The Realms of the Elves a-11 Read online

  "Nonsense," the human said. "It's plain she intended the insult even if she now lacks the courage to admit it, and in any case, I don't apologize to rebels."

  Rhespen pivoted toward Orchtrien. "Your Majesty, you placed Lady Winterflower in my charge. Thus, I'm duty-bound to defend her honor."

  He actually expected the dragon to forbid any semblance of a duel, for both he and Maldur were valuable servants, and Orchtrien would find it inconvenient to lose either one of them. But the gold surprised him.

  "You two have been squabbling for years," Orchtrien said. "I'm tired of it. So I give you leave to settle your quarrel. We'll have a martial entertainment to celebrate a martial triumph."

  Servants cleared away the tables and chairs nearest Orchtrien's dais, creating a space sufficiently large for a pair of mages to hurl destructive energies back and forth without inadvertently blasting an innocent spectator. Rhespen and Maldur stood at opposite ends of it, and the king cried, "Begin!"

  Rhespen declaimed a word of command, drawing a pulse of light from his staff and wrapping himself in a protective enchantment. At the same time, Maldur twisted a ruby ring a half-turn around its finger, and a halo of red luminescence outlined his body. The human too had activated a mystical defense. Rhespen wondered exactly which ward it was, and what sort of spell could punch through it.

  Maldur rattled off an incantation. Rhespen didn't recognize the precise spell-every wizard had his own secrets and obfuscatory tricks-but he could tell the human invoked the powers of the storm. That might be all right. From past observation, Rhespen knew his opponent liked flinging thunderbolts about, and had accordingly conjured a ward that was particularly effective at blocking them.

  He plucked a pair of teeth from one of his many pockets, flourished them, and recited a rhyme of his own. He and Maldur finished at the same moment.

  Maldur thrust out his hands, and a dazzling streak of lightning burst from his fingertips. As Rhespen had hoped, the twisting flare terminated harmlessly several inches from his chest.

  But the booming, deafening string of thunderclaps that accompanied it hammered him like a giant's war club. He reeled, fell, and still the unbearable noise pounded on, smashing his thoughts into incoherence.

  At last the cacophony subsided. Dazed, he struggled to lift his head and take stock of the tactical situation. It was about as bad as could be. He'd conjured a dozen pairs of fanged, disembodied jaws to fly around Maldur and harry him, but whenever one of the manifestations tried to bite its target, the human's protective corona of scarlet light withered it from existence. Confident of the efficacy of his defenses, Maldur had simply ignored the darting, wheeling jaws to start reciting another attack spell.

  Which was to say, he had gained the advantage. If Rhespen attempted an incantation of his own, the human would almost certainly finish first, and strike another potentially devastating blow. Rhespen would do better to release another of the spells stored in his staff, a process only requiring a moment.

  He spoke the appropriate word, and only then realized he wasn't gripping the truesilver rod anymore. He must have dropped it when the thunder staggered him. He peered about, spotted it, reached for it, then Maldur completed his spell.

  A ragged shaft of shadow leaped from the human's upraised hand. Rhespen flung himself across the floor, rolling, trying to dodge the burst of darkness. The edge of it grazed him even so. Cold pierced him to the core, and an unnatural terror howled through his mind.

  He denied the fear, refused to let it overwhelm him, and Maldur started yet another spell. Shaking, half frozen, Rhespen fumbled his staff into his grasp, gritted out a word of command, and clanged the head of the weapon against the floor.

  A good portion of the marble surface jolted and shattered into pieces. The upheaval couldn't knock Rhespen down. He was already on his knees. But it threw Maldur onto his back, jarring the breath out of him and making him botch his recitation.

  Maldur instantly started to raise himself back up, and an ignorant observer might have concluded that Rhespen hadn't accomplished much. But in fact, he'd altered the tempo of the confrontation and deprived the human of the momentum that allowed him to attack repeatedly without fear of reprisal.

  The two mages jabbered rhymes. Rings dripping sparks, Maldur punched the air, whereupon an unseen force slammed into the center of Rhespen's chest and knocked him back a step. But he refused to let it spoil his magic. On the final syllable, a tingle ran over his skin, and he was as invisible as the top half of Winterflower's carriage had been.

