Andre Norton - Elveblood

Rena nodded. It's not a law so much as an agreement—in fact, in the old days, when we were first building our estates, the High Lords would all join power so that everything was done quickly. Now, though— it was her turn to grimace —well, pigs will don court-gowns and play harps before someone like Lord Syndar would lend his power to help Lord Kylan. I hope that the dragons are better at working together than they are.

I've been told they are, Myre offered. I've been told they lend their powers to each other, and that there are never any petty quarrels between them, that only betrayal of the worst kind can force them to become enemies. They say that where the dragons are, there has been peace for thousands of years. That's supposed to be why they helped the halfbloods; the wizards were just trying to live in hiding and it was the lords who attacked them to destroy them. I suppose the dragons must have felt sorry for the halfbloods, and disliked the lords who were trying to hurt them.

I wish we were like that, Rena sighed, and studied her reflection.

If we were like that, I wouldn't be served upon a platter to make some drooling old dotard a tasty bride , she thought glumly. If we were like that, I could do what I wanted to do, and Father would leave me alone .

To do what?

What do dragons do when they aren't helping the wizards? she wondered aloud.

Oh, marvelous things. Myre replied immediately. Fancy flying, playing games, exploring, using their magic to create beautiful sculptures, telling stories, all kinds of wonderful things. It would take me all day to tell you.

Rena swallowed around the lump in her throat that the vision of such freedom had conjured up. If only I could run away, somehow, run away to the land where the dragons come from! If only I could go somewhere where I'd never have to obey Father again, where there aren't any rules —The rules and her father's will weighed her down as truly as the terrible jewels he had created for her weighed her down. How could anyone fly beneath such a weight?

But wishing to run away was as useless as wishing for a dragon to come carry her off; one was as likely as the other. How could she run away? She'd never even been off the estate! She had no idea how to fend for herself—which was precisely what she would have to do to keep from being found and brought back before she got more than a foot off the grounds.

Running away was as out of the question as—as pigs donning court-gowns and playing harps!

What was more—she had already drawn these preparations out as long as she dared. Much longer, and her father would come here to find out what the delay was about, and he would not be pleased to find her completely gowned and jeweled, staring into the mirror.

She rose once again, with dignity, if not with happiness. Don't wait up for me, Myre. Tell one of the others to wait in my rooms until I come home.

That would at least save Myre from the tedium of a long and boring evening alone in these echoing rooms.

Who? Myre asked, promptly.

Rena shrugged. I don't know, and I really don't care. Pick someone you don't like. Tell her I ordered it. No slave would dare direct insolence to the daughter of the House, so if there was anyone giving Myre trouble, this would be a subtle way for the human to have a little revenge. All of the closets and drawers would be mage-locked by Rena's absence, so there would be nothing to do but sit and wait in this eternally peaceful and eternally boring dressing room until Rena returned.

Myre grinned slyly, and bowed—and if there was a touch of mockery in her bow, Rena was not going to say a word about it. Without waiting for an answer, she turned and waved her hand at the door, which opened at her signal, and stepped through it into the hallway of pink marble.

Like her rooms, the hallway had been created by the previous owner of this estate, a High Lord with far more power than Lord Tylar had. Every room had doors that answered only to the signals of those with elven blood, or power-curtains that would only pass those who were keyed to them. Sourceless lighting illuminated the entire manor, until and unless someone with elven blood wished a room in darkness, so there were no windows in this place, not even a skylight. Slaves lived and died here without ever seeing the sun once they were brought from the pens to be trained.

Some aspects of the manor were still as they had been when the original owner died; Lord Tylar did not have enough magic to change them. That, Rena reflected, was probably a good thing. She had visited other manors where one never knew what was going to lie just outside a door—sometimes it might be a hallway, sometimes a ballroom, sometimes a precipice. Not a real precipice, of course, but the illusion of one was quite enough to frighten Rena out of her wits for a moment or two—which had been the whole point of the so-called joke.

No, this was a perfectly ordinary pink marble hallway, lined with alabaster ums, which led to an ordinary pink marble staircase, which descended in a gentle curve to the next floor. Her own escort of human guards fell in behind her as she passed them just before she got to the landing of the staircase, moving silently. And hopefully Lord Tylar and Lady Viridina would be waiting for her at the foot of it, having just arrived there from their own preparations. Rena had been counting on her father's vanity to keep him at his preening—

She paused at the head of the stairs and took a deep, steadying breath. Head high. Walk slowly. Try to remember that stupid train; try to forget about the stupid escort. Pause between each step …

She took each stair of the curving staircase carefully, and stopped at the halfway point to listen to the voices ahead of her. Lord Tylar was holding forth on something, but he sounded pompous, not irritated, which meant she wasn't late.

Thank goodness for small favors.

She took the rest of the stairs at the same deliberate pace, knowing that if she rushed and looked the least bit undignified, Lord Tylar would be annoyed with her. He was going to have enough to be annoyed with her about before the evening was over; best not to give him more than she could manage.

He was watching for her; her heart sank as she saw him turn toward the staircase as soon as she came into sight, and examine her every move with a critical eye. Her stomach tightened and she found it hard to take those deep, serene breaths.

He's going to hate the dress, the hair, the cosmetics… he's going to hate how I'm walking .… It was an automatic reaction, one she had every time she had to confront him. How could she help it? All he ever invoked in her was dread.

He was a handsome man, even by elven standards, but even by those standards his expression and bearing were chill and detached. He stood much taller than Viridina and his daughter, by a head-and-a-half. His pale gold hair was worn as his grandfather had worn his , as if to invoke the memory of that formidable man; cut unfashionably short, and without the usual diadem or fillet that current mode dictated. His long, chiseled face bore no signs of emotion whatsoever, but Rena knew him well enough to be aware that the slight narrowing of his brilliant green eyes meant he was looking for faults to criticize.

He and Lady Viridina were dressed in the same colors—or rather, lack of them—of ice-white and gold. His costume hinted at armor without actually being armor, hers was a more elaborate version of the same gown Rena wore. On Lady Viridina, however, the gown of pearly-white silk with iridescent moonbirds looked beautiful. The only touch of color that either of them wore was in the emeralds and beryls of their jewels; again, the Lady's jewels were copies of Rena's, but she carried them as if she did not notice their weight in the slightest Lord Tylar's jewels were simpler and fewer; belt, a single ring, a single armband, and a torque about his neck.