Elvenborn

her, shrieking greetings at the tops of their lungs.

'Lady Lidi! Lady Lidi!' 'Come see my puppy!' 'Will you make us sweeties?' 'Lady Lidi, Jordy found a frog!'

Lady Lydiell only smiled serenely as the horde of small chil­dren (some of them very grubby indeed) swarmed all around her, holding up flowers, a frog, a puppy, dolls, and toy bows and arrows for her approval. As Rennati stared, her mouth dropping completely open, the Lady gave each of the children her gravest attention.

Now she knew why there were no breeding pens, no mass nurseries, no other signs that human slaves were bred here with the same care to selection and carelessness as to feelings as were cattle and horses. The cluster of small buildings were— houses. Houses for families. Families who were allowed to keep their children with them. And since there were no breed­ing pens, this must be the norm here, not the exception, as it was on the estate that had bred Rennati.

These children were utterly fearless in the presence of the chatelaine of the manor. They must never have received so much as an unkindness from an Elvenlord.

And look at the Lady herself! She couldn't have been more patient with this horde of exuberant children if she had been their nursemaid or beloved relative!

Rennati let fall the last of her disbelief, and felt the world whirling around her, turned utterly upside down.

'Will you please make us sweeties, Lady Lidi?' asked one of the boys, polite, but bold as a young rooster.

Lady Lydiell laughed. 'All right. One flower each. Go pick fresh ones.' She turned to Rennati, who clutched a beam em­bedded in the corner of the house beside her, feeling actually dizzy. 'Elven women are trained to use their magic in small ways rather than large—you'll find most of them making fool­ish sculptures out of flowers, but that's a bastardization of what we originally did in Evelon. We healed wounds and sometimes sickness—but most important of all, we made the inedible edi­ble. Lady Moth taught me that little trick, which she learned from her mother. I still use it to make honey-sweets from flow­ers for the children—ah, here they come!'

There were plenty of flowers in the little gardens that Rennati now noticed around the houses, and it hadn't taken the children long to pick out which flower they wished made into a treat. She noticed that the girls generally chose roses; well, she was partial to rose-petal candies herself. Many of them sucked thorn-wounded fingers, but none of them complained. The boys seemed to prefer sunflowers, dahlias, anything large. But one lit­tle girl at the rear of the group came up holding a single violet, and looked to Lady Lydiell with eyes filled with disappointment.

'Sahshi, what's the matter?' Lydiell asked, seeing her and her distress at once, and motioning for the others to let her through.

'You said only one,' Sahshi whispered imploringly. 'But I like vi'lets—'

'Oh dear—children, do you think it's fair for Sahshi only to have one tiny violet?' Lydiell applied to the rest of the children— and had they been pen-born and nursery-raised, where it was

every child for himself, Rennati knew what the answer would have been. But not here.

'No!' came the clamor, instantly, and without prompting, several of them ran to nearby gardens, bringing back bunches of violets that they pressed into Sahshi's hands until the child couldn't hold any more.

Her face glowing with happiness, Sahshi held up the violets for Lady Lydiell to transmute—and then gave Rennati a further surprise (as if she needed one at this point) by sharing out her sweets with the others as they waited in their turn for Lady Ly­diell to get to them. This was probably just as well, for had she eaten them all herself she would surely have earned herself a bellyache, but never before had Rennati seen a child of the low­est, field worker class who would not have immediately shov­eled a treat into her mouth with both hands and devoured it as fast as she could, stuffing herself until she was sick because it would be ages before she might taste any other good thing.

It was all, in a word, impossible.

When Lydiell had finished with the last flower, the children thanked her and streamed back to their playground, a small square surrounded by rough-hewn logs enclosing an area of soft sand that held stumps and bars to climb on, a board with seats on either end poised on a hewn block of wood that al­lowed the ends to rise and fall with children balanced on seats there, and other things that the children seemed to enjoy swarming over.

These things all showed signs of a great deal of wear; they hadn't been placed there recently. This was no artificial setting made for her benefit, to sway her opinion.

As if my opinion, the attitude of a mortal, actually means something! But to Lady Lydiell it did, it patently did.

Lydiell turned back to face Rennati with a quizzical smile on her face. 'Well?' she said, pointedly.

Rennati felt cold and hot at the same time, and there was a faint buzzing in her ears. 'What—is—this— place?' she asked, thickly.

'Ah. That is a very good question.' Lady Lydiell took Ren-nati's arm, as if she was Rennati's oldest friend. 'Come back to

the manor with me. I think, when you have had something to drink to steady you, you will have a great many more questions, and I will try to answer them.'

In the end, Rennati thought she would never come to an end of her questions. Lydiell answered each and every one, with infi­nite patience as they sat in elegant chairs on either side of a lit­tle table on one of the outdoor terraces. Here she was—eating dainties that, in her excitement, she did not truly taste; drinking something that might just as well have been water for all the at­tention she paid to it; and arranged across from a highborn el-ven lady on one of the private terraces as if she, too, was Elvenborn. The sun shone down on the gardens below them, al­though they were shaded by a fine cloth canopy of tapestried linen. A few women worked in the gardens below, the very pic­ture of bucolic contentment—well-clothed in practical leggings and long, loose linen tunics, protected from the sun by broad-brimmed straw hats, and no supervisor in sight.

Slowly she began to really understand just what it was that Lord Kyrtian's family protected here. That was when the enor­mity of her own treachery dawned on her, hitting her with the force of a blow. If she had still been able to weep, she would have, then; she'd have broken down and howled with the pain of what she had done to these amazing Elvenlords and their hu­man charges. She wanted to; her throat closed and she nearly choked on her unshed tears, but weeping had long since been trained out of her, and she could not cry, not even for this. Con­cubines did not weep; it spoiled their looks, and only annoyed their masters.

But the depth of her despair could not be measured, and she could not simply sit there and bear it invisibly.

She slipped from her seat and sank down to her knees, then prostrated herself on the stone of the terrace, not daring to look at the Lady lest she crack into a thousand pieces.

'Ah,' said the lady softly. 'Now you understand.'

It was hard, hard to speak; hard to get words around that lump of guilt and pain in her throat. 'Yes.' It was all she could manage.

'Now I have questions for you,' Lady Lydiell said, in a voice that warned she would insist on answers.

Rennati could not bear to look into the face of the one she had so vilely betrayed, and she remained where she was, pros­trated on the stone of the terrace, speaking brokenly to the soft grey slab just below her nose. The lady's questions went on as long as Rennati's had, every detail of her life, of her bargain with Lady Triana, pulled from her gently, but inexorably.

It seemed to go on forever, and when she was done, she felt drained of everything except pain. There was nothing that Lady Lydiell did not know about her now, and surely, surely, the pun­ishment she so richly deserved