Well of Darkness

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by Margaret Weis


  The choice of audience chambers the Shield used was dependent on several factors: time of day, importance of the meeting, and, above all, the honor that the Shield wished to accord to a visitor. The lowest of these was the fish pond, which was used in the morning for routine business of the House. The most elevated of these was the cedar grove.

  Simple, elegant, impressive. Those were the impressions Silwyth received when he entered the grove. Cedar trees five deep formed a circle around a patio of polished white rock, upon which was placed a semicircle of ornately carved wooden chairs, painted and heavily lacquered both for beauty and to withstand exposure to the elements. The cedar trees had been cut and trained over the centuries to grow to the same height, their lower limbs trimmed so that all presented the same expanse of trunk. The limbs and leaves formed a broad ribbon of green above, the trunks and the shadows formed a ribbon of brown below.

  Silwyth stood in the shade of the outermost rank of cedar trees, waiting the Shield’s pleasure. Silwyth did not wait long. No sooner had the manservant announced Silwyth’s arrival than the Shield himself rose and walked through the cedars to welcome his guest—a very great honor.

  Silwyth bowed, one hand pressed over his heart, in homage to the Shield.

  The Shield returned the gesture with a bow studied in its minuscule degree of inclination, which indicated a polite acknowledgment of Silwyth’s rank and standing with perhaps just a bit something extra.

  “The servant tells me that our Honored Ancestor, the Lady Amwath, has done you great honor, Lesser Guardian.”

  “Unworthy as I am, Shield of the Divine,” Silwyth said humbly, “the Lady Amwath, your honored mother, did acknowledge me and seemed pleased to receive my heartfelt reverence.”

  “My honored mother always did have an eye for a good-looking young man,” said the Shield with a chuckle.

  Silwyth was considerably shocked by what might be considered the son’s disrespectful attitude, but then he recalled having heard that the Lady Amwath, who had been widowed at an early age, had been known for her independence, her keen grasp of politics, her vaunting ambition, and her lusty enjoyment of life. Her skill and maneuvering had brought about her son’s rise to the exalted post of Shield the Divine, which meant he was the second most powerful man in the elven realm. The fact that the Shield was determined to be the first most powerful was an open secret.

  Not knowing what reply to make to such a statement, Silwyth bowed again, thus saving himself from having to speak. One other man sat in the chairs of the cedar grove—Lord Mabreton, husband to the Lady Valura.

  The Shield escorted Silwyth into the grove. Lord Mabreton rose to his feet. The Lesser Guardian bowed to the Guardian, who returned the bow with respect. Silwyth had never met Lord Mabreton, who was not Silwyth’s liege lord, but came from a different part of the realm. Silwyth’s lord, the guardian to whom Silwyth owed allegiance, was Lord Dunath. Lord Dunath was getting on in years, however, being almost two hundred and seventy-five. A frail old man, his body nothing more than sticks of bone covered by taut, smooth skin, he spent nearly all of his time with his brush and his ink, composing long poems about the glorious days of his youth.

  Silwyth regarded Lord Mabreton with a curiosity enhanced by having just recently met the lord’s beautiful wife. Most elven marriages are marriages of convenience, arranged before the children are even born. In many instances, the married couple actually come to love each other. Silwyth guessed immediately that this was not the case with Lord and Lady Mabreton.

  The lord was older than the lady by a good one hundred years; this must be his second or maybe even third marriage. He was tall and powerfully built, with cold, dull eyes and the sort of mouth that never laughed unless it laughed at the misfortune of another. Thick-bodied, thickheaded, as the saying went; just the sort to be insanely jealous of a wife whose beauty he undoubtedly prized only as a trophy. Silwyth immediately disliked the man.

  The Shield invited the gentlemen to be seated. He placed Lord Mabreton on his right hand and Silwyth on his left, in a chair that was one removed from the Shield. Leaving the chair vacant was a mark of respect to the absent Lord Dunath.

