Андрэ Нортон – The Elvenbane (страница 4)

The slave-master had already remarked to Ambra, her mother, just how fast she was growing, and how she was going to have to go into training soon. Serina knew what that training was for; Jared had explained it to her with blunt words; explained the difference between a concubine and a breeder. And he had hammered home the lesson that any change in her fate lay only in Lord Dyran’s hands and her own diligence.

She had seen already how true his words were. Only last year they had taken her older brother Tamar away, sold or given him to another elven lord who had admired his fragile grace. Her younger brother Kaeth was being trained now in the assassins’ school, taken there two weeks ago, when his agility had been uncovered during a foray on the Lord’s fruit trees.

She had cried when Kaeth left in the hands of his trainers, and her mother had taken her aside, into her own room, and sat her down on the edge of the bed; told her sternly to dry her tears. ‘The lords rule everything,’ Ambra had said, without pity, but with tears shining in her eyes, tears that Serina sensed she dared not shed. ‘We are fortunate in having a lord such as Lord Dyran to rule us. He rewards us well for good service; there are lords who reward no one and nothing, and punish as their whim leads them. If Kaeth does well, he will be rewarded. He deserved to be punished for stealing fruit, and instead he is being given a wonderful chance. He could have been killed out of hand. That is the difference between our Lord and others.’

‘But why?’ she had cried. ‘Why do they rule us? Who said they could? It isn’t fair!’

Another parent might have cuffed her; might have said: ‘Because that’s the way it is.’ But not Ambra.

‘They rule us because they are strong, and powerful, and they have magic,’ she said, and Serina sensed a resigned sadness in her words. ‘We are weak, and the gods gave us no magic at all. The lords live forever, and our lives are short. If we are to prosper, we must please the lords, for the gods love them, and despise us.’

‘But why?’ Serina had wailed.

Ambra only shook her head. ‘I do not know. There are those who say that the lords are the children of the gods; there are those who say the lords are demons, sent by the gods to punish or test us. I only know that those who please them live and are rewarded, and those who do not, die. It is up to Tamar and Kaeth now, to please their lords. As you must please Lord Dyran, and those he sets over you. Nothing else matters, and neither I, nor your father, nor your kin or friends can help you. They can only hinder you. If you would rise, you must do so alone.’

Serina remembered that, and remembered the glimpse she’d had of Lord Dyran this afternoon, when he had come to see how the training of his fighters was progressing. She’d watched as her proud, stern father bent until his forehead touched the ground; how the other fighters had knelt in obeisance. And how Lord Dyran had seemed a creature out of a tale; tall, haughty, clothed from head to toe in cream-and-gold satin, and cream-colored leather, so supple and soft-looking that Serina had longed to touch it. How he seemed to shine, taking in the light of the sun and sending it back out redoubled. He was so beautiful he made her breath catch, and she had thought, He must be a child of the gods … And the woman with him, like a jewel herself, made Serina ache with envy. The woman was clothed in the softest silks Serina had ever seen, and laden with a fortune in gold chains. Gold chains formed the cap that crowned her golden hair, gold chains depended from the cap and flowed down her back, golden chains circled her neck and arms, and held her cream-colored dress closely to her body at the waist. She was magnificent, nearly as beautiful as the elven lord beside her, and Serina wanted to be wearing that dress, standing in her place.

She recalled how Lord Dyran had taken an imperfectly made sword that her father had brought to him in complaint, and bent it double, then bent the doubled blade back on itself a second time. That strength took her breath away once more, and sent little chills over her. What would it be like to have that strength – or be the one for whom it was gentled?

Then he had the smith who made the blade brought to him. All he had done was stare at the man for a moment, then make a little flicking motion of his hand – but the man had bent over double and had dropped screaming to the ground, and had to be carried out. No one protested or lifted a hand to help him. She had heard later that the Lord had cast elf-shot at him; and that should he ever again pass an imperfect blade, the tiny sliver of elf-stone lodged in his chest would lash him again with the same agonies.

