In the abstract—well, there was nothing abstract about his situation, that was the problem. And it was all the fault of one flame-haired girl.
He could not bring himself to hate her—after all, she probably had as little control over her situation as he had over his—
But I wish she could have appeared in someone else's lifetime. Or at least, 1 wish she could have appeared after I found some way to dispose of Lord Tylar and was securely Lord Treves myself…
A cold thought, that, but inescapable. He had been forced to watch the humiliation of his mother and sister for far too long. Lord Tylar had never shown him so much as a single instant of affection; he was another prized possession, no more, and no less. But Lord Tylar's cruelty to the possessions he no longer prized was more and more pointed, and he no longer prized Lady Viridina. It had occurred to Lorryn recently that he and Rena were not the only vehicles for alliance-by-marriage. There was Lord Tylar himself.
Not while Lady Viridina was alive, of course, but—
But elven women are notoriously fragile, and once Rena is wedded and out of the manor, and I am packed up to one of the liege men for more lessons in the management of an estate, there would be no awkward witnesses.
Except for human slaves, of course, but they were easily silenced.
If this had occurred to Lorryn, it had certainly occurred to Lord Tylar. Lorryn had seen the elven lord eyeing his wife with a light in his eyes that Lorryn did not particularly like, of late. So without saying anything to his mother, he had begun planning ways to turn the tables on her husband, and make him the "disposable" one.
All those plans had been overturned by the advent of the Elvenbane, of course.
He flung himself down on the bed, all interest in his book long lost. Oh, if only she could have appeared some other time!
Well, she had no choice, and neither did he. Now his plans were much different. Now they were concerned with his survival. Somehow he was going to have to negotiate this difficult time, until the older elves lost some of their fear and stopped looking for halfbloods in their own ranks.
His stomach turned over as he thought of the consequences awaiting him if they found him. Or else—I'm going to have to plan something more basic. How to get away, and where to flee. Considering the number of times I've had to feign illness to avoid exposure lately, maybe I had better begin planning an escape right now, while I still have the leisure to plan it.
Chapter 2
THE SLAVES DREW their "mistress" to her feet, and led her over to the floor-to-ceiling mirror to survey their handiwork for herself. Rena stared at the reflection in the mirror and felt her stomach churn with dismay. The effect of hair, gown, jewelry, and cosmetics was just as dreadful as she had imagined.
No, she decided after a moment more of contemplation. It isn't as bad as I imagined. It's worse.
Both gowns were of silk, the undergown lighter in color and weight than the overgown. They were supposed to create a flowing line, as if she was a wave upon the sea—curving over her body gently and voluptuously, hinting at what lay beneath without actually revealing anything.
Instead, they hung upon her slight frame, falling straight from her shoulders, hinting at nothing beneath because there was, frankly, nothing there to hint at. Both gowns boasted long trains that were supposed to sweep gracefully behind her, trains that would be pure hell to manage in a crowded room. She kicked at the trains a little, sourly. All very well if you are someone like my mother, with prestige and presence—or if you're a real beauty, like Katarina an Vines. People notice not only you, but whether or not you're dragging six ells of fabric behind you, and they take care not to step on it. I'll be lucky if someone doesn't half-disrobe me by treading on my train while I'm walking.
The sea-green silk of the undergown was plain, decorated only at the hems and cuffs with borders of plain gold, but the silk of the peacock-green overdress was patterned with iridescent emerald threads woven in a motif of moonbirds, the symbol of the House of Treves. If anything, this was worse on her slight body than plain silk would have been, since the pattern had been woven large, and there wasn't a whole moonbird visible in the dress until you got to the train. It was supposed to show that she was the pride of her House; instead, it looked rather as if someone had made her dress out of leftover drapery fabric.
Or else people are going to wonder if we've taken to displaying our symbol decapitated, detailed, or dewinged.
The darkness of the color made her pale skin appear even whiter than usual. She did look like a corpse. Thanks to her stiff expression, the cosmetics only made her look like a corpse that had been painted for the funeral.
Charming. Absolutely charming. But as long as I don "t try to smile, at least I won't look like a clown.
Her hair—no, she didn't want to think about her hair. It was a disaster, an artificial construction cemented over her head, a monument to vanity, an architect's worst nightmare. But from her point of view, it was worse to wear than it was to look at; the emerald and gold ornaments were so weighty that she feared she would have a headache long before the fete was over. An enormous emerald necklace lay heavily on her white throat, and looked far too much like a slave-collar for her own comfort; huge bracelets encircled her wrists under the oversleeves, rings weighed down her hands, and a belt that clasped tightly at her waist with a long end that hung down to the ground in front made her feel chained to one place.
I hope no one asks me to dance, I can't move in all of this.
Each of the emeralds was the size of her thumbnail at least, and the gold that anchored them was often in palm-sized plates. The jewels might have been suited to a particularly vain warrior or a very vivid (and strong!) concubine; they certainly were ill suited to her.
She sighed and turned away from the mirror. It didn't matter anyway. She didn't matter. She was nothing more than a display. The very best thing she could do tonight would be to stay seated somewhere where Lord Ardeyn (or any other would-be suitor) could admire her jewels, her gown, and the power they implied—power that any children she bore would be presumed to inherit. After all, Lorryn had inherited that power, hadn't he?
The maids waited for her to say something, either in praise or blame. She waved a heavy hand at them. "My father will probably be very pleased with you," she told them, unable to offer either on her own behalf. "Myre, please stay; the rest of you may go."
The maids curtsied, with relief evident on every face, and swiftly left the room, leaving only Rena's favorite slave, Myre, behind. The girl was not one of Lord Tylar's former concubines, one of the few who wasn't, and that alone would have endeared her to Rena. Myre had other virtues, however.
There was nothing particularly distinguishing about Myre; she was neither plain nor pretty, tall nor dwarfish, her hair and eyes were an ordinary enough brown. That was the outside, an exterior that Rena now knew was purely protective. That was because Myre was the only one of all her slaves who actually knew some of what was going on outside the walls of the estate, although she was very mysterious and elusive about her sources of information. What was the most important, though, was that she was willing to share that knowledge with her mistress. She had begun by calling that news "tales" and "stories," but that particular pretense had been dropped a long time ago.
With the rest of the maids gone, Rena dropped her illusion (thin as it was) of satisfaction, then chuckled as Myre made a grimace of distaste.
"I know," Rena said to the human. "I know. Dreadful, isn't it?"
"You make me think of a sacrificial virgin from one of the old religions," Myre replied, shaking her head, a sardonic smile on her lips. "Some poor little slip of a thing, all weighed down with the gifts to the gods so that she sinks properly when they push her into the gods' well—brr!"