  The servants brought jugs of white wine that had been cooling in bowls of snow, carried down from the mountain peak. Plates of other delicacies were passed, fruit and breads and sugared wafers, all quite delicious. The servants placed the food and wine on a table, which they had carried in for the purpose, then—as was customary—they left. Silwyth, as the youngest and the lowest ranked, poured the wine for his elders and his betters.

  No business is discussed with the wine. Only certain topics are permissible. These include the praising of the house and grounds of the host, the praising of the family of the host, who in return praises the families of his guests. The praises take the form of storytelling. Elves are passionately fond of stories, particularly stories dealing with the glories of their ancestors, and they relate these with relish at any given opportunity. The goal of every elf living is to do something so brave, so honorable, so renowned that the story will be one his descendants can relate with pride.

  Lord Mabreton began by telling the well-known story about Lady Amwath’s courage in battling the assassins who had just murdered her husband. Silwyth, who had studied up on stories about the Shield’s family prior to coming, on the off chance that he might actually be asked to relate one, had originally selected this story, then rejected it, as being the one best known and therefore most likely to be related.

  Silwyth was glad he had chosen another story and was rehearsing it in his mind, when the half of his brain that was listening to Lord Mabreton realized that the man was making a dreadful mistake.

  Thinking to flatter the Shield, who had been in his mother’s womb at the time of the attack, Lord Mabreton hinted that it was the Shield himself who lent his mother the courage to kill the two assassins. A weak woman, he concluded, could have never been so courageous on her own.

  The Shield received the praise-story with due courtesy, replied with a story designed to honor Lord Mabreton. Silwyth alone had seen the angry tapping of the Shield’s sandaled foot beneath the embroidered hem of his robe. The Shield was quite proud of his mother. Silwyth guessed that Lord Mabreton’s consequence had fallen.

  How far? Silwyth wondered. And what will this do for me?

  Silwyth’s turn to tell his story came. He had been diligent in his research and recited a story he had heard from his own ancestral advisor—his long-dead grandfather. A rather ill-tempered ghost, Silwyth’s grandfather was not one to hang about playing mah-jongg. He was jealous of the living and was constantly meddling in their affairs, bringing proclamations from the gods on an average of three times daily. The Father and Mother, it seemed, took a great interest in petty household concerns, for that was about all the ancestral advisor ever seemed to discuss. He was a keen supporter of the Shield and his house, however, and had agreed to provide Silwyth with a praise-story after only a modicum of bitter complaining that no one ever listened to him.

  The Shield was pleased, though no one but Silwyth could have told. Certainly not the obtuse Lord Mabreton, who paid no attention to Silwyth’s recitation, but slumped in his chair, half-asleep from the wine, impatient to end the ceremonial part of the meeting and get on to business. The Shield’s foot did not tap once, however. His keen eyes, fixed on Silwyth, did not waver.

  “I had not heard that story before, Lesser Guardian,” said the Shield when Silwyth was finished. “I thank you for telling it. I trust you will tell it again many times in my hearing.”

  Silwyth realized the implications of such a statement and thrilled to hear it; perhaps he was to be made a part of the Shield’s own personal retinue. Lord Mabreton stifled a yawn.

  The servants returned after the lapse of the time prescribed for the drinking of the wine to clear away the jug, the bowl of snow, the empty food trays. Now it was time for business. Lord Mabreton came fully alert. The Shield beckoned to his personal assistant,
who had arrived with the departure of the wine. The assistant came forward, handed the Shield two scrolls, one tied with a dark green ribbon, the other tied with a paler green ribbon. The dark green went to Lord Mabreton, the Guardian; the paler went to Silwyth, the Lesser Guardian.

  Both men unrolled their scrolls and read the orders, which came from the Divine’s own brush. The orders were expressed in the form of elaborate poems, whose intent lay couched somewhere in the flowery phrasing. Silwyth affected to read the document with polite attention. The real orders would come from the mouth of the Shield.

