Mercedes Lackey - Elvenborn

He closed his eyes and fragrant steam rose up and filled the room further with scented fog. No one Lord would ever dare challenge me, he thought contentedly. And probably not two or three together. Not that they 're likely to, since I don't meddle in politics, but they still wouldn't dare. Not when these lands feed and clothe a third of them. Not when the fruits of our labors are served up on their tables, when our wines are the choicest, our silks the fairest.

Granted, an Elvenlord with powerful magic could transform water and ashes into the finest wine and choicest meals—but it was still water and ashes, and wouldn't nourish any better. It took a great deal of magic to create such illusions, magic which could be put to better use. Illusory gold had no commercial worth—but the gold in Kyrtian's treasury was real enough.

No, no one is ever going to try any political games with us, he told himself, as the heat of the bath warmed and soothed all of his tired, strained muscles. They wouldn't dare. Pelenal wouldn 't sell to them, and then where would they be ? Half the stuff that goes to feed their slaves comes from here; most of them don't bother growing grain anymore, or raising sheep for wool and flax for linen.

As often as he asked Tenebrinth if there was anything the Seneschal wanted as a reward for all his good service, Tene­brinth had never asked for anything but the most trivial of fa­vors. Lord Tenebrinth often seemed to Kyrtian the most contented of beings; he had a wife who adored him, and the freedom to manage the estate as he saw fit. Tenebrinth's chief pleasure outside of his family came from trying out little theo-

ries of management. Over the decades, he had weeded out all the ones that didn't work at all, or didn't work well, and now he was in the process of fine-tuning and balancing everything. The one thing that Tenebrinth would have wanted that Kyrtian couldn't give him was a child.

And if I could, I would. I think we pay for our long lives in our lack of children. It was sad, really, for if there was ever an Elven lady born to be a mother, it was Tenebrinth's wife, Lady Seryana.

And of course, it would be so much easier on all of us if they just had a daughter. It wouldn't have mattered how young the girl was; Kyrtian would be more than willing to wait for her to grow up. After all, he had all the time in the world before him; Elves did age and die eventually, but "eventually" was several centuries away.

Maybe what he ought to do would be to investigate those ru­mors that some Elvenlords had discovered ways to enhance their fertility with magic. If that were true, and he could find a way to purchase the services of such a magician—

That would solve everyone's problem, wouldn't it?

It was an easy solution on the surface, but like deep water, such a "solution" could cover more than was immediately ap­parent.

The favor might cost more than I'm willing to give. What if the mage wanted slaves? How could I send off any of my peo­ple into real slavery? What if he wanted some of my fighters? What if he wanted Gel?

Even if that difficulty never came up, there was the imagi­nary girl to consider. She might not like me. She might like me, but not enough. She might fall in love with someone else — even Pelenal. He winced away from the idea of forcing a maiden to wed because she'd been betrothed to him in her cradle. How could any good come out of such a bad bargain?

Gel is right. I should leave it up to mother, he decided, with a slight sinking of his heart and a contradictory feeling of relief. I'll tell her so at dinner. That should make her so happy she'll let us besiege her very bower if we want!

4

As Lynder replenished the goblet of cool water at Kyrtian's right hand, the young lord soaked until the aches in his tired, sore muscles eased. He'd have remained in the bath until he was in danger of falling asleep, if not for two factors. His stomach complained that it hadn't gotten anything but wa­ter for some time, and he knew his mother was waiting for him to have dinner with her and out of politeness would not touch a morsel until he appeared. Servants sent off for a platter of finger-foods would have taken care of the hunger, but he was not going to be rude to his mother!

It isn 't wise to be rude to one's mother. She knows everything about your childhood that is potentially embarrassing.

Reluctantly, he stepped up out of the water, dripping onto the marble floor, and waved off another attentive servant, taking the soft, snowy towel the lad held out to him. Wrapping the towel around himself, he returned to his bedroom to find clothing laid out over a stand and waiting for him to don. This clothing had been selected by Lynder to complement whatever his mother was wearing for dinner. It was a small gesture, but one that his mother appreciated, and it only cost a little extra attention on the part of the servants; such attention was no burden to them, for she was as beloved to her staff as she was to her son.

To his relief, the waiting clothing was casual, a comfortable tunic and trews of heavy amber silk with a simple geometric design in bronze beadwork trimming the collar and belt. That meant his mother was in a casual mood; in fact, with any luck, she had arranged to dine on the balcony outside the lesser dining-room, where they could watch their human dependents dancing and listen to their music.

He knew, because she had told him, that other Elvenlords

generally chose to dine amid self-created, fantastic settings built of illusion, a simpler version of the illusions he'd seen at the few Elven gatherings and fetes he had attended. He had never been able to fathom why they would wish to do such a thing. How boring must it be, surrounded by something so ut­terly controlled, in which one knew to the moment exactly what would happen? He preferred real weather, real sunsets, and the spontaneity of live performers. But then, he'd never cared much for even the most elaborate of illusions, far preferring the beau­ties of the real world to gossamer fantasies. Even his suite held a but single illusion, to bring the outdoors that he loved inside regardless of weather or season. He had created an ethereal for­est glade and waterfall, illuminated in a perpetual twilight, in the corner of his sitting room. This illusion opened his suite and made the room seem to extend far beyond the actual walls. He could easily have had a real waterfall put in, but that would have made the sitting room rather more humid than he liked. The three rooms of his suite—sitting room, study, and bedroom—were oth­erwise all as they had been built: grey carpet, white walls and ceiling, simple, unornamented furnishings with frames of pale birch-wood and fat cushions in grey-blue, grey-green, and slate-grey. Sourceless, gentle light bathed the rooms, but could be extinguished with a single command—magic, yes, but hardly illusion.

He donned the soft, comfortable silk garments, slipped on a pair of buttery leather indoor boots and belted the tunic with a matching sash. After a quick glance at himself in a mirror to en­sure that he had not forgotten anything, he set out for the dining-chambers, leaving the servants to clean up behind him. The same sourceless light as brightened his rooms illuminated the hallways whose only ornaments were small tables placed at intervals against the wall. He noted with approval that now that it was summer, someone had replaced the statues that had stood on each table with arrangements of flowers which gently scented the air without being cloying. So much better than all the incense and heavy perfumes he'd encountered in the few other manors he'd occasionally visited! His mother made life here into an art form, something that appeared effortless and