At the same time, a serving-lady of like age set a bedewed talltankard of beer in front of the diner at the other end of the table: a broad and broken-nosed dwarf whose scarred face was flinty as he glared unwinking across the room at the elf-lord.
The elf allowed an answering sneer to fall for an instant across his lips, then turned his head pointedly away to address his host at the center of the table. “Are your crops good this summertide, my Lord?”
Lord Breiyr’s ruddy face split into a relieved smile. His two distinguished guests had stiffened at first sight of each other, and he dared not offend either, for all their rudenesses. Both were important folk—barons, or better—in their own realms.
Old realms, and proud; lands wealthy enough to beggar all the human holds in the Northlands. Lands whose folk openly looked down on their newcome human neighbors. No doubt, were he lord of either, he’d do so too. He’d also keep a wary eye on the battle-strength and doings of the lords of men… as both of his guests were no doubt charged to. A cruel whim of the gods must have brought them both to his gates on the same evening. So, at least, he hoped.
The stout, red-faced lord looked warily from one guest to another, then turned to answer the elf. His two guests had traded more than enough elaborate, cutting insults over wine before dusk. If they’d now decided to be civil to each other long enough to enjoy the feast, he’d best seize the opportunity to set them both at ease and make them feel welcome. More than that, it was his duty. Not for the first time, he wished his smooth-tongued wife were still alive. She’d have known so much better what to say.
Lord Breiyr rumbled with friendly uncertainty, like an awakening dragon deciding how best to greet its mate, and said, “We’re hopeful of a good harvest, my lord Falaeve— though we haven’t the way of working with the land that your tree-tenders have.” He turned his head hastily to smile at the glowering dwarf, and said, “Nor have we any wisdom at growing things in sheltered depths—nor any caverns near, this close to the river.” He left a little pause, but neither guest responded, so he gathered himself to fill the silence with just a touch of weariness, like a patient bear after a fish has darted away from its paws yet again, and added, “So long as none go hungry this winter, with so many trees gone.”
“I’ve never seen such fires before,” the dwarf grunted around the edge of the talltankard. He set it down firmly on the board before him and added darkly, “There’s talk that careless magic—or worse, malicious spells—started it.”
“Talk?” The hawk-nosed elf leaned forward. His tone was light, but the word seemed to flash like a flourished blade. “Talk among whom?”
“Dwarves, of course,” the bearded stalwart said deliberately, his beard jutting forward as he leaned across the laden board before him. “Who else would I listen to—or put any credence in the words of?”
The elf raised his shoulders and brows together in an elaborate shrug and pointedly turned his head away again to address their host. The dwarf growled warningly, but whatever unpleasantness might have followed was lost forever in — the scrape of the steward’s staff of office.
All three at the table turned at the sound, and the elf’s face froze in disapproval; Lord Breiyr had named his own daughter to the stewardship rather than some old, loyal warrior. Her clear tones rang out in the cavernous hall as she grounded her staff hollowly on the flagstones thrice, and said, “My Lord of Morlin! I am come with a guest we welcome within our walls: Huntinghorn, Herald of Tavaray!”
There was a faint murmur among the servants who stood about the walls of the hall and were bent to the spits before the hearth; lord heralds were rare visitors this far up the Delimibyr. Still, there’d been talk of risings and unrest in the wake of the devastating fires in the spring, and troubled times always brought messengers and envoys out, both the great and the small. Curious eyes sought the shadows behind the steward as Lord Breiyr, in glad relief at this unlooked-for reprieve from verbal dueling, said eagerly, “Let him be welcome indeed in Morlin, so long as he attend us here, and share our feast! Bring him as soon as his needs of the journey are met, that we may speak together, and share good cheer!”
The steward bowed her head, but did not hasten out. She stepped back and aside, and a dark-clad man, elegant and bearded, strode from the shadows behind her, straight to the chair of the Lord.
There he bowed, and his sword flashed out. It caught the light of the leaping flames as he made the full salute—most often tendered to kings or great lords—to the Lord of Morlin Castle, who blushed with pleasure amid the awed, pleased murmur.
The watching elven lord drew himself up in even greater disapproval at this, glaring at the young, bearded herald— who met his gaze for a deliberate instant with black eyes that held hard, cold disdain, before dropping them again to smile almost fondly at the stout old Lord.
“Down by the sea, I’ve heard only good things about Morlin, and when night finds me here on my travels, I come in and find the words all true,” the herald said in a light yet strong voice. “My Lord, I am pleased to know you. Peace and good fortune attend this fair hall.”
Lord Breiyr rumbled with pleasure and spread a large hand to indicate the food. “As we are honored by your presence, Lord Herald. Be welcome, and be aware we know pleasure at your company. Will you sit with us and feast? This night my humble hall already holds two distinguished guests: Arthlach, Axelord of the Hold of Westdelve in Ammarindar”—the dwarf nodded gravely, talltankard in hand—“and Highlord Falaeve, of Siluvanede. We were just talking of the unfortunate fires this spring past, and of what may have caused them.”
The young man nodded smoothly as he descended into a chair hastily made ready for him to the Lord’s right. “Rumors of dark magic?”
Highlord Falaeve did not quite sneer. “So the—good— Axelord”—he hesitated only an instant at the descriptive word, long enough for all in the hall to clearly hear it, yet not quite long enough for the dwarf to take open offense— “believes, or do his companions among the Stout Folk. What say you, my Lord Herald?”
The man and the elf both openly studied each other—and when their eyes met, there was a greater tension in the room than the Lord Breiyr had ever felt in his home before. He paled and groped at his belt for a sword that was not there.
The man who was not a man looked across the curve of the great feasting-table, into eyes that were proud and cold. A twist was playing about the lips of the high elf-lord that was not quite a sneer, but made his assumption of superiority clear to everyone in the hall. The silver griffon of Siluvanede was worked in gold wire on the gem-adorned bracers the elf wore and they flashed as he slowly raised his slim crystal goblet of mint wine to his lips, without ever taking his eyes from the herald’s.
Highlord Falaeve had stared down many a man before— haughtier, stronger men than this puppy in a tabard. The man wore the crossed trumpets of Huntinghorn, and must have come as one of the regal envoys of the coastal human lords—Elember, perhaps. The man was sleek and slim and wore a neatly-trimmed, short beard that curled about his chin like the fur of a hunting cat. A smooth courtier—the sort of man who thought himself both subtle and clever.