  Perusal concluded, Silwyth looked up. The Shield was staring out into the cedars, a line of concentrated thought deepening upon his brow. The Shield was one hundred and fifty, the prime of life for an elf. He was known to be a fierce and courageous warrior, intensely ambitious, fond of the power he held and determined to keep it. Rumors had been circulating for a year that the Divine was jealous of the Shield’s power, which—because the Shield controlled a mighty army—was greater than the Divine’s own power. The Divine was doing all he could to build up alliances among the other houses, perhaps even plotting to overthrow the current Shield and set up one upon whose loyalty he could depend.

  The Shield turned his thoughtful gaze to Silwyth, who met and held it. There was a time for humility and a time to reveal one’s inner strength. The Shield seemed pleased with what he saw, for he nodded once, slightly.

  “Lord Mabreton,” said the Shield, turning away, “you are hereby ordered by the Divine, Master of Us All”—this said with a slight curl of the lip—“to travel to the human royal city of Vinnengael, there to take your post as ambassador.”

  Lord Mabreton expressed his joy and gratification and willingness to obey an order that obviously came as no surprise to him, since he and his wife and their retinue were already well on their journey.

  The Shield turned to Silwyth. “You, Lesser Guardian, Silwyth of House Kinnoth, will accompany Lord Mabreton. You are very fortunate, young sir. Your request to study in the Great Library of King Tamaros has been granted.”

  So that was what that meandering poem was about. Silwyth had been unable to fathom it, especially as he had made no such request. He expressed his heartfelt gratitude to the Shield and to Lord Mabreton for permitting him to travel in such exalted company.

  By the scowl on the lord’s face, this was the first Lord Mabreton had heard he and his wife were to have a traveling companion, a young and handsome traveling companion. He dared not argue with the Shield, but he thought enough of himself not to bother to conceal his displeasure—another mistake. Business concluded, the Shield rose in the gesture of dismissal.

  Lord Mabreton and Silwyth made their farewells, gave their thanks for the honor done to them in being admitted into the presence of one so mighty. The Shield added his own compliments. Turning to Silwyth, the Shield very slightly lowered his eyelids, lifted one eyebrow.

  Silwyth and Lord Mabreton backed their way across the white rock and into the cedars, where—having taken the requisite number of steps—they could turn without their backsides giving offense.

  “I suppose we will have to delay our departure, so that you, sir, can return to your house and pack,” were the first ungracious words out of Lord Mabreton’s mouth, as they followed one of the servants through the gardens.

  Silwyth was angered; the tone might have been used to a peasant, not another lord. He knew better than to reveal his anger. Lord Mabreton might be trying to goad him into an argument in the hopes of persuading the Shield to change his orders.

  “I am accustomed to traveling lightly. I have with me what I need for the journey. I will cause you no delay, my lord,” Silwyth replied and, taking a misstep on a loose piece of flagstone, he lost his footing and fell to the ground.

  Embarrassed, Silwyth staggered hastily to his feet. He made a gallant attempt to continue on, but found he had injured his ankle and could not place his weight upon it. Biting his lip against the pain, he sat down upon a stone bench.

  “Well, what have you done to yourself?” Lord Mabreton demanded, stopping, glaring.

  “Only a turned ankle, my lord,” said Silwyth. “Please, continue on your way. I will remain here a few moments to allow the pain to subside.”

  “I’ve seen men make less fuss about an arrow in the gut,” Lord Mabreton sneered. “Now we shall have to haul about a cripple. I take my leave of you, sir. I trust you will not meet with any further mishaps!”

  He marched off, muttering to himself and trampling the flowers.

  Silwyth remained behind, seated upon the bench. The servants, solicitous and concerned, brought him steaming water with oil of eucalyptus to bathe his injured ankle and cloths to bind it. This he did, most solemnly, sitting upon the bench and waiting. He would stay there for an hour, until darkness fell. If he had misread the signal, no harm would be done.

  Silwyth had only just bound up his ankle when the Shield appeared.

  “I hear you slipped on a loose flagstone, my lord,” said the Shield. “I am sorry to have been the cause of your injury. The flagstone will be repaired immediately, the caretaker suitably punished.”

