11

How did you measure a negative space? Test the boundaries of all that was no longer there? A critical question for Lerendar Tarandahl, who'd gone upstairs to deliver his grandfather's orders and then… found himself headed back home again, with no recollection of speaking to Mum. Just a lingering sense of unease.

Most of this worry he kept to himself. Family politics could get pretty sticky, and there was nothing Beatriz could do about it, in any case. So, he just kept his mouth shut. Smiled his way through mid-meal; allowing Zara to sit on his lap and construct very odd sandwiches for him, while Bea talked garden and shop. Her potions were selling well down in Starshire (a source of contention with Mum, for whom nobles did not stoop to "trade").

"Lavender Evening is everyone's favorite," said Bea, slyly removing a mustard and honey sandwich from Lerendar's plate. "But I've been working on one that I'm going to call 'Gentle Mint'... like Gentleman, right? Would you try it out for me, Ren?"

"Your potions don't fade, and I don't like smelling like a fruit cup," Lerendar objected.

"This one is strong, but subtle," Bee promised, stroking his arm. "You could just brush some on and see if anyone notices."

Lerendar snorted, manfully chewing the cress, pickle and syrup treat that Zara had shoved at him.

"Oh, they'll notice, all right," he said. "I just don't want that kind of attention. Tell you what… bottle some up and I'll splash it on Val. His wife's a captive audience, and he ought to be finishing up the girls' magic lesson soon."

"I wanna learn magic!" Zara demanded, tugging hard at her father's tunic. "Papa, I wanna learn magic, too, like Miri and Pretty!"

"Next year, Scamp," he promised, hugging his petulant daughter. "Learn your runes, and then you can move on to actual spells. Teach some to me, even."

He got up to leave, then, waiting while Bee darted off to fetch her latest creation.

"This is it," she exclaimed, racing back into the formal dining room; bright-eyed and smiling. "Mind you don't drench him, Renny. Too much, and he'll end up fighting off horses and goats, as well."

Uh-huh.

"Better him than me… and I'll stand by with a club," laughed the elf-lord, gingerly accepting the green glass bottle, then kissing his beautiful consort. "I'll be back tonight. Diplomacy calls. Stay inside, both of you. Just… a feeling I have. Promise you'll stay inside."

"Promise," she assured him, doing that kiss-embrace-shimmy and run-her-fingertips-up-the-back-of-his-neck thing. Bee had her own kind of magic that never failed to get results.

Wasn't until he was outside the gate again that Lerendar picked up the thread of his earlier worry. Maybe his mother had been upset enough to just blank the whole incident? She was certainly capable. Had done it a few times before. There was that one awful banquet that no one could quite recall, for reasons Mum kept to herself, leaving everyone else to speculate.

Hmmm…

He turned off of the floating stones and back onto the main span, still plucking at missing time like a strand of unraveling thread. The memory loss might not mean anything at all. The order to stop doing magic might have just embarrassed her… or, the situation might be about to collapse and go totally crispy.

Pain in the neck, because his kind of puzzle was the sort you could stomp on or hack with a sword. Might have talked it over with his brother, but a quick trace showed that Val was still out in the courtyard with his two wards; doing something smoky and muttersome. Discussion would have to wait, Lerendar decided.

He wasn't idle in the meanwhile, though. As a nobleman, he had a never-ending list of duties to perform, which included attending to visiting dignitaries. The wood-elf druid was beneath Lerendar's official notice. Not so, a possibly angry sea-elven prince… and Dad had put in a summons for help with the fellow.

Gating up to the lofty council hall, Lerendar took a moment to tuck the potion away and arrange his appearance. Then he stepped into the vast assembly chamber, searching the crowd for a sea-elf. Saw various courtiers… Lord Reston… ambassadors of the wood-elf and goblin realms… and then, by the central prism, his red-haired father, talking to someone whose back was turned.

Dad saw him and lifted a hand in greeting. Lerendar waved back, then started across the mosaic tiled floor. Music tinkled. Servants glided through the crowd with trays of food and drink. Conversation murmured and surged.

"Naturally, I said…"

"...left her standing there! Can you credit it? How…"

"The High Lord will surely see that our petition has…"

And so forth. Lerendar could follow them all at once, and did so. He was supposed to be Silmerana, some day; Warden of the North. It was his job to listen and learn.

