The Realms of the Elves a-11

  The Realms of the Elves

  ( Anthologies - 11 )

  Коллектив Авторов

  Anthology

  The Realms of the Elves

  Contents

  Traitors by Richard Lee Byers

  The Staff of Valmaxian by Philip Athans

  Necessary Sacrifices by Lisa Smedman

  The Greater Treasure by Erik Scott de Bie

  Comrades at Odds by R.A. Salvatore

  Tears So White by Ed Greenwood

  The Bladesinger’s Lesson by Richard Baker

  TRAITORS

  Richard Lee Byers

  — 250,090 DR

  Rhespen Ash brandished his truesilver staff and shouted words of power. The magic cast up shields of wind and light, and hurled bright, crackling thunderbolts at the foes lurking in the green shadows between the trees.

  It wasn't enough. The enemy wizards shattered his defenses quick as he could conjure them, volleys of arrows moaned through the air, and Rhespen's troops and their horses died.

  If he'd had a chance to prepare, it would likely have been different, but the ambuscade had caught him entirely by surprise. He'd marched a small company of his master's warriors into the forest because some of the inhabitants-elves, his own People! — had sent a message requesting help to repel an incursion of trolls. He'd had no reason to suspect the missive had actually originated with rebels seeking to lure a portion of the royal army into a trap.

  He glanced about to see how many of his predominantly human men-at-arms lay dead or crippled and how many remained on their feet. It looked as if the foe had neutralized half of them already.

  The battle was lost. For a moment, Rhespen considered using sorcery to whisk himself to safety. But he owed it to his men to attempt a proper surrender and so prevent the destruction of any more lives. He murmured a charm to amplify his voice, the better to cry for quarter, and an enormous shadow swept over his beleaguered force.

  His soldiers looked up, and cheered. Rhespen felt the same jubilation. King Orchtrien and his get were busy fighting in the great wars far to the southeast. Yet somehow, one of them had perceived trouble in the supposedly peaceful heart of the realm, whereupon Prince Bexendral had employed a spell of teleportation to rush to his vassal's aid.

  Some of the enemy shrieked, bolted, or collapsed cowering at the sight of the gold dragon on the wing. Others shot arrows, or assailed the wyrm with darts of light and blasts of frost. Hovering, leathery wings beating and flashing in the afternoon sunlight, Bexendral didn't even appear to notice the attacks. He growled a spell, and sparks rained from the empty air to the forest floor, where they exploded into prodigious blasts of flame. Twisting the horned, wedge-shaped head at the end of his serpentine neck, the prince spewed a flare of his own burning breath, decimating the rebels and plunging the survivors into disarray.

  Rhespen's men, suddenly keen to avenge their fallen comrades, hefted their swords and spears and ran toward the flames. The mad rush had no tactics or order to it, but what did it matter? Bexendral had come and his warriors couldn't lose.

  Rhespen used his magically enhanced voice to shout to the rebels: "Surrender now, or the dragon will kill you all!"

  Huge as Bexendral was, his sire dwarfed him, and even though he'd served the king for a century, Rhespen always felt a pang of awe upon entering his presence. His heart beating a little faster, he marched the length of the vast, high-ceilinged hall, kneeled before the intricately carved cylindrical pedestal that served as a sort of throne, and laid his staff at Orchtrien's taloned feet.

  Up close, the gold smelled of saffron, and his yellow eyes shined like lamps. "Rise, Milord," he rumbled. "Tell me what you've learned."

  "Yes, Majesty." Rhespen drew himself to his feet. "Many of the forest folk are loyal. Only three noble Houses-Vilirith, Starfall, and Duskmere-took part in the treachery."

  Someone snorted. Rhespen turned to see that, as expected, it was Maldur Breakstone. Burly and florid of face, long hair dyed a premature white to create the appearance of wisdom, the human mage gave him a glower.

  "Did you wish to comment?" asked Orchtrien, beard of fleshy tendrils dangling beneath his jaw.

