Chapter I
Old Friends
Swords clashed together, the hard, clear sound cutting through the cool morning air, echoing off the castle walls. Kevin, once merely a lowly bardling, now Count Kevin, Bard Kevin, struggled to keep the upper hand, but the dark-clad, hooded figure he fought continued to drive him inexorably back across the smooth cobbles of the courtyard. All around him, Kevin knew, various guards and servants were keeping a bemused eye on their lord as they went about their work.
Wonderful. And all I seem to be doing is parrying and parrying again. He’s just too inhumanly fast, curse it!
All at once, though, his opponent stepped back and lowered his sword. “Not bad, Kevin. Not bad at all.”
“Not bad!” Kevin echoed wearily, brushing back damp reddish strands of hair from his face with his free hand. “Naitachal, this is ridiculous. All we did just now was wear ourselves out. It wasn’t working at all!”
“Hush, now,” the other murmured. “It was.”
“Oh, nonsense.”
“It was, I say.” Naitachal pushed back his hood, shaking free a silky, silvery fall of hair, revealing a dark-skinned, ageless, sharply planed face: the classic, coldly elegant face of a Dark Elf. Only the clear blue eyes, bright with joyous life, proved that he, alone of all his kin, belonged to the Light. Slipping a companionable arm around Kevin’s shoulders, the elf added softly, “We agreed that till we had hard proof no one else should think this was anything other than a duel between friends.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And it was only a theory, after all.”
“Yes, but…” Frustrated, Kevin let his voice trail off as a servant approached, and he wiped his blade clean with a soft scrap of cloth the man offered him. This wasn’t a war sword, of course, though for a practice blade it was sharp enough; the White Elves never did anything by half-measures. Still, Kevin admitted, glancing down at the intricately woven guard, he never would have dared study advanced swordplay at all if it hadn’t been for this beautifully wrought gift of theirs. It very cleverly shielded his precious hands, which, along with talent, were a musician’s most important asset.
The practice blade, and its matching war blade, had come from the Moonspirit Clan in gratitude for the kindness he had shown their deceased kinsman. Eliathanis, Kevin thought with a sudden sharp little pang of sadness, remembering the proud, heroic, doomed elven warrior, then determinedly blocked the past from his mind. It had, after all, been over four years since he and a mismatched little group of adventurers, including Eliathanis, had set out to rescue a count’s stolen niece and ended up defeating the half-fairy, thoroughly evil, Princess Carlotta.
“Naitachal,” he said suddenly, “this isn’t all some sort of elven jest, is it? Do you really believe we can turn my swordplay into a form of Bardic Magic?”
Naitachal shrugged. “Why not? It’s not any stranger than a Dark Elf turning Bard!”
Kevin had to grin at that. Naitachal was most certainly the only one of his kind ever to harbor a love of music, let alone show a blazing talent for it. “Yes, but—”
“You’re beginning to sound like a poorly trained parrot,” the Dark Elf teased. “ ‘Yes, but, yes, but.’ Why do you think Master Aidan let me come here?”
Kevin laughed outright. “Because you’ve been driving him mad.”
“Oh, I have not!”
“Don’t give me that look! I received a message from him a few months back all about you.” The message, conveying the Master Bard’s wry tone beautifully, had told Kevin, “A fanatically determined elf with equally phenomenal raw talent can learn a skill far more quickly and thoroughly than any mere, lowly human. He’s a full Bard now, just like you—and he’s just as much of a ‘let’s go have an adventure’ nuisance!”
“Never mind. Kevin, we went over this before: Since swordplay has its own definite rhythm, and since you are a Bard who has mastered the basic moves quite gracefully—for a human—you may very well be creating a new form of Bardic Magic just by duelling. And it was working,” Naitachal continued seriously before Kevin could interrupt. “Something happened when you used the Maladan Maneuver.”
Kevin raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Such as what?”
“Such as the fact that just for a moment I found you drawing me into a dancelike pattern I couldn’t help but finish. For that matter,” the elf added thoughtfully, “at that same moment it was actually difficult to look at you.”
“That’s because he’s a human!” came a shrill taunt. “The ugly things are always tough to look at!”
Kevin glanced up at a small, sharp-faced figure, her glittery wings an iridescent blur as she hovered just out of reach. By now, he knew better than to retort. These days, Tich’ki might be the aide of D’Krikas, the castle seneschal, but that rank had hardly dampened her quirky, nasty sense of humor. She remained as fiery-tongued a little menace as ever; as far as Kevin knew, only the woman warrior, Lydia, Tich’ki’s sometime travelling companion and now the castle’s commander-in-chief, had ever managed to get the last word.