Got to Dad's side without seeming to hasten. Smiled and bowed as the person his father was talking to at last turned around.

"Prince Andorin," said Keldaran, "allow me to present my son and first heir, Lord Lerendar."

You ever just know? Get a big, stupid grin on your face, clasp each other's forearms and think, 'There you are', while something inside unfreezes?

Andorin was shorter than some part of Lerendar halfway expected, with long black hair and very dark eyes. He had that bluish-pale sea-folk skin, with faint lines of sealed gills on each side of his neck. There were swirling tattoos and a genuine smile on his face.

"Lord Lerendar," he repeated, returning the bow. A bard, he had some sort of wooden stringed instrument slung at his back. It almost slid off his shoulder when Andorin bowed, but Lerendar caught it. Some buffoonery ensued, and much laughter.

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"You've met?" guessed Keldaran, a little confused.

Yes? No, not here, but… somehow?

Said the prince, in a resonant tenor,

"We have walked strange paths together as brothers and friends, Lord Keldaran. The mind forgets, but the heart cannot, ever." Then, "My suit can wait. Inform the High Lord, if you please, that I shall be well satisfied to discuss this betrothal… whenever."

Lerendar's grin broadened.

"Don't worry, Dad," he laughed. "I'll show His Highness around and we'll come up with an answer by sunset, bet me."

They fetched up at a comfortably seedy tavern on the second level. The sort of place that catered to anyone, mortal consorts included. Where you could forget, for a while, what you were throwing away for the woman and child that you loved. The Grog Bog, it was called. Located off the spiraling way, it was run by a female half-orc named Greta Vargsdottir, a friend of Bea's. Grey-skinned and muscular, she'd notched her tall ears for every husband outfought (though they were said to die happy).

Lerendar had a booth permanently reserved in the wood-paneled back. Went to it now, as Greta brought fruit and fresh bread to the table.

"Yer usual, Sir?" she rumbled, careful not to 'Lordship' him.

"Yes, thank you, Greta. And, for my friend, the best that you've got."

The hulking taverner frowned consideringly, rubbing at one of her gold-banded tusks. Her ropy dark hair was netted away from her face with wire, but still escaped, to coil damply. Hot work, running a tavern.

"That'd be the Lidolan vintage, Sir. Ain't cheap… but if this be a celebration, what with th' little un's birth… I'll donate a bottle fer free. Always wanted ter taste it m'self, like."

"Absolutely," laughed Lerendar. "This is a definite celebration, and you're welcome to join us in welcoming Bean."

…although they were missing some guests, he thought/ knew/ supposed.

Greta went off to fetch their order (roast pheasant for Lerendar, baked shellfish for Andorin). Casting a glance at their departing hostess, the sea-elf leaned forward, asking,

"Why are her ears cut into, that way?"

Lerendar shook his blond head.

"Former husbands. Unlucky to count them," he replied, keeping his voice down.

"Ah. My thanks for the timely warning, Lando. So… switching the subject… the maiden supposed to wed Prince Zaresh is absent? I judge this from all the delay."

Lerendar heaved a short sigh. Then, placing both hands on the table palm down, he admitted,

"Gone. Run off with a lot of mortal paladins… maybe to take up the mantle and sword, herself, for all we know. If so, she's under Lord Oberyn's protection and…"

"Beyond the demands of diplomatic alliance," finished Andorin, looking glum. "Queen Shanella will not be pleased. Heir or not, Zaresh is no catch. She was rather counting on your Meliara to provide a new, better scion, I think."

Lerendar grimaced.

"If it's a three-night she wants," he hedged, "I'm sure that something can be arranged. Maybe not with High Lord Galadin, but there's still Dad, or my brother Valerian."

Didn't mention himself. Consorting officially with a mortal woman had rather lessened his trade value, and he was too proud to risk the rejection.

Their wine and meals arrived, tacking the conversation into less troublesome waters. Greta joined them, briefly. Long enough to rest her legs and sample the best vintage known to Karandun.

"Gods and spirits," she gasped, after savoring that first, life-changing swallow. "They ain't lied!"

Like a combination of honey, fire and clear-through-the-body joy, Lidolan wine was best enjoyed in small doses. Greta had brought forth no flagons or mugs. Just tiny, crystalline thimbles, in which the garnet liquid glowed like the gems on a royal circlet.

