Before tomorrow, at least.”

Aleatha smiled at her sister’s sarcasm and lowered the sleep-heavy eyelids modestly. “If you like, Callie, I won’t see Lord Kevanish anymore.” Her sister paused, turned. Calandra’s stern face brightened, but she only said, “I should hope not!” Stalking out of the room, she slammed the door shut behind her.

“He’s getting to be a bore anyway,” remarked Aleatha to herself. She lounged back down at her dressing table and studied her flawless features in the effusive mirror.

Calandra returned to her work on the account books as a soothing antidote to the wild vagaries of her family. The house was quiet. Her father and the astrologer puttered about in the cellar but, knowing that his daughter was more near exploding than his magical powder, Lenthan thought it wise to refrain from any further experiments along those lines.

After dinner, Calandra performed one more act related to the business. She sent a servant with a message for the birdman, addressed to Master Roland of Griffith, Jungleflower Tavern.

Shipment will arrive in early Fallow. [11] Seasons on Pryan are named according to the cycle of the crops: Rebirth, Sowing, Younglife, Harvest, Fallow. Rotation of crops is a human concept. The humans, with their skill in elemental magic as opposed to the elven skill in mechanical magic, are much better farmers than the elves. Payment expected on delivery. Calandra Quindiniar.

The birdman attached the message to the foot of a faultless that had been trained to fly to Terncia and cast the brightly colored bird in the air. The faultless glided effortlessly through the sky, riding the air currents that ebbed and flowed among the towering trees.

The bird had her mind strictly on her destination, where her mate, locked in a cage, awaited her. She kept no watch for predators, there was nothing living that wanted her for food. The faultless secretes an oil that keeps its feathers dry during the frequent rainstorms. This oil is deadly poison to all species of life except the faultless.

The faultless winged its way norinth-vars, a route that took it over the grounds and mansions of the elven peerage and across Lake Enthial. The bird dipped low over the elven farmlands that grew in the upper moss beds, forming a patchwork of unnaturally straight lines. Human slaves toiled in the fields, tending the crops. The faultless wasn’t particularly hungry; she’d been fed before starting, but a mouse would top off her dinner nicely. She couldn’t see one, however, and continued on, disappointed. The carefully cultivated elven lands soon disappeared into the jungle wild. Streams, fed by the daily rains, gathered into rivers atop the moss beds. Winding their way through the jungle, the rivers occasionally found a break in the upper layers of the moss and cascaded down into the dark depths below. Wisps of clouds began to drift before the bird’s eyes, and she flew higher, gaining altitude, climbing above the storms of rain’s hour. Eventually the thick, black, lightning-shot mass completely blocked her view of the land. She knew where she was, however; instinct guiding her. The Lord Marcins Forests lay below her; they were named by the elves but claimed by neither elves nor human due to the fact that their jungle growth was impenetrable. The storm came and went, as it had done time out of mind since the creation of the world. The sun shone brightly, and the bird could see settled lands—Thillia, realm of the humans. From her great height, the bird noted three of the sparkling, sunlit towers that marked the five divisions of the Thillian kingdom. The towers, ancient by human standards, were built of crystal bricks, the secret of whose making had been known to human wizards during the reign of King George the Only. The secret, as well as many of the wizards, had been lost in the devastating War for Love that followed the old king’s death.

The faultless used the towers to mark her destination, then swooped down, flying low over the humans’ lands. Built on a broad moss plain, dotted here and there with trees that had been left standing for their shade, the country was flat, criss-crossed with roads and pockmarked with small towns. The roads were well traveled; humans having a curious need to be constantly on the move, a need the sedentary elves could never understand and one that they considered barbaric. The hunting was far more favorable in this part of the world, and the faultless took a brief moment to fortify herself on a largish rat. Meal finished, she cleaned her claws on her beak, preened her feathers, and took to the air. When she saw the flat lands begin to give way to thick jungle, the bird felt cheered, for she was nearing the end of her long journey. She was over Temcia, the kingdom farthest norinth. Arriving at the walled city surrounding the crystal brick tower that marked the capital of Terncia, the lard heard the rough call of her mate. She dove from the sky, spiral-ing down into the city’s heart, and landed on the leather-covered arm of a Thillian birdman. He removed the message, noted the designation, and placed the weary faultless into the cage with her mate, who greeted her with tiny nips of his beak.

The birdman handed the message to a circuit rider. Several days later, the rider entered a crude and half-thought-through village standing on the very edges of the jungle and dropped the message off at the village’s only inn. Seated in his favorite booth in the Jungleflower, Master Roland of Griffith studied the fine quin scroll. Grinning, he shoved it across the table to a young woman who sat across from him.

“There! What did I tell you, Rega?”

“Thank Thillia, that’s all I can say.” Rega’s tone was grim, she wasn’t smiling. “Now you at least have something to show old Blackboard and maybe he’ll leave us be for a stretch!”

“I wonder where he is?” Roland glanced at the hour flower [12] A plant whose perpetually flowering petals curl each cycle in rhythm with the weather cycle. All races use the plant to determine the hours of the day, though each race knows them by a different name. Humans use the actual plant itself, whereas elves have developed magical mechanical devices to mimic its motion. that stood in a pot on the bar. Almost twenty petals were folded down. “It’s past his usual time.”

“He’ll be here. This is too important to him.”

“Yeah, and that makes me nervous.”

“Developing a conscience?” Rega drained her mug of kegrot and glanced about for the barmaid.

“No, I just don’t like doing business here, in a public place—”

“All the better. Everything’s aboveboard and out in the open. No one could have any suspicions of us. Ah, here he is. What did I tell you?” The inn’s door opened and a dwarf stood bathed in the dicing hour’s bright sunlight. He was an imposing sight, and nearly everyone in the inn paused in their drinking, gambling, and conversing to stare at him. Slightly above average height for his people, he had ruddy brown skin and a shaggy mane of curly black hair and beard that gave him his nickname among humans. Thick black brows meeting over a hooked nose and flashing black eyes gave him a perpetually fierce expression that served him well in alien lands. Despite the heat, he wore a red—and-white striped silken shirt and over that the heavy leather armor of his people, with bright red pants tucked into tall, thick boots.