“Not all of us have the elegance of a fairy,” the Bard told the fairy with wry courtesy, and heard her snicker.
“Or the nuisance factor,” Naitachal added drily, brushing Tich’ki away as if she was a bothersome insect. “Kevin, if you can do that sword-dance to an enemy, entrancing him into predictable moves…”
“I’d have him,” Kevin finished, then shrugged. “It’s a nice thought, but who knows? We’re making up the rules here, and—ah, now what?”
It was usually pleasant being a count; Kevin couldn’t deny he enjoyed holding a noble title and overseeing the running of a castle, particularly since in these four years he hadn’t made any really bad errors. People here seemed to truly like him. But there were times when he could almost wish he was a nobody again, responsible for no one but himself. Folks were always after a count! If D’Krikas wasn’t cornering him to discuss in tedious detail this edict or that, it was Commander-in-Chief Lydia wanting him to oversee the new guard’s testing. Or maybe it was the castle baker, bypassing the seneschal to complain directly to the count about the quality of wheat (arguing that since D’Krikas didn’t eat bread, D’Krikas could hardly understand the fine points of its baking), or the farrier worrying that the current shipment of iron was underweight (even though D’Krikas could judge each ingot’s weight to a hairbreadth’s accuracy), or—or—
Kevin bit back a frustrated sigh. First and foremost, he was a Bard, with the music burning in him, aching to be used. But now that he’d finally earned that status, now that he’d mastered Bardic Magic, there was barely enough free time in a day for him to keep his fingers nimble enough to play anything!
And nowhere came this messenger from the royal court—no. This road-weary man wasn’t wearing King Amber’s livery. Puzzling over just who outfitted their servants in quartered blue and yellow, Kevin watched Lydia, her decidedly female form nicely outlined by her just-this-side-of-tight leather armor, her curly black hair barely restrained by a leather circlet, lead the man this way. The woman was a coolly competent warrior, but she had her rough, bawdy side. And Kevin didn’t like the mischievous glint he saw in her dark eyes.
“That would be Count Trahern’s livery,” a dry, precise voice said suddenly. Kevin glanced back over his shoulder to see a tall, never-human form towering over him, its shiny, chitinous green skin glinting in the sunlight. D’Krikas, seneschal to Kevin and the two counts who’d preceded him, was Arachnia, not human, totally honorable and as coolly logical and fastidious as all that race. “And that is most certainly Count Trahern’s coat-of-arms on the man’s breast,” the being continued. “You do remember who Count Trahern is?”
It was impossible to read expression in those glittering, segmented eyes, but Kevin frowned at the touch of condescension in D’Krikas’ voice: the Arachnia had a seemingly inexhaustible knowledge of courtly detail—and expected the same of Kevin. “Of course,” the Bard said shortly. “His lands lie due north of here.”
“Indeed. Now, let us see…His messenger carries no parchments with him, nor do any of his servants. Count Trahern has one child, a daughter. I believe her name is Gwenlyn, and she is of what humans consider marriageable age. Therefore,” D’Krikas decided, “the man has most likely come to this castle with a miniature of that daughter, and most probably an offer of marriage.”
Kevin groaned. “Not another one!”
Lydia had come close enough to hear that, and grinned widely at him. ‘That’s it. Another lovely, lonely lady languishing for your love.”
Naitachal, eyes full of amusement, gave her a sweeping bow of appreciation. “Couldn’t have said that better myself.”
Kevin glared at him. “I thought you were on my side.”
The Dark Elf blinked innocently. “But I am! I think a bit of romance would be just the tiling for you.”
“A bit of romance!” Kevin squawked. “Naitachal, they’re all trying to get me married!”
“Indeed.” D’Krikas, segmented arms folded neatly, was the very image of propriety. “Have we not been discussing this matter for some time?”
“Ohh yes.” The seneschal had been insisting for days that it was high time Kevin found himself a bride.
“Surely you see the need for such a thing?” D’Krikas asked in a voice that said he’d be a fool if he didn’t. “After all, you are a count. A count must have an heir, and as quickly as possible, to ensure the succession and protect his people.”