  Praying that Maldur didn't already have some sort of enchantment in place to augment his natural senses, Rhespen dashed forward. He swung wide before charging straight at his foe. Had he stayed on the same line, the human might easily have struck him with another spell despite the handicap of casting blind. His elven boots, possessed of a virtue that stifled noise, made no sound on the jutting chunks of broken floor.

  Rhespen's disappearance took Maldur by surprise. He hesitated for a precious moment, then brought his hands together and lashed them apart. The topaz rings on his thumbs flashed.

  Instinct warned Rhespen that he mustn't trust invisibility to protect him from this particular magic. He threw himself down.

  Blades of yellow light leaped out from Maldur's body toward the four corners of the hall, like the spokes of a radiant wheel suspended parallel to the floor. If Rhespen hadn't ducked, one of them would inevitably have pierced him.

  As soon as they winked out of existence, Rhespen jumped up and scrambled onward. Three more strides carried him into striking distance, and he swung his staff at Maldur's face.

  Since the human couldn't see the threat, he made no effort to parry or evade, and as Rhespen had hoped, the scarlet aura provided scant protection against a purely physical attack. Metal rang, and Maldur's knees buckled. Blood started from his gashed forehead.

  Visible once more-it was a limitation of the shrouding spell that making an attack dissolved it-Rhespen kept bashing. Maldur fell, curled into a ball, and tried to cover his most sensitive parts while gasping out a rhyme. Then, abruptly, he heaved himself onto his knees. A needle-toothed mouth gaped in the palm of each of his hands, and he snatched for Rhespen's body.

  Rhespen jumped back, and the fangs in his adversary's left hand ripped his doublet and shirt but not the flesh beneath. He struck another blow with the staff. Maldur collapsed and lay twitching. Rhespen raised the rod high to drive the butt end down at the human's throat like a spear.

  "Stop!" Orchtrien roared, the sudden bellow nearly as overpowering as the crash of Maldur's thunderclaps.

  No! By all the powers of earth and sky, Rhespen had earned this consummation. It wasn't fair to balk him. Still, drawing a deep, quivering breath, he made himself lower his weapon and pivot toward the throne.

  "Majesty?" he panted.

  "You've avenged the affront to your charge's honor," said the wyrm, "and in the process, you and Maldur have provided a splendid entertainment." He gazed out across the hall. "Have they not?" So prompted, the company applauded.

  "I'm grateful to have pleased you," Rhespen said, trying to hold resentment out of his voice. "Yet I thought you gave Lord Maldur and me leave to seek a final resolution to our quarrel."

  "And so you have," Orchtrien said. "You've tested yourselves against one another, vented your ire, and from this night forward, you'll cease your bickering and work harmoniously together."

  Rhespen inclined his head. "As the king commands."

  Over the decades, Rhespen had stuffed his residence full of furniture and works of art produced by a dozen races with their diverse cultures and aesthetic sensibilities. Some articles had been presents from the king, some gifts from petitioners eager to curry favor with an influential royal official, and still others treasures he'd purchased for himself as his tastes grew increasingly cosmopolitan and eclectic.

  In contrast, Winterflower's residence was purely elven, the furnishings sparse, forms and lines deceptively simple,
yet every item beautifully conceived and flawlessly crafted. She'd evidently tossed out everything fashioned by any other sort of artisan, and as she conducted Rhespen onto one of the open platforms, he experienced an unexpected pang of nostalgia for the small forest settlement of his birth.

  She led him to a bench that afforded a clear view of the stars through a gap in the branches overhead, poured him a cup of dry white wine, and they sat quietly for a while, savoring the vintage and the glories of the night sky.

  Eventually she asked, "Why do you and Lord Maldur dislike each other?"

  "Rivalries are common at a royal court. People vie for the king's favor and the most lucrative appointments. Maldur and I each possess the same skill, wizardry, so we have good reason to feel we're competing with one another in particular. Beyond that, each of us has always championed his own kind. He exhorts Orchtrien to rule in a way favorable to humans, while I push for policies that would benefit us." He smiled. "So despite your low opinion of me, perhaps I'm not such a dismal excuse for an elf after all."

