The Elvenbane - Andre Norton

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he wouldn’t kill anyone, it was against law and custom, but he could certainly work a lot of sabotage magically. And his duelists were better than anyone else’s. And then there was the number of nasty little secrets he had collected about the rest of them.

      She reflected on all the things she had learned about Lord Dyran over the years; little tidbits stored away against a later time. It took a lot of concentration; draconic memory was excellent, but dredging up information relegated to long-term storage required a near-trance state, and a great deal of patience.

      There was no doubt that he was sybaritic and self-indulgent; one had only to look at his estate through Serina’s eyes to know that. No expense was spared for his comfort and pleasure. But most of the elven lords were like that, if they could afford to be. And as soon as one of the elvenkind rose to any amount of power or acquired wealth, he immediately set about making himself as cozy a little nest as he could manage. The luxury trade was a profitable one for many elves, and no few Clans had built fortunes that way; silken fabrics, jewels, perfumes, delicate foods and rare spices and incense, all things found, grown, excavated or created by the hands of their slaves. Very few elves could create things out of the thin air, as could Dyran, when he chose to expend the considerable energy this required. The most they could manage were illusions; most convincing illusions, but still, illusions. Though that in itself was another profitable trade; there were elven illusion-artists, and their services were in high demand.

      But on the whole, especially for the higher elven lords, reality was always preferable to an illusion. Elves were acquisitive by nature, and hungry for new sensations, and things of beauty. And for those elves who were the laborers themselves, the apparent idleness of the High Lords kept them in a continual state of envy. The height of ambition for many elven lords, especially the pensioners or underlings, was to be in a position to be able to do nothing unless it were pleasurable.

      Since Dyran was one of the elders, he had spent two or three centuries doing just that. Which was probably why Serina had been such an attractive piece of property; she had been able to surprise him, which made her very valuable to a being as jaded as Dyran had become over the decades.

      Now that he had acquired the leisure to be idle, and had exhausted the possibilities of sloth, he sought other pleasures. His chief amusement, recreated in miniature in his harem, was to manipulate the lives of those around him by exploiting their weaknesses and emotions. Hence the way in which he encouraged rivalry, even feuding, among his concubines and underlings.

      Like what he did to that overseer of his … Alara stirred uncomfortably at the memory, and realized that in her preoccupation with her own memories, she had transformed back to her draconic form entirely. If there had been anyone here to actually see her, a lapse like that could have had terrible consequences.

      Well, the only one here was Serina; the woman was unconscious, and it probably didn’t matter.

      What Dyran had done was so calculatedly cruel, it was beyond horrible; destroying the man by giving his only child to an unfeeling monster, then ordering him to exhaust himself to rectify what could well have been his enemy’s fault. It was typical of the way Dyran operated. If he didn’t have a way to control the lives of those around him, he would make a way.

      Dyran went to great lengths to gain information on his rivals, his peers, and his underlings. More than once, when in elven form on missions of her own, Alara had discovered herself being questioned by those who later proved to be his agents. Persistent and patient, he was not content unless he had hold over anyone he came into contact with.

      And there was something Serina had only guessed at, when she had seen him in defeat: he was absolutely ruthless when thwarted. Obsessive, even. And his obsession with defeat could well have begun with the incident with Lady Alinor. While Alara could not be certain, she suspected it might have been the first time in a very long time that he had met with real opposition. And at his age – that could do some odd things to the elven mind.

      Serina had been lucky he had been in a good mood when he came home, and assuredly she knew it. If he’d been defeated, or even blocked in Council, he’d have blasted her on the spot. If he’d even come home annoyed, he’d have held her paralyzed until his guards found her, then he’d have made her execution as long and painful as possible, and probably part of a public entertainment.

      Instead, he was quite pleased with himself, and chose to amuse himself before sending anyone after her. And her own little spies told her that her rival had given away the secret of her pregnancy and that the guards would be coming at dawn.

      Alara would have been willing to lay a bet that Dyran had guards watching the edge of the desert, to make sure Serina died out here. He couldn’t let her live – but she surprised him again, and if he was still in a good mood, he’d be willing to let her die a ‘natural’ death.

      A moan caught Alara’s attention, and she realized that during her preoccupation with her own thoughts, Serina had slipped from sleep into hallucination, and the strain of her journey had finally brought on labor. She lay helplessly on her side, twitching, and moaning, as the muscles of her stomach tightened.

      There was no way she was going to survive childbirth.

      Once again, Alara was tempted to simply fly off. There was no reason to become involved with this human. There was every reason not to become involved. She was going to die; there was no way that she would survive the ordeal she had just been through and childbirth as well. And Alara was appalled by her attitude towards her fellows.

      The logical thing to do would be to abandon her to her fate. And yet –

      Telling herself that she was a fool, Alara insinuated herself into the woman’s mind, to weave a fantasy composed of hallucination, old memories, and wish-fulfillment …

      Serina tried to relax into the soft cushions holding her up, bit her lip until it bled as the pain came and went, and smiled at Lord Dyran, who patted her hand fondly. ‘That’s a good child,’ he said, with a warmth she had only seen him display with a favorite hound or horse about to give birth. She smiled thinly, attempting to give him the impression that this was nothing worse than a minor indisposition. Dyran hated a fuss, and hated even more being subjected to hysterics. ‘It will all be over shortly, and I will be truly thankful to have you back at my side.’

      Her ex-rival Leyda, relegated to scrubbing the floors of the birthing room until they gleamed, scowled, but dared say nothing. When Dyran had tracked her through the desert, he had stayed his hand long enough to hear her side. Although he had not punished Leyda physically, what he had done was far worse. He had given the former concubine to Serina as a personal drudge.

      What happened to that baby? she wondered for a moment. But it didn’t really matter. Dyran had probably rid her of it, then erased the memory from her mind. He could do things like that, if he chose.

      ‘You and that fine young stud will present me with a sturdy lad, I’ve no doubt of it,’ the Lord continued, as another pain came and went, and sweat poured down her forehead. She smiled through clenched teeth and nodded. ‘Just what I’ve been needing for my son’s own personal guard. If you do well, perhaps I shall ask you to present me with another, hmm?’

      ‘Aye – my Lord –’ she managed to gasp, although at the moment she would far rather he asked her to scrub floors as Leyda did! It was a pity he didn’t see fit to erase this from her mind.

      ‘That’s a good girl.’ He patted her hand once again, and left the white-tiled birthing room. He also hated a mess. For the moment, the only thing untidy about Serina was the sweat beading on her forehead; the rest of her was swathed in concealing masses of silk. But as soon as he passed the threshold, that all changed, as the nurses and midwives descended on her.

      She hadn’t minded at all when Lord Dyran had requested – not ordered, but requested, her to breed him a special guardsman. He’d wanted something very particular, a child of the finest lines

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