Serina wondered; if her father sent out a fighter judged to be ‘imperfectly trained,’ would the same thing happen to him?

She shivered as she realized that the answer was ‘yes’ and that no excuses would be accepted.

‘If you would rise, do so alone,’ she heard in her mind, and recalled the gold-bedecked woman at Lord Dyran’s side, watching the smith writhe in agony at her feet, her face impassive.

The lesson was there, and easy to read.

Rise alone and fall alone. If he had cared half as much for me as he did for the purity of his blades – but I was less than a blade, and he had a replacement standing ready.

As she took each step, each breath in agony, there was a hotter fire burning in her mind. Once Lord Dyran had grown tired of her, she was of less use than one of his pensioners. And he no longer cared what happened to her.

The pensioners – once she had scorned them; the weak in power, or elven ‘lords’ fallen on hard times, who had lost too much in the ever-renewing duels. The duels were fought by their trained gladiators, but they represented very real feuds, and the losses incurred when their fighters lost were equally real …

Twice as pathetic were the sad cases whose magic was too weak to accomplish more than self-protection. Though these ‘pensioners’ could not be collared, they could be coerced in other, more subtle ways. They often served as overseers, as chief traders, and in other positions of trust. They were neither wholly of the world of the High Lords, nor pampered as luxuriously as the treasured slaves, such as concubines and entertainers. Serina had pitied them, once.

No. Better to fall, she thought, than eke out a miserable, scrabbling existence like theirs …

Better to have reigned at least for a little while; to have stood at Lord Dyran’s side, and answered to no one but her master … to have feared only purely mortal trickery. Unlike the pensioners, whose every action was a move in a game they did not understand.

‘So,’ Dyran said, regarding the top of the trembling overseer’s head, as the elven subordinate knelt before him. ‘It would seem the quota cannot be met.’ He was all in black today, and the milky light from the skylight overhead made his hair gleam like silver on his shoulders. He had a look about him that Serina knew well, a look that told her his mood was a cruel one, and she hoped he would appease it on the person of his overseer.

‘No, my lord,’ the elven overseer replied, his voice quavering. There was nothing in his appearance – other than his clothing – to tell a human of the vast social gulf between himself and Dyran. His hair, tied back in a neat tail, was just as long and silky, just as pale a gold. His eyes were just as green, his stature equal to Dyran’s. Both had the sharply pointed ear-tips of their race, and both appeared to be fighting men in the prime of life. The overseer wore riding leathers; Dyran fine velvet. But there were differences between them not visible to the human senses; differences that made Dyran master. ‘There have been too many injuries, my lord, to –’

‘Due to your neglect,’ Dyran reminded him silkily. Serina saw that his goblet of wine had warmed, and replaced it with a chilled one. He ignored her, all his attention bent on his victim.

The overseer blanched. ‘But my lord, I told you that the forge chains needed –’

‘Due to your neglect,’ Dyran repeated, and settled back into his ornately carved wooden chair, steepling his long, slender hands before his chin. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to have to teach you a lesson about caring for your tools, Goris. I believe you have a daughter?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the overseer whispered. He glanced up briefly, and Serina noted that he had the helpless, hopeless look of a creature in a trap. ‘But she is my only heir –’

Dyran dismissed the girl with a gesture. ‘Wed her to Dorion. He’s been pestering me for a bride, and his quota has been exceeded. We’ll see if his line proves more competent than yours.’

The overseer’s head snapped up, emerald eyes wide with shock. ‘But, my lord!’ he protested. ‘Dorion is –’

He stopped himself, and swallowed suddenly, as his pupils contracted with fear.

Lord Dyran leaned forward in his seat. ‘Yes?’ he said, with venomous mildness. ‘You were about to say – what?’ He raised one eyebrow, a gesture Serina knew well. It meant he was poised to strike, if angered.