Elvenborn

blur of green.

'What about Kyndreth's human slaves?' he asked, without taking his eyes off the distant riders.

'They remained within the guest-quarters, except for the bodyguards, who were keeping you and Kyndreth under sur­veillance,' Lydiell told him calmly. 'And some of our people were in turn watching them. It made me wonder how many lay­ers of watchers-watching-watchers we could have had before people began running into each other!'

Kyrtian turned away from the window, and caught his mother's ironic smile. 'It would be an interesting experiment.

That human Kaeth is a very sharp fellow; I have no doubt that he knew his people were being overlooked. I shouldn't like to have to pit Gel against him; I think that Gel might be out­matched in certain areas.'

'Then let us hope we never need to.' Lydiell looked at him sharply. 'What is it that you have not told me? Something Kyn-dreth said?'

'Something he has yet to say,' Kyrtian sighed, chagrined that she was able to read him so easily. I should know better than to think I can hide anything from her. 'He learned the magic quite quickly; actually more quickly than I had anticipated. Whatever else his accomplishments may be, there is no doubt that he de­serves his position as a mage and a Great Lord.'

'Do not attempt to distract me; I am too old to play that game with,' Lydiell responded, a touch sharply. 'What was this about 'something he has yet to say' ?'

'He implied that he wishes to discuss something with me, possibly at or after dinner. 1 have no idea what it is.' Kyrtian tried to shrug it all off as of no importance, but his mother im­mediately looked concerned, then tried to conceal it.

'Did he say anything else?' she asked, a little too casually.

'One thing more—that he and his people will be leaving in the morning, which is not too soon for me.' Feeling overly con­fined by the relatively formal garments he'd been buttoned into this morning, Kyrtian ruined the efforts of his body-servants by restlessly unbuttoning the collar of his tunic and running his hands distractedly through his hair.

'At least that is good news.' Lady Lydiell sank into her seat behind her desk. 'I knew this charade of ours would be a strain, but I hadn't expected it to be as much of a strain as it has been.'

Kyrtian nodded in agreement, and took a quick glance back at the window. The tiny figures were no longer so tiny and were growing larger by the moment—the riders must have decided that they had exercised enough for one day. Either that, or Kyn-dreth sent a magical summons to them. 'If I am going to con­tinue the game, I had best get down to my quarters to dress for dinner, Lady-Mother. Since this is to be Lord Kyndreth's last night—shouldn't we do something—well—elaborate?'

'Indeed we should, and I will follow your example as soon as I've seen the cooks.' She rose from her chair and moved around her desk to kiss him fondly on the cheek. 'We must show him every possible honor. We need to drive it home to Lord Kyn-dreth that we are reclusive, but neither mad, nor barbaric.'

Kyrtian was tempted to break his long-standing habit and use illusion to augment his costume, for the clothing his servants laid out for him was not the sort of thing he would have chosen for himself. It was impressive, yes, but the plush velvet tunic of a sober midnight-blue was so heavily ornamented with gold bullion and tiny beads made from sapphires and emeralds that it weighed as much as armor, and the high collar was probably going to drive him to distraction before the evening was over and he could take it off.

Nevertheless, he allowed his men to assist him into the stiff costume, and made his appearance in the grand dining room well ahead of their guest. Somehow Lady Lydiell had worked miracles among the cooks, for there was every evidence of a meal worthy of the room in the offing. The table, decked in snowy damask, was adorned with a dozen different glasses at each place, and the sideboard was laden with small dishes and a myriad of specialized knives, forks and spoons, each (by the rules of etiquette) suited only to very particular sorts of courses. Also by the rules of etiquette, there was only a single plate and no utensils at each place. The particular silverware needed for each course would be laid with the course, and whisked away again to prevent any faux pas in dining on the part of a guest. When Lord Kyndreth and his three underlings appeared, con­ducted by a household servant, even they seemed surprised and impressed by the preparations.

Lydiell arrived last, in a gown of deceptive simplicity, one that Kyrtian had never seen her wear before. It was only when she drew near that it was obvious that only the 'cut' of the gown was simple; with close-fitting sleeves and a modest neck­line, it was composed entirely of miniature interwoven links and plaques of silver, each no larger than a gnat, each plaque studded with diamonds no larger than the head of a pin. She

seemed to be gowned in shimmering fish-scales, or that fabu­lous substance, dragon skin.

And I thought my costume was uncomfortably heavy! he thought in awe. He'd had no idea she even possessed such a thing; it couldn't be illusion, but where had it come from?

I wonder if it could turn a blade ? he thought, as he waited for Lydiell to be seated. There was no telling how old such a gar­ment might be—it might even date back to Evelon itself. If so ... perhaps the ladies of those long-gone days had made a virtue of the necessity of wearing protective armor even to a festive meal.

They took their places, and the ceremonial meal began, course after course, until Kyrtian lost count of them. Each course was no more than a taste, a bite or two of some delicacy; then the plates and cutlery were whisked away to be replaced by a new setting, another dish. Cold dishes and hot, savory, salty, sweet, sour—fragrant noodles, lightly cooked and sea­soned vegetables sculpted like flowers, flowers made into tiny salads of petals, tiny portions of barely seared meat garnished with rare herbs and sauces, soups hot and chilled—each course was accompanied with a different drink. This was not always wine; it could be a spiced juice, a tea, or delicately flavored spring water, whatever best complemented the course.

It could not be called a meal, it was an event unto itself, a thing which swiftly acquired its own momentum. If Kyrtian was amazed, Lord Kyndreth was not—although it seemed he was very, very pleased. Hours passed, the sunset faded outside the windows and was replaced by the night and stars; Kyndreth and his people exerted themselves to be charming, and Lady Lydiell was equally charming and witty. Kyrtian was awed; he'd never seen his mother quite like this before, and he had to stretch his own wits to keep pace with the others.

Finally, the last course was placed before them—and the fact that it was the final course was signaled by the disappearance of every human servant the moment each plate was placed before the diners. Each plate held a single delicate, gilded fruit-ice the size of Lydiell's graceful hand. Each scoop of ice had been

molded into the Lion of Lord Kyndreth's House, with the de­tails picked out in sugar-crystals and pearlescent icing.

Lord Kyndreth stood up, and raised his cup to Lady Lydiell.

'My dear hostess,' he said, in a voice full of warmth and ad­miration. 'I cannot imagine how you conjured up a Court feast on less than no notice, but allow me to declare that you are surely the equal of any Great Mage in the land, and I bow to your prowess. I drink to you, Lady Lydiell!'

The rest answered his toast, and Lydiell gracefully acknowl­edged the compliment with a nod of her head.

Kyndreth sat down again. 'I can see by all of this that my judgment of your House was not mistaken. If you do not move in the circles of the Council, it is not because you do not merit such attention, but because you chose not to seek it.'

He looked from Lydiell to Kyrtian, and back again. It was Lydiell he evidently expected to answer, and it was Lydiell who made the reply.