“I know, I know.” For some time Kevin had been flooded by other miniature portraits of other unmarried daughters. He might, the Bard thought cynically, be of humble origin, but there wasn’t a nobleman out there who didn’t think this upstart young count, King’s friend that he was, would make a valuable political ally. “I understand the whole thing, believe me. It’s just…”
“He’s scared!” Tich’ki jibed from overhead. “Poor little boy doesn’t know what to do. Wouldn’t even know what to do if a woman was plopped down in his bed!”
To his disgust, Kevin felt his face reddening. At nineteen, he was hardly the innocent he’d once been, but he had yet to learn how to keep his cursedly fair skin from betraying him. “I am not scared. I’m merely—”
“Terrified!”
“No! I only meant that—”
“I’m right, he wouldn’t know what to do! Woman had better bring a deck of cards to keep her amused—”
“Enough, Tich’ki!” Kevin snapped, and heard Lydia chuckle. Furious at himself for getting so flustered, Kevin snatched up the miniature the bewildered messenger was offering. Like all the others, the small portrait was far too stylized to show the young count much: the usual perfectly oval face, the usual perfectly groomed hair, dark and wavy in this case. Kevin was about to hand the miniature back with the blandly polite refusal he’d perfected during the last deluge of miniatures, but to his surprise found himself glancing down at it again. Funny, it really didn’t tell him much, but there was something hinted at in the set of those deep blue eyes that—
“You don’t have to memorize it,” Lydia teased. “No matter how hard you stare, it isn’t going to move.”
“Naw, it’s not that!” Tich’ki sneered. “He’s too scared to think, that’s all. Doesn’t know which end is which!”
“I said enough, Tich’ki!” Kevin snapped, glaring up, staring back down at the miniature, praying to stop blushing. There really was something intriguing about the set of those blue eyes, but he could hardly change his life because of a stylized portrait. He’d give it back and—
But just then Tich’ki drew in her breath for yet another taunt, and Kevin, to his shock, heard himself blurt out, “All right, the Lady Gwenlyn it shall be!”
Oh curse it all to Darkness, what made me say that? What have I gotten myself into now?
Too late to back down. Everyone around him was cheering, and Lydia was slapping him joyfully on his back. The messenger, face wreathed in smiles, bowed and bowed again.
“My master, Count Trahern, will be truly delighted, my Lord Count. As soon as I may, I shall return to him with the joyous news. Oh, and a portrait of you, of course, Count Kevin.”
“Of…course.”
But Kevin couldn’t help repeating in silent panic, What have I gotten myself into now?
###
As the days passed, Kevin found himself growing increasingly nervous. What had he done, what? A betrothal was as good as a marriage, everyone knew that, and by making that stupid declaration he’d as good as betrothed himself to—to whom? The Lady Gwenlyn? All he knew about her was that she was Count Trahern’s daughter, and he didn’t even know anything much about Count Trahern!
Meanwhile, of course, castle life had to go on. He had to continue being Count Kevin. Even if it meant being faced with the most awkward, embarrassing tasks. Like this one:
“Uh…Naitachal.”
“I’m glad to see you remember my name,” the Dark Elf said drily. He sat sprawled at his ease, looking impossibly graceful even so, making Kevin feel very clumsy by comparison.
“Do you…have you any idea why I…uh…asked you to meet me here?”
Naitachal glanced about the private little audience room, with its one window overlooking empty space and the bare stone walls that offered no hiding space for spies. “Offhand, I’d say you wanted to discuss something in private.” Irony dripped from the elegant voice.
“Uh…yes. You—you’ve been living among humans for four years now.”
“So I have. Bracklin has proved most…interesting.”
“Interesting” was hardly the word Kevin would have applied to the quiet little backwater village that was the home of Master Bard Aidan. But that very peacefulness must have been wonderfully soothing to a Dark Elf trying desperately to turn from the necromancy that had been all he’d known for untold years to the magic of music instead. “I—I’m sure it has,” Kevin said belatedly. “But I didn’t mean to ask you about that. Your people don’t believe in—in love, do they?”
The bright blue eyes turned suddenly hard and cold. “You know that,” Naitachal said flatly. “No Nithathil, no Dark Elf, trusts another. No one of us dares. We come together only for mutual profit or procreation.”
Kevin winced. “Then human ways must still seem very strange to you.”