  Grimacing, Maldur feigned reluctance. Then: "I don't mean to impugn Lord Rhespen's competence, Majesty, nor, obviously, his loyalty. But if he failed to notice that any of his fellow elves were plotting treason to begin with, are you certain you can trust his findings now?"

  Rhespen stifled a surge of anger. "Do you, Milord, have any concrete reason to doubt them?"

  Maldur shrugged. "Perhaps the truly important question is what to do next." He shifted his gaze again to Orchtrien, tilting his head back so he could look the reptile in the eye. "Majesty, I suggest you execute all the dastards implicated in the crime and confiscate their lands and property. If other elves are contemplating treason, perhaps the fate of the rebels will dissuade them. If not, well, the traitors still deserve the harshest punishment you can mete out, and you need wealth to prosecute your wars."

  Rhespen frowned. "Majesty, I recommend a more merciful approach."

  "Well, you would, wouldn't you," Maldur said, "considering that the knaves are your own race, and that it was mainly humans who paid the price for their treachery."

  "I'm a servant of the crown before all else," Rhespen said, "and I grieve for the warriors who fell. I advise moderation because severity could sow unrest where none currently exists, and with war raging on our borders, that we can ill afford."

  "You may be right," Orchtrien said. "Still, we must do something to deter the rebel lords from further folly. We will hold their children hostage, and you, Rhespen, will supervise their captivity."

  "With respect, Majesty," Maldur said, "Lord Rhespen might find it a trial to manage prisoners of his own race. He might start feeling unduly sympathetic. Whereas I-"

  "I want a sympathetic jailer," said the king. "I want the hostages to enjoy their sojourn with us, and to savor all the pleasures and wonders my court has to offer. That's the way to win their fealty, and when they one day ascend to their parents' estates, to put an end to this insane impulse to anarchy for good and all."

  "Your Majesty is wise," Rhespen said. "But I hoped to journey south with you and fight at your side. Surely someone else-"

  Orchtrien snorted, the exhalation hot with a hint of the fire forever smoldering inside him. "All my deputies are argumentative today. You will do as I have commanded."

  Rhespen inclined his head.

  Rhespen had friends among the ravens, hawks, and owls, and they kept him apprised of what occurred in the vicinity of the royal city. Thus, it was easy to intercept the hostages before they started the climb up the mountain highway.

  To his surprise, the newest arrival had seen fit to travel in a coach with curtains drawn across the windows. Never had he known an elf to employ such a conveyance. It closed one off from the kiss of the wind, from the ever-changing sight and scent of verdure that was as vital to his kind as food and drink. Indeed, the mere thought of riding for days pent up in such a box made him cringe, and he wondered if the Count of Duskmere had sent an invalid to totter about Orchtrien's palace.

  He kicked his gray palfrey into a canter, and his half dozen bodyguards clattered after him. Six was the smallest number protocol allowed. He meant to welcome the hostage like a cordial host, not a foe who feared hostilities.

  The Duskmere retainers greeted him with glum faces but likewise with respect.

  "Our mistress," said their chief, "is the Lady Winterflower."

  Rhespen turned to see if, now that she had, in effect, been introduced, Winterflower would see fit to emerge from her carriage, pull back a curtain, or at least speak. Sh
e didn't.

  "Is the lady ill?" he asked. "Or deep in Reverie?"

  "I don't believe so," the servant replied.

  Then perhaps she's hard of hearing, Rhespen thought. He swung himself down from his horse, advanced to the coach, and rapped on the door.

  "Milady?" he said. "I'm Rhespen Ash, Royal Councilor and Magician, come to escort you into the Bright City and see to your comfort thereafter."

  "Escort me, then," she said, still without revealing herself. Her soprano voice sounded sweet, yet cold, like a drink from a frigid spring.

  "The weather is mild, and the view going up the mountain is spectacular. I recommend you ascend on horseback, or at least unshroud your windows."

  "No doubt I'll have ample opportunity to observe the walk of my prison once I'm trapped behind them."

  His mouth tightened. He had no wish to vex her, but likewise saw no reason to tolerate the childish discourtesy implicit in her refusal to reveal herself. If he permitted it to succeed now, it would be that much harder to eliminate later on.

