Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [5]
“I should have known better than to do a favor for a miserable elf,” he announced.
“Otho, you have our humble apologies.” Jill caught his hand and squeezed. “And I’m ever so glad you didn’t get badly burned.”
“You’re glad? Hah! Well, come along, lad. Try it out.”
When Rhodry took the dagger, the blade stayed ordinary metal without the trace of a glow. He was smiling as he sheathed it.
“My thanks, good smith, a thousand times over. Truly, I wish I could reward you more for the risk you ran.”
“So do I. That’s the way of your folk, though; all fine words and no hard coin.”
“Otho, please,” Jill said. “He doesn’t even have much elven blood.”
“Hah! That’s what I say to that, young Jill. Hah!”
All day the People rode into the meeting place for the alardan. To a grassy meadow so far west of Eldidd that only one human being had ever seen it, they came in small groups, driving their herds of horses and flocks of sheep before them. After they pastured the animals, they set up leather tents, painted in bright colors with pictures of animals and flowers. Children and dogs raced through the camp, cooking fires blossomed; the smell of a feast grew in the air. By sunset well over a hundred tents stood round the meeting place. As the last fire took light and blazed, a woman began to sing the long wailing tale of Donabel and his lost love, Adario. A harper joined in, then a drummer, and finally someone brought out a conaber, three joined reedy pipes for a drone.
Devaberiel Silverhand, generally considered the best bard in this part of the elven lands, considered unpacking his harp and joining the musicians, but he was quite simply too hungry. He got a wooden bowl and spoon from his tent, then wandered through the feast. Each riding group, or alar, to give them their Elvish name, had made a huge quantity of one particular dish. Everyone strolled around, eating a bit here and there of whatever appealed to them while the music, talk, and laughter drifted through the camp. Devaberiel was searching for Manaverr, whose alar traditionally roasted a whole lamb in a pit.
Finally he found his friend near the edge of the camp. A couple of young men were just digging up the lamb, while others piled green leaves into a clean bed to receive it. Manaverr left off directing the operation and hurried over to greet the bard. His hair was so pale that it was almost white, and his cat-slit eyes gleamed a deep purple. They each put their left hand on the other’s right shoulder in greeting.
“It’s a big gathering,” Manaverr said.
“They all knew you’d be here to do the lamb.”
Manaverr laughed with a toss of his head. A small green sprite popped into manifestation and perched on his shoulder. When he reached up to pat her, she grinned, revealing a mouthful of pointed teeth.
“Have you seen Calonderiel yet?” Manaverr said.
“The warleader? No. Why?”
“He’s been asking every bard here about some obscure point of somebody’s genealogy. He’ll probably work his way round to you sooner or later.”
The sprite suddenly pulled his hair, then vanished before he could swat her. The alardan was filled with Wild-folk, rushing around as excitedly as the children. Sprite, gnome, sylph, and salamander, they were the spirits of the elements, who at times took on a solid appearance, even though their home lay elsewhere in the many-layered universe. Devaberiel was not quite sure where; only dweomer-folk knew such things.
With one last heave the men got up the lamb, wrapped in charred coarse cloth, and flopped it onto the leaves. The smell of the roast meat, heavily spiced and baked with fruit, was so inviting that Devaberiel moved closer without even being aware that he was doing so, but he had to wait for his portion. Calonderiel, who was Manaverr’s cousin and