Andorin's gills opened, suddenly, exposing their scarlet lining.

"Sacred Abyss," he murmured, reaching back to unsling his instrument. "That deserves its own epic."

He fell to idly stroking those golden strings, humming and sometimes adding a word or two. There had been eavesdrop-canceling music filling the noisy tavern, guaranteeing privacy. This ended the moment that Andorin began making love to his dulcimer. Made of dark, swirling-grain driftwood, its strings shimmered at every touch. The crowd stopped their noise to listen, but Andorin shook his head.

"Just meandering," he told them. "Letting the song write itself."

Still beautiful, though, for he was a master. The melody was sprightly, ever-changing, like stream water picking its way through the rocks. He was still at it when Greta rose from the table to see to her work, leaving the bottle behind her. Magic glittered and surged around Andorin, summoned by music, but still unformed. It gave him a mystical, sorcerous look, and deepened their bond.

Lerendar didn't play, but like every elf, everywhere, he had a fine voice. A way with lyrics, too. Funny ones, usually. He and the bard forgot time and diplomacy, creating something amazing with help from the wine and the crowd.

Then, a golden coin arced through the air to land spinning on the tabletop by Andorin's dulcimer. Rotating, in fact, much longer than seemed natural. And that could only mean that somebody else had arrived.

Lerendar half-stood, craning his head to see past their wooden-beamed nook. The bard stopped playing, just as a slight, active, foxy-faced elf slid onto the bench beside him. Dark-haired, with amber eyes and tanned skin, he looked like one who preferred to avoid official attention; who typically left town between dawn and morning, usually under pursuit. Smiling slightly, the rogue half bowed. To Andorin, then Lerendar, he drawled,

"Your Most Exalted Deliquescence… Breaker of tiresome chains… greetings."

His ears were quite pointed, almost satyric, and his gaze never stayed long in one place. A scarlet cloth was tied around his forehead, possibly hiding a scar. He had not expected the back-pounding welcome he got from Lerendar and Andorin, both. Relaxed into it after a moment, though.

"I felt lucky," he told them later, over a thimble of potent red wine. "Also… matters necessitated a speedy departure from Arvendahl lands, so north I came and here I am, eager to keep this fine head where it most needs to be."

More food was ordered and stories were shared, with Andorin explaining,

"I am a prince of the old blood, but the lines of descent favor females. My aunt was queen, until Shanella arranged matters otherwise, and thus it stands. So long as I'm harmless… no more than a wandering bard… I live. The moment I show any sign of ambition, though…" he shrugged. "You see how it is."

Lerendar nodded.

"Heard and felt," he agreed. "Though, in my case, there's a woman. I guess, the wrong woman. My head knows that, but the rest of me won't heed advice. I stand to lose the High Seat, for someone I'm going to long, long outlive."

"Mortal?" guessed Elmaris, the rogue.

Once again, Lerendar nodded.

"Everything I never knew I always wanted… except for permanence. I know I'm a fool, but I also know what I can't do without, and it isn't position or power. It's Beatriz."

"Odd," murmured Elmaris, shaking his head. "I mean, I'm not normally the one in the best situation. Unless I've been dragged by the gallows, again. Not much one can do for a dangling corpse."

Except, two of the three had been dead. Somehow, a little, they sensed what had been. More, the presence of three made their bond stronger, yet. Elmaris toyed unconsciously with a gold coin; making it appear and disappear. Rolling it constantly over the knuckles of his left hand. Even while eating his plowman's lunch, he could not be still. Never stopped thinking, either.

"I believe," he said, salting an egg, "that there is one more, and that we must find him. He is near… in the woods, perhaps, but will not venture closer."

"Done," said Lerendar. He carried no money, but that hardly mattered. Greta would settle accounts with the palace seneschal at the end of the week. Lerendar never paid anything.

"We'll head for the Tanglewood," he decided. "It's wilder than Huntwood, and that's where I would go, if I didn't want casual meetings."

They each had another bright taste of Lidolan wine. Then Lerendar tucked the bottle away, thanked Greta and headed back out of her bustling tavern. Their missing friend was close enough for thoughts to brush up against. Lerendar caught a jumbled impression of boulders and trees. Of a stone mile marker, too. Last before reaching Starshire, off to the east.

That something was wrong, they could all sense. Just what had happened, they meant to find out.