  "Milady," he said, "I could never forgive myself if, through inaction, I deprived you of one of the fairest sights in Faerun." He murmured a rhyme and swept a talisman through a mystic pass. Winterflower's retainers gawked and exclaimed in alarm, but the incantation was only a few words long, and he'd already finished before they could make up their minds to intervene.

  He touched the talisman to the side of the carriage, and the top half of it faded from view. The startled driver appeared to be sitting on empty air, and Winterflower herself, to be riding in some sort of peculiar open wagon. Rhespen pivoted to regard her, and his eyes widened.

  With their fair, clear skin and slender frames, most elves were pleasant to look upon, but even by the standards of their comely race, Winterflower was extraordinary. Her curls were soft, gleaming ebony, and her eyes, sapphires flecked with gold. Her features were fine, exquisite, yet somehow avoided the appearance of daintiness. Rather, they bespoke courage and intelligence.

  She glared at him. "Had I been allowed to bring my grimoires and amulets with me into captivity, I'd wipe your feeble enchantment away, then punish you for your impudence."

  He shook off his surprise at her loveliness. "Then I'm glad the king forbade you their use, and before long, you'll feel the same. Let's continue on our way." He whistled, and his horse, trained in part by magic, instantly left off cropping grass and came to him.

  He rode beside Winterflower as the road switchbacked up into the mountains, past the minor bastions and watchtowers built to guard the way. He chatted about the sights they encountered, and she responded-or failed to-with a silence and an expression as stony as the crags rising around them.

  Until Dawnfire came into view. For elves were famously susceptible to beauty, and despite herself, she caught her breath. Her features softened.

  Orchtrien's capital was both a city and one vast castle, the whole hewn from the living rock of the mountaintop, then refined and polished like a cameo. Not an inch of it was plain, dingy, or poorly proportioned. At the crest of every spire, framing every window, and etched into every section of wall, finely wrought ornamentation delighted the eye.

  "We'll ride out early one morning so you can see it at sunrise," Rhespen said. "The stonework catches the red and gold light like a mirror."

  Winterflower scowled, struggling to break the spell of the vista as he himself had earlier exerted his will to cast off his astonishment at her loveliness. "I hate to think," she said, "of all the toil that went into creating that monument, simply to feed a dragon's vanity."

  "It's a city. A good many folk who aren't dragons live there and enjoy it, too. By nightfall, you'll be one of us."

  "I wonder how many poor slaves fell to their deaths in the carving of it."

  "Orchtrien doesn't have slaves. He has subjects, the same as any king. You'll see."

  She sniffed, and still half visible and half not, the coach clattered onward.

  A patrol comprised of Orchtrien's personal guards recognized Rhespen and stepped to the side of the street, clearing the way for him and his companions. Clad in gilt armor, the warriors were tall, lanky men with blond hair and tawny eyes. Their skin had a golden cast as well, and in some cases, a faint patterning suggestive of scales. Winterflower studied them as her coach rolled past.

  "Those," said Rhespen, "are half-dragons."

  "I know what they are," she snapped. "Orchtrien's bastards, or the bastards of his dragon sons. Abominations engendered by the rape of elf and human women."

  He shook his head. "Rape? Milady, I can't imagine how you come by such lurid fancies."

  "Do you claim the women have a choice?"

  "Yes. Though admittedly, I don't recall anyone refusing. The rewards are considerable."

  "What reward could adequately compensate a woman for lying with a gigantic serpent? They accept the horror and shame because they dare not refuse."

  "Gold wyrms can change their shapes. They visit their mistresses in the forms of males of their own races." He grinned. "Otherwise, I'll grant you, squashing could be a problem. But the two of us, gently born and newly acquainted, ought not to speak of such coarse matters. Your new home is just ahead."

  The column passed through an arch in a wall adorned with flowers, bumblebees, and hummingbirds rendered in mosaic. On the other side, in the very heart of the city, towered a wood of oak and shadowtop. High in the branches hung dwellings constructed on multiple levels, some portions enclosed, others, simple platforms. White, blue, and amber lamps glowed in the twilight, and the scents of cooking tinged the air.

