He led her deeper into the house to Treskan’s room. The scribe proved harder to rouse. Lofotan’s battlefield bark hardly moved him, so the old warrior grasped Treskan by the shirt-front and shook him. The scribe awoke with limbs thrashing. Lofotan stepped back, out of reach. Treskan subsided after a brief struggle with himself.
“Arise, scribbler. My lord must be served.” Eyes clenched and mouth agape in a mighty yawn, Treskan followed.
The house was still cloaked in darkness. Unlike the dead hour when the beastly invader was caught, the predawn tingled with change. There was newness in the air. Early-morning flowers were open, releasing their scent to the rising sun. Shadows buried by the profound black of night slowly took on form again as the faintest rays of daylight penetrated the gloomy villa.
On the ground floor at the extreme rear of Balif’s grand residence was the domestic area. The kitchen, sized to accommodate the vast house, was lit by a few slender wax tapers. Pots banged and clattered. Holding forth in one corner of the enormous room was Balif’s cook, the only other soul who dwelled in the house. His name, Lofotan said, was Mistravan Artyrith.
Surprised by his claim to nobility, Mathi looked to the majordomo for confirmation.
“My lord’s cook has delusions. Pay them no heed,” said Lofotan dryly.
“Delusions? Who is heir to the ancestral estate of the Artyriths? Whose grandsire was chamberlain to the Speaker of the Stars before he was Speaker?” demanded the cook.
“If you can find an estate to be heir to, why don’t you go there?”
“It exists! My enemies have taken it over, my enemies-” At that point Lofotan made a gesture with his hand indicating he considered the cook insane.
It was plain the two often sparred over Artyrith’s airs. Mathi said, “I am honored to meet you, my lord.”
The cook smiled, showing impressive white teeth. He was quite striking in a rakish way, the sort of elf young females found charming but their parents found alarming.
“It’s welcome to have another elf of good breeding around. Lately the halls have been too crowded by big heads and large mouths,” he said. Lofotan gave him a warning look that set the cook grinning even more widely.
“Which of you is my new apprentice?”
“I am a scribe,” Treskan said flatly and yawned again.
“What about you, dear child?” he said, favoring Mathi with an incandescent smile.
“I don’t know, my lord. I could be. I am a ward of the Haven of the Lost-”
His smile vanished. To Lofotan he protested, “I was promised help! I’ve waited a long time!”
“You have longer to wait,” the majordomo replied. “Is our lord’s breakfast ready?”
Glaring, Artyrith filled a wheeled cart with white porcelain platters. On each platter he placed a single item-a perfectly peeled peach, pitted and quartered; a pyramid-shaped roll, still steaming from the oven; a puree of wild berries in a gossamer-thin silver shell. By each of those treasures, he placed a utensil. They were gold, blown in a molten state like glass until they were light as air and almost transparent. Mathi and Treskan had never seen such metal-work. The scribe picked up a spoon, marveling at its artistry. Artyrith snatched it from him and replaced it on the cart with great precision.
Last the cook set a weighty urn of spring water on the lower shelf of the cart. That was Balif’s morning meal, typical for a well-born Silvanesti. The fare was beautifully prepared and presented but extremely simple.
“Take it away,” the cook said. “If my lord wishes more bread, I have it, but that is the only peach. I can get more from the market after sunrise.”
Lofotan took hold of the cart rail. He ordered Mathi and the scribe to follow him. They found Balif in the east salon, sitting on a stone bench before a breathtaking bank of windows. The first rays of the sun were just hitting the panes. Mathi stopped at the doorway, staring. She’d never seen such a room. In plan the salon was serpentine, a great outward curve of the wall being balanced by a sweeping inward curve. The outer wall was glass from a low sill to the ceiling. Intended as an indoor garden, the salon was empty save for a few stone benches and what Mathi took to be pedestals where statues once stood.
Lofotan pushed past the gawking Treskan and Mathi. Balif was seated facing the windows, his eyes closed. At the sound of the cart’s wheels, he turned his head and opened his eyes.
“Good morning.” He glanced at the door where the newcomers were still marveling. “Still with us, I see. I half imagined you two would flee after our little adventure last night.”
“Still here,” Lofotan said. He arranged Balif’s breakfast on the stone slab beside him. Mathi slowly approached, marveling at the architecture. She stumbled over a high stone tile on her way to the general.
“Though empty, this place has its hazards. Be careful,” Balif said.
“I’ve never seen such a magnificent room!” said Treskan, trailing the girl.
“It was designed by the same architect who built the palace of the Speaker. He always claimed that it was better than anything else he ever built.” Balif looked to the windows. “Like many masterpieces, this one exacts a price of its owner. This room is uninhabitable once the sun comes up. All the glass traps the heat, turning the room into a furnace. The exotic greenery planted here at the Speaker’s order quickly withered. Tapestries and carpets faded then turned to powder under the glare. The only thing that endures in this room is stone.”
It was already warm, and the sun was barely up. Mathi easily imagined the place was like a fiery crucible at midday. Treskan asked why the general didn’t shade the windows? It would take acres of velvet to mask the enormous panes, but at least the room would livable.
“I prefer it this way.” Little beads of sweat stood out on his high forehead. “Sit down, child. Break your fast.”
Mathi was so startled by his invitation that she looked to Lofotan. The dour majordomo, standing behind his general, gave her a stern look whose meaning was inescapable.
“Thank you, no, my lord. It is more proper that I stand.”
A flicker of amusement flashed over Balif’s face. “Suit yourself.”
He ate the peach with swift, silent efficiency. When it was dispatched, he asked Lofotan what his day’s duties were.
“My lord has no demands on his time today,” was the reply. Treskan, stylus and writing board under his arm, looked crestfallen. The second elf of the realm, and Balif had no duties to perform?
Balif shrugged. “Just as well. If I had to sit through another military parade or inspect troops or griffons, I think I would rebel.”
The creeping sun hit the windows full-on. A blaze like fire flashed across row upon row of polished panes, mirrored and magnified. Balif’s morning sojourn in the sunrise salon was over. The elves quit the room.
“Such is my life in total,” he said as they strolled down the refreshingly cool, dark corridor outside. “A brief moment of glory in the sun then retreat into the shadows.”
As the elves crossed the entry hall, loud chiming filled the air. The front doors were made of bell-quality bronze. Someone was knocking for admittance.
“See who it is, Mathi.”
Puzzled to be doing Lofotan’s job, Mathi bowed and went to the front door. Halfway there it occurred to her that if it was another attempt on the general’s life, she was walking directly into harm’s way. All of a sudden the floor seemed to cling to her feet. Slowly she reached out to the ornate door handle.
The doors clanged again, a pleasant but loud tone amplified by the great vacant hall behind them. Lofotan and Balif stood side by side, poised to fight or flee. Treskan, still rumpled from his uneasy night, peered between them.
Mathi struggled momentarily with the unfamiliar door handle then tugged the panel open. Though the metal-sheathed door easily weighed a ton, it swung easily inward. Mathi’s pulse quickened when she saw a company of soldiers arrayed outside. An officer in brightly gilded armor raised a sheathed sword, pommel first, in salute.
“Greetings to the most excellent lord Balif, High General of the Realm, Protector of the Nation, and most loyal servant of our Great Speaker, Silvanos!”
