He grinned to himself, and devoured his own portion without further comment, congratulating himself on his clever maneuver. He'd gotten her approval of the siege—which she would belatedly remember, some time late tonight as she went over the dinner conversation in her mind. By that time it would be too late to retract the approval. And it hadn't cost him anything other than something he'd already made up his mind to do. Satisfaction gave him a hearty appetite, and he enjoyed every bite of his dinner.
Down below the balcony, the lawn stretched out in a plush, velvety slope for some distance before it flattened out and became the village green shared by all of the human servants who had earned cottages in the manor-village. Surrounded by lanterns suspended from stands plunged into the turf, it was brilliantly and festively illuminated. The green served as fairgrounds, dance-floor, and feast-table in fine weather, and it served the latter two purposes tonight. The warriors, victorious and defeated both, celebrated at long wooden tables that had been carried out from their barracks. Other servants and field-workers, their dinners long over, slowly came by groups of two and three to join the fun. Festive torches burned brightly at either end of each table, and a little band of musicians had set up at the far end and played raucous dancing-tunes that were unlike anything ever heard at an Elven celebration. Kyrtian rather liked human music, himself, and he knew his mother was amused by it—but to compare human to Elven music would be like comparing a noisy forest stream to an illuminated water-sculpture. They were both made of moving water, but with that all resemblance ended.
Gel and a dozen others had already finished their dinner and found themselves partners, and were dancing with great enthusiasm and abandon, if not skill. From the rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes of the girls, none of the partners were inclined to complain if their toes got trodden on, occasionally. Kyrtian finished his meal in silence, and settled back in his chair with a glass of wine, watching the swirl and chaos of the ever-increasing crowd of dancers.
"About your obnoxious cousin—" Lydiell murmured unexpectedly, startling him.
"What about him?" Kyrtian replied, glancing at her. "He doesn't want to visit again, does he? I thought we'd managed to cure him of that after the last time."
Lydiell winced. "It almost cured me of wanting to stay here," she said, shuddering. "If I'd had to sit through one more evening of youJroning in that flat voice—! You'd have made erotic poetry unbearably dull with that voice!"
Kyrtian grinned. "I thought the monotone went with the subject matter. You can thank Gel for that, by the way. I had no idea he knew so much about the tactical importance of camp supply and sanitation; by the time he was done filling my head with the information, I could have written a monograph on the subject."
"Remind me to have him served a nice dish of live scorpions," she said, with a touch of exasperation. "He might have taken care to recall that I was going to have to endure that evening too! But, to go back to the subject—no, your cousin Ael-markin has no intention of visiting. Evidently, however, he does want to make up for trying to disinherit you."
"Oh, really?" Kyrtian felt his eyebrows rising in an imitation of his mother's most sardonic expression. "How fraternal of him. What, exactly, does he want?"
Lydiell's face gave no hint of her feelings. "He wants you to visit. He's invited you to a—a gathering, of sorts. Lord Marthien and Lord Wyvarna are settling their dispute at his estate."
Kyrtian was unpleasantly surprised. "Two Great Lords are settling a feud and Aelmarkin wants me there? Whatever for?"
Lydiell shook her head. "I don't know," she replied, sounding honestly perplexed. "Perhaps he has decided he should change his behavior, in the hope you'll forget his petition. Or forgive it, at least."
Kyrtian made a sour face. "Perhaps he just wants to show the Great Lords that I'm as crazed as my father. After all, I have the same obsession with the past that father did. He's probably hoping I'll start droning about Evelon history, or asking if any of them have ancient books in their libraries that I could have copied."
"Darthenian wasn't crazed," Lydiell said softly. "And neither are you. It isn't madness to be concerned about the past—it's madness to try and pretend it never happened. Look at the situation the Great Lords have created—at war with their own sons! If they had remembered the past, and the feuds that sent us fleeing Evelon in the first place, they might have avoided this tragedy."
"I sometimes wonder if it isn't a little mad to pursue the past so relentlessly," Kyrtian replied, his mood suddenly shadowed. "Why else would father have disappeared?"
Lydiell's cheeks flushed delicately with anger, but she did not give rein to it. "Why else?" she asked, and answered the question herself, forcefully. "A combination of dedication and bad luck—or, perhaps, the acquisition of a ruthless enemy. I don't know what Darthenian was hunting when he vanished, my love, for he kept it a secret even from me, but I do know that it was important and potentially very powerful. That made the secret a dangerous one, and that was why he kept it from me. It is possible that he met with an accident. It is also possible that someone besides me took him seriously—and wished to learn what he knew, or prevent him from discovering anything that might have given him an edge in the endless jostling for power."
"Are you suggesting that he was—murdered?" Kyrtian asked slowly. It was something that had never occurred to him.
Lydiell sighed. "I don't know. It is possible—but I cannot even guess at how likely it is. I have never seen or heard anything to allow me to dismiss the idea, or that confirmed it." Her expression was haunted by that very uncertainty. "Nevertheless, let others remember him as an unstable dabbler for delving into the oldest of our records—I know better, and so should you."
Kyrtian immediately felt ashamed, and bent his head in mute apology. "And I should not allow the views of V'kel Aelmarkin er-Lord Tornal to shade my opinion of even so trivial a question as wine selection, much less anything important." He frowned. "I've half a mind to turn his invitation down. It's come too quickly on the Council's decision, and Aelmarkin is nothing if not persistent. He surely has something planned as an attempt to embarrass me."
But Lydiell shook her head. "That, you mustn't do. He has more political power than you, and he could make things difficult if you offend him. Do you really want to waste your time countering his petty nastiness with the Council, when you could avoid having to do so by attending his gathering?"
Kyrtian sighed, knowing with resignation that he was going to have to go and play the fool to keep Aelmarkin happy. "Not really. When is this farce scheduled?"
"In three days," Lydiell told him, and patted his hand comfortingly. "Cheer up," she offered. "It's only for an afternoon. How hard can it be to maintain your composure for an afternoon?"
How hard can it be to maintain my composure for an afternoon? Kyrtian asked himself savagely, as he glared down at the sands of the arena to avoid meeting any more contemptuous or amused glances. Harder than getting the better of Gel in a sword-bout, that's how!
From the moment he'd stepped out of the Portal into Ael-markin's manor, he'd realized two things. The first: Lydiell had been absolutely right; if he hadn't shown his face—and his sanity—at this function, Aelmarkin would have been able to say whatever he liked and be believed. The second: it was going to stress his patience and his acting ability to the limit to put up with the attitude of every other guest that Aelmarkin had invited. He had never felt so utterly out-of-place in his life. Why, he had more in common with the humans of his estate than he did these strange creatures of his own race!