  "This is the Elf Quarter," Rhespen said. "You can imagine all the hard work and potent sorcery it took to transplant these trees to the top of a mountain, just so people like us would feel at home."

  "In other words," she said, "Orchtrien wounded a true forest to create this unnatural place. That doesn't surprise me. His marauders kill trees every day to clear more of his cursed farmland."

  "The army must eat, Milady, the entire kingdom must, and the unfortunate truth is, forests don't yield as much food as grain fields. I assure you, the king intends to leave the greater portion of the woodlands intact."

  "Every particle of soil, every leaf, every twig of our homeland is sacred, Milord. If you still possessed the soul of an elf, you'd know it, but I fear it shriveled in you long ago."

  Rhespen felt a twinge of incipient headache. "We can discuss these matters later, at our leisure. For now, let me install you in your new residence, and I'll leave you to your rest."

  In the evenings, Winterflower took to singing from one of the open platforms high in her shadowtop. Her repertoire, comprised of laments and dirges, was as cheerless as her conversation, but so lovely was her voice that her neighbors still made it a habit to stop and listen. Over time, word of her performances spread, and even folk who were not elves began to wander into the quarter at dusk to partake of the free entertainment.

  So perhaps it shouldn't have been any great astonishment when the king himself asked for a song, but nonetheless, it caught Rhespen by surprise.

  He turned from the table where he dined with the hostages and looked across the hall, to the pedestal atop which Orchtrien crouched over his own wagon-wheel-sized plate of beef and bowl of red wine. "I beg your pardon, Majesty?"

  "I've heard about the nightingale of the Elf Quarter," the dragon replied. "Please, Milady, grace us with a song to celebrate my victory over the Red Triumvirate."

  Inwardly, Rhespen winced. Some of the rebels' offspring were adjusting well to their soft captivity, but Winterflower remained as scornful and unyielding as ever. He feared she'd refuse Orchtrien's command, and so earn punishment. He'd never considered the gold to be especially cruel by nature, but his master still possessed a regal pride, a dragon's pride, and was little inclined to tolerate disrespect.

  Rhespen groped for an excuse to offer on Winterflower's behalf. She rose from the table before he could think of anything. "As Your Maj
esty commands," she said. She walked to the patch of floor before the throne, took a breath, and began to sing.

  Her song, a mournful ballad, was lovely, and cast its spell over everyone in the hall. Rhespen sat as captivated as the rest, until he realized how the lyrics might be construed.

  He could only hope that no one else would so interpret them. Many of the folk in attendance didn't even speak Elvish, and others were surely content to enjoy the song without analyzing it for provocative implication. Perhaps, he thought, it would be all right.

  Then a disembodied fist made of blue phosphorescence shimmered into existence. It smashed Winterflower in the face, flinging her to the floor.

  Rhespen sprang to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process. He called for his staff, and the length of white shining metal appeared in his hand.

  Sneering, Maldur rose as well. He didn't summon his own staff-perhaps he'd never mastered that particular knack-but light nickered and oozed inside the gems he, wore on either hand.

  "You surely noticed," the human magician said, "that the song told of a mad, vainglorious king, and the calamities his misrule inflicted on his subjects."

  "It's an ancient song," Rhespen replied, "dating back to a time before elves even walked this world."

  "Nevertheless," Maldur said, "she surely intended it as a veiled comment on His Majesty's reign." He glared down at Winterflower. "Didn't you, Milady?"

  Rhespen stared at her, silently imploring her with his gaze: For once, curb that bitter tongue. You could forfeit your life by admitting to such a thing.

  She peered back at him, then lowered her eyes and said, in a meeker voice than he'd heard her use hitherto, "As Lord Rhespen said, it's simply an old song with a plaintive melody. I meant nothing by it, and apologize if it offended."

  Rhespen gave her his hand and helped her up. He glared at Maldur. "It's you, Milord, who should beg forgiveness."