  "Elves shouldn't have to beg a wyrm's permission to live as we please."

  "You've made it painfully clear that you think so. You actually did choose that song to insult Orchtrien, didn't you?"

  "Of course. You knew it from the start." She hesitated. "Why, then, did you defend me?"

  "As I explained at the time, it was a question of honor."

  "I believe that, but I also suspect there was more to it."

  He grinned. "You're shrewd. Had I allowed Maldur's accusation to stand unchallenged, it would have made me the lax, incompetent dolt who permitted one of my charges to malign the king, and he would have been the faithful deputy who disciplined you after I neglected the task. I couldn't permit the court to come away with such an opinion."

  "But what if Orchtrien comprehends that I truly intended the mockery? Isn't it conceivable you've forfeited his trust by protecting me? Mightn't it have been more prudent to abandon me to my fate, even at the cost of some humiliation?"

  He sipped his wine and looked at the stars. "Well, conceivably. I considered that, too. Perhaps what tipped the scale is that for some perverse reason, I like you, Milady, despite the way you curl your lip at me."

  At the periphery of his vision, she lowered her eyes. He thought she colored, too, though in the dark, it was difficult to be certain. "I know I shouldn't take out all my frustrations on you. It's just that sometimes I feel as if they'll tear me apart if I don't express them somehow. I hate the way things are!"

  "There are still lands left where elves hold supreme authority. I suppose that if you and your kin find Orchtrien's rule unbearable, you could emigrate."

  "It would mean forsaking forests we cherish. Abandoning them to the woodsman's axe. And suppose we could establish a new home elsewhere. How long would it be before one dragon prince or another conceived an ambition to add it to his domain?"

  Rhespen sighed. "Not long, perhaps. A century, if you're lucky? Faerun is changing. The dragons are bringing the entire continent under their sway, despite all that other races can do to resist. I daresay it would be happening even faster if the wyrms didn't so often contend with one another.

  "The inevitability," he continued, "leaves us elves with a clear choice. We can aspire to an honorable estate as the dragons' vassals, or defy them and suffer. I infer that you, Milady, don't truly wish the latter, or you would have owned up to insulting the king."

  "I should have. Any of my brothers or sisters would have. But after Maldur's magic struck me down, and he accused me, and that huge golden horror fixed me with his gaze, I knew I didn't want to die. I fear I'm a coward."

  "No," said Rhespen. "You're wise. For why should you throw your life away on an empty gesture?"

  She gazed out across the city with all its myriad lights. "Perhaps if we elves could set aside a measure of our pride, we'd recognize that our lives can still be fulfilling under Orchtrien's rule. Perhaps I could learn to be happy in this place, if some kind friend would teach me of its joys."

  Rhespen felt his heartbeat quicken. "Milady, that's all I've ever wanted."

  Orchtrien gave Rhespen a cheerful draconic grin, which, to the uninitiated, would have seemed a terrifying display of fangs as long as swords.

  "We won!" the king declared.

  "I know, Majesty," Rhespen said. He no longer followed the tidings of his master's various wars as avidly as he once had. But he was a royal deputy, and still needed to stay informed. "I'm told the warriors of the green cabal fell back in total disarray."

  "They did indeed," Orchtrien said, "and afterward, their lords had no choice but to cede all their holdings east of the river."

  "That's splendid." It occurred to Rhespen to wonder just how many men-at-arms the gold had lost to seize the territory in question, but he decided not to inquire as yet. Let the king savor his triumph. They'd have time to assess the current state of the army later on.

  "We'll go back next year, or the year after, and push the greens out entirely," Orchtrien said. "Chromatic drakes treat their subjects like cattle! Compassion demands that we bring their poor thralls the enlightened rule of a metallic."

  "Your Majesty is generous."

  "Tell me how you've managed in my absence. I trust there have been no further acts of insurrection." "None."

  "I knew securing hostages would solve the problem. How are the prisoners faring?"

  Rhespen smiled. "They've adjusted well. Indeed, they've become so enamored of life in Dawnfire that, when the time comes to send them home, we might have to prod them forth at spearpoint."