  “He should not be punished on my account, my lord,” Silwyth protested humbly. “The flagstone was not loose. It was my fault. I was not watching where I was going.”

  The Shield sat down upon the bench beside Silwyth, who was glad of the dusk, for he felt that he could not properly contain his elation.

  “Well, it was a lucky accident,” said the Shield, with the slightest hint of a chuckle in his voice. “I was wanting to have a chance to speak to you privately. I have been making inquiries about you, Lesser Guardian. People say you are a man of intelligence.”

  Silwyth made a seated bow.

  “I can see for myself that you are a man of penetration, discretion, and quick wit,” the Shield added dryly. “It has also been reported that you get along well with humans.”

  He gazed at Silwyth speculatively, inviting elaboration.

  “One of the family’s holdings lies on the border of Tromek and Vinnengael, my lord. A human village is located not far from our dwelling place. There is some interaction between the humans and the elves who live in the vicinity; some of the humans have worked for my family. Laborers, of course; they are not permitted to enter the house.”

  The Shield nodded in understanding. Such a lumbering, chaotic force would disturb the carefully modulated tranquillity of an elven household for a month.

  “The truth is, my lord…” Silwyth paused, hesitant to make his startling confession, a confession that might either promote him in the eyes of his mighty lord or damn him utterly.

  “Speak freely, Lesser Guardian.” The Shield encouraged him. “By the way, I am sorry I forgot. Does your ankle pain you?” The Shield’s voice had a sly edge.

  “Not much, my lord,” said Silwyth, able to smile now that the darkness concealed his features. “Since you ask me to speak freely, my lord, I must tell you that I have come to enjoy being around humans. Certainly they have many faults: they are uncouth, they smell bad, they are insensitive to the ways of nature, they laugh too much and too loudly. But I find that I admire their energy. Being around them stirs my mind, sets it to thinking and creating. Too often, I feel like this fish pond, my lord. My thoughts placid and unmoving, stir only at the very bottom, rise up only at feeding time. The humans are a raging river, into which I plunge and feel the exhilaration of being tossed and tumbled, swept along on the rushing current.”

  Silwyth halted, alarmed at himself. He had been carried away by his enthusiasm. The Shield would not want to hear of the inner feelings of a Lesser Guardian. Silwyth lowered his head and, clasping his hands in his lap, awaited the just rebuke.

  “Yes,” said the Shield. “I was right. You are the man for the job.”

  “My lord?” Silwyth looked up, pleased and delighted.

  “How much do you know of the current political situation?” the Shield asked, casting the Lesse
r Guardian an intense, penetrating glance that cut through the night’s shadows. “Of the problems arising between the Divine and me?”

  “I know that you are loyal to the Divine, Your Honor, and that the Divine trusts you as his Shield,” said Silwyth.

  “I see you are a diplomat as well,” the Shield said wryly. “Suffice it to say, Lesser Guardian, that it is my considered opinion that the Divine seeks to increase his power by seizing some of mine. Instead of being content to issue edicts and pass judgments on land disputes and marriage contracts, he defies tradition by wanting to become involved in the collecting of taxes and, what is far worse, the waging of war.

  “To this end”—the Shield laid his hand upon Silwyth’s forearm, a mark of great distinction, which caused Silwyth’s frame to tremble with the honor—“to this end, the Divine has sent to me, stating that it is his considered opinion that his soldiers will be assigned to guard the Portal entrance. The soldiers of our house, House Kinnoth, those who currently guard the Portal entrance, those who have guarded it since the inception of the Portal, are to be reassigned.”

  Silwyth was shocked. He found it hard to believe that the Divine had actually had the temerity to make such a demand of the Shield. It was a grave affront, an insult. Silwyth wondered that they were not already at war.

  “The Divine rescinded the order, soon after he made it.” The Shield answered Silwyth’s unspoken thought. “He realized he had gone too far. But he has not given up the idea. This Lord Mabreton, whom you met here tonight, is one of the hands of the Divine.

  “You,” said the Shield, tightening his grip on Silwyth’s forearm, “will be my hand.”

 

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