'You—come here.' He pointed.
Dairt got slowly to his feet and shuffled reluctantly forward. Goraide put an arm around his shoulder and leaned down so that his mouth was near the slave's ear.
'It was you, wasn't it, little soft one, who made the trouble? You're afraid, and that's good. Fear is the beginning of wisdom. But you belong to us now, down here in the dark, and you must always do exactly what pleases us, because your Bright World Gods have given you to us as a present, did you know that, little Dairt?'
Savilla saw the human's eyes flicker with fear and confusion.
'Do you know how I know that?' Goraide went on, in the same gentle confiding tones. 'Because I know how you came here, Dairt. You were running away from the High Mages, because Armethalieh was going to take over the High Hills. And so you ran to us. But Armethalieh changed her mind. She went home to her own walls and left the High Hills alone. You didn't have to come here at all. You could have stayed right where you were, inconvenienced for a time, but safe.' As Goraide spoke, Savilla could see him weaving the subtle strands of magic around his words, drawing power from the human's horror and despair to make the man believe him utterly.
'But you did come, Dairt. So it must have been because you wanted to come, to live with us and serve us. And now you will. You will never see the sun again. You will live here, with us, to serve us in any way we choose… and it was all your own free choice.'
The human was gasping and whimpering by the time Goraide finished speaking, shaking his head in denial but unable to disbelieve. His eyes filled with tears—Savilla had always found that to be one of the odder and more charming things about humans, that they wept for nothing more than a harsh word or two—and he swayed on his feet, his knees buckling. Goraide steadied him, his long black talons digging harshly into the human's soft skin.
'Soft one, soft one… you have what you came to find. There are pleasures to be found in service.' Goraide turned the human's body against his own and kissed him full upon the mouth.
Savilla watched with interest as the human's body shuddered in protest and then stilled, the callused hands clenching and opening as Goraide's hands moved possessively over the soft unsealed body, leaving faint red welts upon the skin.
Yes, her nephew had a fine touch with these matters, one almost as good as Prince Zyperis's.
HIS visit with the Elven seamstress had been less stressful than Kellen had expected—and shorter, as well, since Tengitir wasn't really interested in any of Kellen's opinions about what clothing he should have. She'd made him stand in the direct sunlight that spilled through the skylight of her workroom as she held various swatches of fabric up to his skin to gauge the effect of the colors, taken a large number of measurements, confiscated most of the Elven clothes Kellen had been requested to bring with him (although she had allowed him to keep one outfit, to his mild surprise: a set of tunic and leggings in an odd steel-grey, almost the color of storm clouds.)
And just as well, Kellen realized on reflection, as Tengitir would have seen no reason that he should not leave the shop wearing nothing but his skin rather than leave in what she considered unsuitable clothing. Once she was done taking his measurements, she told him to be on his way. Kellen, happy to make his escape, quickly dressed in the steel-grey tunic and leggings, and got out of Tengitir's shop as fast as possible.
At least he still had his buckskin clothing, and the Mountain Trader outfit, and he wondered, as he was measured and remeasured, if perhaps he ought to just take to wearing the buckskins again, since Idalia was mostly wearing hers.
Because as hot and scratchy as it is, he thought as the seamstress held up yet another series of swatches to his face, the only way anyone will get me into that Trader outfit again is at knifepoint…
All in all, his visit to the Elven seamstress could have been a great deal more embarrassing. The only bad part about it was that Kellen hadn't gotten a chance to pose any questions of his own.
Sandalon had been there, of course, offering his own suggestions about the items Kellen should have for his wardrobe for various esoteric Elven events. Kellen supposed he should be just as glad he hadn't really understood most of the suggestions. What was a Flower War? And a Winter Running Dance just sounded exhausting.
Tengitir vetoed all of the young Prince's suggestions, gently telling the child that 'I don't believe we are going to be holding any of those this year, Sandalon, what with the drought.'
Just as well he wouldn't be getting outfits for either one, Kellen thought.
He spent the rest of the day entertaining Sandalon—and, not incidentally, helping several of the water- carriers in their tasks. Now that he knew more of what to look for, he could see that everyone in Sentar-shadeen was completely occupied in keeping the valley that held the Elven city irrigated. And in the time they could spare from that task, work parties toiled in the forest beyond the canyon rim, fighting the losing battle to save the forest beyond.
Kellen promised himself that first thing tomorrow he'd see about formally joining one of those work parties. He might not be able to help Idalia in her work right now—he was only a half-trained Wildmage, after all—but there was no reason for him to be completely idle.
