Mercedes Lackey - Owlsight

Snowfire waved that caution away. “That’s all right, if you can manage to accomplish it. We need those counts to make reasonable decisions.”

Kel snorted contemptuously. “If I can manage? I am not one of thossse elderrrly layaboutsss at k’Vala, you know! Fearrr not, I ssshall have yourrrr countsss, and they will be acurrrate in everrry detail!” He paused. “I will be sssseen, howeverrr. Fly high though I will, the sssize and body-ssshape will differrr frrrom a merrre eagle - asss it sssshould be.”

Darian’s lips twitched, and he watched Nightwind hide a smile. Oh, gryphons! How dull life would be without them!

“Now, just to change the subject briefly,” Starfall interjected, before anyone could laugh at Kel and hurt his feelings. “How is our trade balance with you, Lord Breon?”

“Dead even, with this load.” His face relaxed, but Val took on a look of boredom, rolling his eyes upward. It was obvious that Breon’s son and heir would much rather have been discussing possible battle plans. “Is there any way we could get some of that patterned silk from you?”

Starfall pursed his lips, thoughtfully. “We aren’t set up to make any here yet, but if we don’t have what you want in stores, I don’t doubt we can get it made up from k’Vala. What did you have in mind?”

“It isn’t me, it’s my lady.” He looked sheepish. “The wedding, you know. She’s got a notion that we should all have new wedding clothes in the same patterned silk, but different colors. I don’t think she cares what pattern, but I’d look damned silly in flowers.”

Val groaned, his attention recaptured. Darian didn’t blame him; it was his wedding, after all, but his mother was obviously arranging it to suit her liking, not his. Poor bride! It obviously didn’t matter what her taste was either, for Val’s mother was making all the decisions. “ Not flowers! And not rabbits or cute little baby anything, or - ”

“How about a simple geometric?” Nightwind interjected before Val could wax eloquent on the subject of what he didn’t want. “Or water patterns? Or leaves? Feathers?”

“Feathers would be good, or leaves, or water patterns,” Val told her, relief suffusing his features. “As along as it doesn’t make a girl squeal, ‘Oh, that’s adorable,’ it’ll be all right.”

Oh, dear. Obviously some of the arrangements have been getting that response. After taking part in the joining-ceremony and vetoing a few such arrangements himself, Darian had sudden sympathy for poor Val.

Nightwind laughed. “I think we can manage,” she promised. She studied Breon and his son. “I think, a rich golden brown for your side of the wedding, and - what’s the bride’s coloring?”

Val started to get a love-struck look in his eyes, and Breon caught it. He interrupted swiftly before Val could go into a flowery description. “She’s brown-haired, fair. Pinkish fair.”

Val looked indignant at such a callously abbreviated depiction of his beloved, but Nightwind sailed on, settling the question of color for the benefit of trade.

“Blue, then, for the bridal party. We’ve got good silk dyes for both those colors, and both are popular with us. If we don’t have something here, k’Vala will have it in stores. Silk is light, especially silks for a warm-weather wedding; I can ask for a gryphon to fly them straight to Kelmskeep. It will be a good excuse for Kelvren’s lady-friend to fly in for a visit.” She cast a sly look at Kel, who contrived to look as if he hadn’t heard her, but twitched his tail and shifted his hips. “Tell your good lady she’ll have her fabrics in a week at the very most.”

No one mentioned that in a week they might be facing off against the barbarians.

Worry about that when we know what we’re facing; no point in getting ahead of ourselves. Besides, taking care of wedding arrangements will keep noncombatant minds off the barbarians.

“And you’ll want - what?” Breon asked.

“Same as the last time. Our needs don’t change much. Have your seneschal or factor negotiate with Ayshen for the price,” Starfall said offhandedly, and Breon nodded with satisfaction. Since k’Valdemar had already presented Breon with the Vale’s official wedding present (an exquisite set of colored glass goblets in sufficient quantity to allow the young couple to hold a reception for the Queen and her entire Council, brought for the purpose from k’Vala) he wasn’t looking for anything but a reasonable trade.

“Right. Now, barring a war with barbarians, we’ve got Harvest Festival coming up at the same time as the wedding. What had your people planned to bring to the Faire?” This was the signal for a far more mundane discussion, and Kel excused himself - and so did Val and Darian. Darian chose a direction at random, and Val followed him.

I think I’m about to hear more from the would-be warrior.

Val’s thoughts had obviously turned back to the barbarians, and he accosted Darian as soon as they were out of hearing of the adults. “Say, Darian - you’ve fought before, right?”

Darian made a sour face. “Fought the barbarians the first time around, and had some skirmishes with bandits in Valdemar. That’s fighting people - we took out some Changebeasts in Valdemar, too, but that isn’t what you meant, is it?” He continued walking, and Val kept right up with him.

“No, I meant combat. Real fighting. The clash of sword on sword, the thrill of meeting man to man, facing your enemy and bringing him down - ” The cliches poured from Val as his face grew more and more animated. He obviously suffered from a surfeit of heroic ballads and tales. Darian decided to quash him. It wasn’t that he disliked Val, that was far from the truth. If anything, he liked Breon’s heir too much to let him go down that particular path of delusion.

That path leads to an early grave, given bad odds.

“I’ve done that,” he said flatly. “You want to know what it’s like?”

Val nodded eagerly, his earnest face alight.

“All right. Here, sit down.” They’d come as far as the lake while talking, and Darian gestured to a boulder. He took his seat on another, and gave careful thought to exactly how he was going to say his say. “First off, this isn’t a duel, it’s a combat. No rules. Do you know what that means, at all?” When Val shook his head, he continued. “It means that the enemy is going to try to kill you before you can get close to him, so he’ll be flinging mucking great rocks at you, shooting at you, doing everything he can to keep you from getting close. He would much rather kill you from a distance, given the choice. If you get stuck with an arrow or knocked out by a rock, he’s going to rush at you and try and whack something off while you’re down and helpless, because it’s easier to kill you then. If you don’t get taken out by flying objects, every fellow on the other side is checking out the people coming at him, and he’s going to try to make sure that he is bigger than you. If you’ve got fancy armor or weapons, he’s going to want them, too, so his best bet is to cut a leg out from under you or whack off an arm and leave you lying there, screaming and bleeding to death. The other thing is that he’s a greedy bastard, and anyone who looks even slightly important is going to have a lot of people coming at him, all at once, all trying to be the one to get that fancy sword and armor. If he can’t manage to cut off a limb, or at least cut it half off, he’ll try to bash in your skull because that’s the second easiest way to kill you. There’s no fancy swordwork going on; there’s no room for it, you’re mashed in with a bunch of other people, all whacking away. Meanwhile, as you’re trying to keep him from doing awful things to you, and trying to do awful things to him, you’re stepping on and stumbling over all the poor beggars who didn’t manage to keep that from happening. They’re bleeding, screaming, and dying; if they don’t have fancy armor, their guts are spilling out and you’re stepping right in them. Some of them are people you know. Some of them are friends. Some might be relatives. And you’ll be seeing them as nothing more than things you don’t want to fall over.”