The coldness faded. “After only these four years or so of living freely among your kind? Oh, yes. Kevin, what is all this about? You didn’t ask me here for lessons on Nithathili life.” Naitachal paused, studying the young count thoughtfully, and a slow smile formed on his lips. “So-o. Judging from the embarrassed looks you’re giving me, this has to do with those happy, silly games human men and women love to play together: the not-quite-true flattery, the not-quite-true lust.”
“You’ve been playing those games, too.”
“Flirting, you mean? That is the term? Why, yes.” Naitachal’s teeth flashed in a quick grin. “The good folk of Bracklin don’t go in for such silliness. But the women here seem to enjoy it. And frankly, so do I. It’s such a novelty to try such a frivolous thing.”
“Ah well, yes, but…it’s not a matter of the—the games themselves, but—”
“But of whom I play them with? Yes? I thought that didn’t matter with such frivolities.”
“Well, no—yes—” Kevin floundered to a stop, all at once aware of the amusement flickering in the elven eyes. “Naitachal…”
“I know, I know. Stay away from the married ladies. I’d already come to that conclusion after some idiot man tried to challenge me for smiling at his fat little hen of a wife. And it’s not fair of me to tease you, not when you’re being so earnest. Not,” the elven Bard added delicately, “when you have your own potential romance to concern you.”
“Oh. That.”
“The thought does frighten you, doesn’t it?”
“Gods, yes!” The words burst out before Kevin could stop them. “I—I know I’ll have to wed sometime; that’s part of the duties of a count, after all. B-but I never thought, not really, that I’d wind up tying my life to a total stranger!”
“You’re about to suggest something. What is it?”
Kevin licked suddenly dry lips. Leaning forward in his chair, he said, “I was playing with the idea of—of going off, secretly, that is, to Count Trahern’s castle, so I can meet the Lady Gwenlyn for myself.” He sat nervously back, watching Naitachal intently, half hoping the Dark Elf would talk him out of it. “So. What do you think of that?”
To his shock, he saw Naitachal grin. “I like it. A most excellent suggestion.”
“What—”
“What better way for you to get to know your lady than to appear on her very doorstep after a weary journey to meet her? What young woman could refuse you after that? Why, it’s the very essence of romance!”
Romance, Kevin thought drily. He should have known better. Naitachal, of course, could never have known romance, not with his harsh background, but now that he’d discovered the joys of flirtation, his quick-silver elf mind must be full of fancies worthy of any lovesick minstrel.
“Don’t you think,” Kevin began warily, “that maybe we should think this over? It might be dangerous to—”
Naitachal waved that off impatiently. “What danger could we possibly run into on a short trip through civilized lands?”
“Ah—‘we’?”
“You didn’t think I’d miss a chance to see human courting behavior, did you?”
“There may not be any courting,” Kevin reminded him between clenched teeth. “And isn’t it going to be risky for you?”
“As a Dark Elf, you mean?” Naitachal shrugged. “I’ve hidden my true identity from humans easily enough before this with long sleeves and a hooded cloak. No insult meant, Kevin, but your folk really do see only what they expect to see. So. When we leave, we can’t let Lydia know what we’re doing.”
“Why not?”
“Do you really want to meet your lady fair surrounded by a battalion of armed guards?”
Kevin held up a hand in wry surrender. Lydia was an efficient commander-in-chief, all right, far more efficient than Kevin could ever have predicted four years back when he’d appointed her. She had most definitely taken her job to heart!
Ah well, Naitachal was probably right. What danger could there possibly be for two full Bards trained in Bardic Magic? Besides…he really did want to see this Gwenlyn…find out what he was facing…
“All right,” Kevin said sharply before he could change his mind. “We need some good excuse. Ha, I have it.” Snatching a pen from an inkstand, he hunted for a scrap of parchment and began to write. “I’m leaving a note claiming you and I are…mmm…going off into the surrounding forest to…to…”
“To practice music and Bardic Magic,” Naitachal continued, and Kevin nodded eagerly.
“Exactly. To practice our Art without any distractions.” He stopped short. “Oh, what a wonderful thought that is.”
Naitachal smiled softly. “No reason we can’t include some music in our journey.”
“No reason at all.” Kevin bent over the parchment, scribbling hurriedly. “There. I’ll just sign it, thus, mark it with my seal, thus. A servant can deliver it to D’Krikas.” Kevin grinned. “Shall we be off?”
Naitachal bowed extravagantly. “We shall, indeed. Come, my friend, romance awaits you.”
“Uh…sure,” Kevin said in sudden wild doubt, and followed.