Part 31 (2/2)
Her hair was not cut in the manner of the dark elves, who normally preferred tall hairstyles or thick braids. It fell onto her forehead in an ash-gray fringe, and was cropped short on the back of her head and the temples. She was dressed in the dark green costume of a scout, and hanging at her back, instead of a s'kash, she had two short, curved swords with jade handles like the one on Elodssa's sword. He himself had given her the pair of swords at a time when life had seemed simpler. How young they had been then!
”That depends on what you are doing here,” Elodssa replied as distantly as possible.
”What could a scout from the House of the Black Flame possibly be doing here but protecting the crown prince?” she asked with a crooked smile. The crown prince. Those cursed words had come between them two years earlier, shattering their happiness forever. ”The head of the house has ordered me to be your shadow.”
”That cannot be! My father would never have sent you.”
”Have I ever lied to you? Unlike you, I have no right to do so.” She, too, could not forget what had happened.
”I did not deceive you,” Elodssa blurted out. ”What happened between us was not a lie!”
”Of course not.” Another bitter smile. ”It was all the fault of your father and stupid prejudice.”
”I cannot contravene the law, and you know it! It is not my fault that we cannot be together. The son of the head of a house cannot commit his life to ...”
”Carry on, Elodssa,” she said in a gentle voice when the prince broke off. ”To whom? To one who brandishes swords? To one who wanders round Zagraba in search of units of orcs who have invaded the territory of our house? To one who teaches young elves to hold the s'kash or fire a bow? Or simply to one who has no n.o.ble blood flowing in her veins?”
”This conversation will come to nothing, like all those that have preceded it.”
”You are right,” Midla agreed sadly.
”You may go back to my father and tell him that all is well with me.”
”Do I look like a messenger?” There was a glint of poorly concealed fury in the yellow, almond-shaped eyes.
He knew that expression well. When they were still seeing each other, he had seen similar rage in her eyes a few times. But now, for the first time, it was directed at him.
”I have enough guards,” Elodssa snapped.
”Your guards are up there,” said Midla, jabbing one finger toward the ceiling. ”A league above us. Long before they could get down here, the heir of the House of the Black Flame would be lying dead and still.”
”Who is going to attack me here? The dwarves and the gnomes?”
”I am carrying out the orders of the head of the house,” she said with an indifferent shrug.
”And I order you to go back to Zagraba!” Elodssa declared furiously.
”You do not yet have your father's authority,” she said with a triumphant smile.
The elf gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, then turned and walked away, cursing Midla's obstinacy.
The young elfess watched Elodssa go, trying to hold back her tears. Her eyes were clouded with pain.
That week dragged on forever.
Elodssa changed his mind about going higher up. Midla would only follow him, and the elf did not want anyone talking about him behind his back. Everyone still remembered how close they had been and how Elodssa's father had forbidden the marriage. And so the heir of the House of the Black Flame spent most of the time sitting in the accommodation allocated to him by the dwarves, only occasionally strolling through the nearby halls, admiring the beauty and magnificence of these subterranean places. At such moments he was accompanied by the silent Midla. Somehow or other she always knew that he had left his room, and immediately appeared beside him.
They both behaved with emphatically cool politeness. And they both felt awkward. Every stroll concluded with Elodssa losing his temper, mostly with himself, and returning to his quarters alone. And so the elf was relieved when the deadline he had set for the dwarf craftsman finally arrived.
This time he was lucky and managed to get away without disturbing Midla, although her room was opposite his own. But that was most probably because the elf had deliberately not warned his dwarf guide that he was planning to visit Frahel: Elodssa suspected that Midla knew about his strolls from this little informer.
He found his way to the lift with no difficulty, and there he came across several gnomes in armor, holding battle-mattocks. The bearded little folk were arguing heatedly about something.
”Good day, respected sirs,” Elodssa greeted them.
”What's so good about it,” grumbled one of the gnomes. ”You've heard what's going on, I suppose?”
”Unfortunately not.”
”All the sentries at the hundred and fifteenth gate near Zagorie have been killed. Eight dwarves and the same number of gnomes have lost their lives.”
”Do you know who has done this?”
”No.” The gnomes' faces were all darker than a storm cloud. ”But there is a chance that the killers could have made their way into the kingdom.”
”Maybe that's so, of course, but what in the name of a soused turnip are we hanging about here for?” a mattock-man in heavy armor asked angrily. ”That's a hundred and fifteen leagues away from here. No mortal being who doesn't happen to be a gnome or a dwarf will ever get that far on his own! He'll lose his way in the galleries!”
”Never mind, we've been posted here, so this is where we'll stand,” the first gnome said calmly. ”Where do you want to go?”
The question was addressed to Elodssa.
”To see Master Frahel.”
”The fifty-second gallery, isn't it? Right, get onto the lift. Do you know the way?”
”Not very well.”
”Turn left at every second crossing and do that five times. Then straight on for six crossings and take the third corridor to the left. Will you find it?”
”Yes, thank you.”
”Hey!” the gnome shouted upward. ”Take the honorable gentleman to the fifty-second!”
”Right!” a voice called back down.
The lift shuddered and started downward.
Frahel heaved a sigh of relief and sat back in his chair. He had managed to do the impossible. This work was the finest thing he had ever created in all his long life.
The effort had completely absorbed the master craftsman, the challenge to his skill had required his absolute commitment-and now there was the key made out of the dragon's tear, lying on the black velvet. The slim, elegant object already contained immense power, and after the dark elves endowed it with their magic, it would become a truly mighty artifact.
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