  Orchtrien laughed, suffusing the air with warmth. "Even the lovely Winterflower?"

  Yes, Rhespen thought, to say the least. Over the course of the past two months, Winterflower had immersed herself in the life of the city and the amusements of the court with a relish that astonished him. It was as if she, a creature of passionate extremes, must either hate or love her captivity, and upon recognizing the bleak futility of the former course had committed herself heart and soul to the latter.

  Or perhaps it was her affection for him and desire to share in his life that accounted for the change. For though both had tried in vain to stifle the burgeoning feeling-it was reckless for a jailer to grow overly fond of his prisoner, and her kin, still rebels at heart, would scarcely have approved-a tenderness had flowered between them. Indeed, for his part, it was a love deeper than he'd ever felt for any other woman.

  But he saw no reason to discuss such intimate matters with Orchtrien, so he simply said, "Even her."

  "I intend to host a revel to celebrate our conquests," said the gold. "She must attend, and sing again." His yellow eyes shined brighter. "Something less suggestive this time. I prefer to avoid the inconvenience of any more shattered floors."

  As Rhespen and Winterflower approached the arched doorway with its frame of gems and precious metals, her face turned pale, and the blue, gold-flecked eyes rolled up in her head. Her knees gave way.

  Rhespen caught her before she could fall. Heedless of the curious stares and questions of other nobles en route to the ball, he carried her into a velvet-curtained alcove provided to serve the requirements of overstimulated revelers desirous of a moment's quiet, or lovers in need of a trysting place.

  He set her on a divan, then murmured a petty charm of enhanced vitality. It proved sufficient to rouse her, and her eyelids fluttered open.

  "What's wrong?" he asked. "Are you ill?"

  "Afraid," she replied.

  He took her hand. Her fingers were cold. "Of what?"

  "Need you ask? I haven't seen Orchtrien since the night I insulted him."

  "But I have, and I promise, he has no wish to punish you."

  "How can you be certain? Perhaps this is a cruel game. He invites me to a dance, I enter the hall anticipating only merriment, and the torturers seize me."

  Rhespen shook his head. "I've told you before, youVe listened to too many gruesome stories. I've heard them too, tale
s of whimsical atrocities perpetrated by dragon tyrants, and I daresay some of them are true. But true about reds, or blacks, or greens. The golds possess a nobler temperament."

  "Orchtrien marches company after company off to perish in his wars. He was willing to risk your death for a moment's diversion, with never a thought that such an attitude was callous or unjust. We're lesser creatures in his eyes, to exploit as he sees fit."

  He sighed. "I thought I'd weaned you away from such notions. I hope that in fact, I have, and it's just anxiety stirring up their ghosts."

  She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Well, perhaps. I want to believe you. I know you wouldn't bring me to him if you thought he meant me harm."

  "Of course not. So compose yourself, and we'll make our entrance. The sooner we do, the sooner you'll see that everything truly is all right."

  As they descended the wide marble stairs, the rich but lively harmonies of the orchestra rose to greet them, while dancers spun and leaped on the floor below. Most wore some garment of cloth-of-gold, golden jewelry, or both in honor of the king, and in the aggregate, moving as one in time to the music, they resembled gleaming statuary sprung to joyous life.

  It was a splendid sight, but Rhespen could tell Winterflower was still too frightened to appreciate it. She clenched his forearm as if to keep herself from plummeting into an abyss.

  On such an occasion, etiquette didn't require newcomers to pay their respects to the king immediately, but Rhespen still thought they needed to get it over with. As soon as the music stopped, he led Winterflower to the center of the floor, where Orchtrien had stepped and whirled at the heart of the dance, and where he still stood chatting with his erstwhile partner, a youthful, auburn-haired human beauty newly arrived at court.

  To participate in an amusement like the dance, the dragon had to change form, and tonight he'd chosen the semblance of a handsome elf with blond hair, golden eyes, and skin the color of bronze. When he noticed Rhespen and Winterflower approaching, he pivoted in their direction. In so doing, he turned his back on the human lass, who made a sour face at the sudden loss of his attention.