Not Magic Enough and Setting Boundaries Boxed Set (The Coming Storm) (16 page)

That memory eased his belly only a little.

He knew he was young for the job, only in his early twenties. There were more than a few other wizards who wanted the position who were both older than he and more experienced. Avila for one, but her dislike of Elves was well known. Dorcet had wanted someone younger, more open-minded. Someone like him.

Then Jareth’s breath caught again.

There he was. Or rather, there they were. The Elves.

It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen them before, he’d been present at the signing of the Agreement with Dorcet but not this close.

Elon of Aerilann stood in the center of the Hall. The legendary Elon of Aerilann himself, First among Equals in his Enclave, Councilor and Advisor to the High King, with his paxman - or true-friend as Elves named it - Colath, at his side.

Standing in the middle of the room, the two Elves drew the eye even amidst the hustle and bustle of High King’s Court.

Looking at them, you couldn’t mistake them for anything other than Elf - and it wasn’t just the ears.

They were tall, taller than most men, one dark, one light; Colath a bright shadow to Elon’s dark, their hair falling as straight as rain. Both were incredibly well built, the muscles in their chests and arms sharply defined even beneath clothing, the fluid Elven-silk draping over them. There was also that ineffable Elven calm and confidence that so many of Jareth’s own race saw as arrogance - a serenity that men saw as aloofness, an impassivity his people declared cold.

It was clear what they were to each other in the way they stood, Colath a little beside and behind, ready to defend Elon’s back even where there was no need. This was something else men envied, that closeness that didn’t need words.

As much as he tried it was an effort not to stare at them and not just because they were Elves - you could see Elves riding openly anywhere throughout the Kingdoms more and more of late these days - but simply because among a race that defined masculine beauty Colath embodied it.

In truth, no Elf was homely. As a race they were a beautiful people, perhaps as much for the calm confidence that radiated from all of them…but Colath was above and beyond even that.

Hair the color of ripe wheat streamed over broad shoulders to be caught back Elven style in narrow beaded braids at each side of his strong but finely featured face. Those features were sculpted, each line clean, his silvery eyes long-lashed and beautifully shaped; they mirrored the color of his clothing. Broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, he had the body of the master swordsman he was said to be, firmly muscled in the chest, arms and back, lean in the abdomen and hips. He held himself with cool confidence, his arms crossed as he stared expressionlessly out the windows.

Even in the face of Colath’s beauty, though, Elon of Aerilann caught, drew and held the eye, just by the strength of his personality.

As dark as Colath was light, his features stern, as impassive as all Elves, Elon of Aerilann dominated the room by the sheer force and strength of his character, by his air of calm sure confidence. In a room also occupied by Daran High King, a formidable personality himself, that said something.

Here then was the Elf who’d gone toe to toe with Daran, wresting concessions from that stubborn, scheming and shrewd King that were still being debated in halls and taverns throughout the Kingdom and would be for years to come.

Including the concession Jareth was about to embark on with him.

If they accepted him.

The Accords - the Agreement that had been forged between men, Elves and Dwarves -wouldn’t have been possible without the diplomacy and eloquence of Elon of Aerilann. For all it had been Daran High King’s idea - his vision and dream - Elon of Aerilann had shared that vision...that dream. Even so he wouldn’t sacrifice one inch, one iota, of protection for the elder races - not if it meant his people and the Dwarves would suffer.

As tall as Colath, inches above Jareth himself - and Jareth was tall for a man - and the hawk-like Daran High King, Elon of Aerilann was an impressive figure physically as well.

He was simply striking, if only for the sternness of his features.

More than most Elves, there was about Elon of Aerilann a supremely calm confidence that many men envied and called arrogance but wasn’t. His dark hair was swept back from his high forehead and held in place by Elven style braids and a narrow band of gold. His features were as expressionless as Colath’s or any Elf’s, but strong, more defined, those dark eyebrows arching high above eyes so deep a brown in color as to appear nearly black.

In contrast, Daran High King - similar in build and coloring - seemed less imposing. In other company, with his high-arched, aquiline nose, sharp eyes, thin mouth and sharp personality, he was a very impressive man in his own right.

As with Colath, Elon was strongly built as befitted the master swordsman he was. Master even above Colath, for it was said Elon had trained Colath. No other swordsman, Elf or man, could match him, save perhaps the legendary Elf and wizard Talesin. Certainly no man could best even the least Elf with either a sword or a bow, much less these two. Even the least of their race had learned the skill out of necessity and then honed it to a razor edge in order to defend themselves against first the creatures of the borderlands and then the more numerous, and vicious, race of men.

Jareth’s own people.

Fewer in numbers, the Elves and the Dwarves had found themselves increasingly at odds with the younger race.

Until now. Finally, there was the promise of a lasting peace.

Despite that promise both Elves wore their swords, long and short, even in the High King’s castle where no other could, in recognition of those days…and the fact that they weren’t truly over.

Not yet. One last task remained.

The Agreement was too new a thing and still disputed in some parts of the Kingdoms. Hence their mission.

The High King’s chancellor announced him.

Turning, Daran High King looked toward the newcomer. His jaw tightened as he looked at the young wizard who hurried into the room.

Jareth.

He said nothing, instead taking a deep restraining breath.

He could wish Dorcet had sent a more prepossessing wizard.

Oh, there was no doubt as to Jareth’s talent - he was rumored to be Dorcet’s own choice as the next Master once Jareth had the years and practice to supplement his skill in magic. Unfortunately, he was also as homely a man as they came - his features as rumpled and plain as his clothes. As always, the young wizard appeared slightly disheveled. His robes were as wrinkled as if he’d slept in them, his hair with its unruly cowlick mussed and windblown. With his towering height, a height to match Daran himself, the wizard was both ungainly and unmistakable. Worse, rumor had it he’d been an orphaned street urchin, spawned of some harlot and plucked off the streets of Doncerric.

That explained much.

Yet folk seemed uniformly and inordinately fond of the young wizard.

At the Chancellor’s announcement, Elon, too, turned to see who had arrived and his spirit lightened as he spotted the tall young man in wizard’s robes.

He’d feared who they might have chosen to be paired with them. His people had little reason to trust wizards, to say the least. Human wizards had done his people a great deal of harm in the past, in ways that left bitter memories and lasting scars.

Elon bore more than a few of both.

Looking now at the gangly young wizard with his open, curious face and mop of brownish hair, Elon allowed himself a breath of hope. Perhaps this wouldn’t be too much a trial after all.

There was a comfortable air to this one, an ease about him; a sense of being at home in his own skin as few men were.

Elon hadn’t failed to note the young wizard’s reaction to Colath but to his credit he hid it quickly and now showed no evidence of it beyond that first flicker of the eye. That spoke well of him.

Nor did he display the overweening deference or, even worse, the carefully concealed intimidation and accompanying resentment some men displayed toward Elon himself. He didn’t let his relief show any more than he would have allowed himself to show any other emotion in the face of these who had once been the enemy but were no longer.

Or so he hoped.

His voice carefully uninflected, Daran High King said, “Elon of Aerilann, Colath, be known to Jareth, wizard of Doncerric.”

It would have horrified and infuriated Daran to know just how clearly Elon and Colath could see his dismay - who didn’t and wouldn’t care about it or the reason for it - and to Jareth.

Jareth was so accustomed to it he scarcely noticed the sting.

As a boy he’d taken comfort in the Elven view of things. They simply neither noticed nor cared to notice a person’s appearance; to them what mattered was what a person did, not how they were born or how they looked. He’d taken that philosophy to heart.

He still did.

It was to Jareth’s credit, too, Elon noted with satisfaction, that the young wizard didn’t offer his hand or arm to clasp as men often did, determined to force their custom on Elves even knowing they didn’t like it.

Warm brown eyes met Elon’s evenly, giving a quick glance of acknowledgement to Colath before the young wizard grinned with anticipatory delight.

Knowing that Elves and Dwarves were empathic, the thought of shaking hands or clasping arms never crossed Jareth’s mind. Empathy increased with touch, although his own talent there was slight. Neither Elves nor Dwarves touched in public. In private? No one knew. No man had ever crossed the borders into those lands, either Elven Enclave or Dwarven Cavern, not even Daran High King himself. Not that anyone knew.

“Ala, Elon of Aerilann,” Jareth said in Elven, with a nod. “And to you as well, Colath.”

To be greeted in Elon’s own tongue was a surprise.

Heartened, Elon nodded in return. This boded very well indeed. Few men bothered to learn even that much of the Elven language. Not even Daran.

“Ala, Jareth,” he said, quietly pleased.

Colath looked to Elon, before lifting an eyebrow and looking back at the young wizard who had greeted them in their own language. He inclined his head in greeting and relaxed a fraction.

“Ala, Jareth of Doncerric,” he said.

It was in the eyes, Jareth thought, looking at him.

Their impassive expressions gave little away, but Elon of Aerilann’s dark eyes had kindled, sparked with interest. Had Jareth been elsewhere and in different company he might have whooped and jumped around in triumph but as it was he simply inclined his head in response.

As he watched the exchange, it was clear Daran didn’t like this turn of events one little bit, but he said nothing.

“Are we ready then to begin?” Elon asked, looking to the High King.

He was eager to be off. There was no love lost between himself and the High King of Men - which was of no matter to him. They could and would work together. That was enough.

Whatever else, Daran wanted to be remembered by his own people, but especially among the elder races, as the man who had wrought this peace.

Elon had learned quickly that he couldn’t trust the conniving Daran; the man loved his own plots and schemes far too well. He’d been burnt once and that had been enough. Daran sought his place in history by way of the Agreement. It was to be his legacy, nothing more. How that peace would be gotten - by what means - didn’t matter to him so long as it was gotten and his place in history assured. His reasons didn’t matter to Elon, so long as there was peace for his people.

In spite of that, Elon felt a lifting of spirit - a sense of hope he couldn’t deny. This would be the last piece of an intricate puzzle.

For the first time in memory - and his long-lived people had longer memories than men - there was a chance at a real and lasting peace. For that Elon was willing to tolerate almost anything. If they succeeded in their mission, those boundaries that men recognized would be marked. All the lesser Kings had signed that Agreement and agreed therefore to abide by it.

No more would there be war between Elves, Dwarves and men over land. Never again would a King or Queen of men push beyond their boundaries and cry foul to their people when Elves or Dwarves rose up in defense. Never again would other regents rise up in battle when their brothers sought common cause against the Elder races. For those who took up arms, there would be others who could and would stand aside, rightfully, legally. They would point at that document and ask if those who called for war would be forsworn.