At some unseen signal, the lights in the theater dimmed. It was not a magical effect, simply that of well-concealed attendants narrowing the apertures in crystal and brass lanterns, but the diminishing glow and the way soft shadows settled across the audience might as well have been a trick of sorcery, it worked so well.
Appreciative and anticipatory murmurs rippled through the room. Faces that had been turned toward one another, sometimes leaning close in whispered conversation, now looked to the stage. There, spilling from above, was a clear column of light the color of moonlight filtered through pale amber. Its backsplash illuminated the texture of the thick velvet draperies.
The music began low, drifting as if from a great distance on the vagaries of a mild summer breeze. It curled and coiled like smoke, teasingly, wisps of it swelling louder and then withdrawing. Some few in the audience, mostly those for whom this was their first attendance, looked around for the orchestra and found nothing. Others, those who'd been here before, smiled knowingly.
The drapes undulated and parted, and Kyralivanata Ro'Sallin, whose given name meant "gift of the enchantress," stepped into that column of silvery-amber light. She stood, swaying gently in time with the music that seemed to emanate from thin air. Her eyes were closed, her head tipped back.
A general sigh arose, a breathy susurration issuing helplessly from every throat. For some, mostly men, it was a sound of yearning. For others, primarily women, it was one of wistful envy.
Both were well-deserved. The woman standing in that fall of light, light which did not merely shine upon her but seemed to caress her, to adore her, was tall and graceful, slender yet shapely. A gown as black as if it had been cut whole from the fabric of the night clung snugly to her figure, flowed around her long legs.
Above its strapless bodice, her bare neck and shoulders were the color of cream. A strand of round-cut diamonds circled her slim throat, another strand like a pendant hanging in sparkles and glints to a finial stone shaped like a teardrop. This last stone held a hint of color, a blush of green that recalled – even to the minds of those who had only ever imagined such a place – the forests of the Emerin.
Gloves of satin climbed her fair and supple arms. Matching slippers were on her feet. Her legs, of which nearly all of one could be seen through the high slit in her gown as she moved, were encased in stockings of silk so sheer it recalled gossamer and spiderwebs.
Crowning all of this beauty was a face at once youthful and worldly-wise. Her elven features were fine and flawless, from the rounding of her pert chin to the tips of her elegantly-tapered ears. Many observing her were human, but even the handsomest or most lovely of them despaired and thought themselves plain when they compared themselves to Kyra.
Most striking of all, her hair. It fell in waves to the curve of her hips, and its color was like a handful of polished rubies set aflame. Scarlet and red and gold, woven with strands of the metallic hues only seen in the elven people, it was hair that shimmered as if with inner light of its own.
The music soared, and at its symphonic height, Kyra Ro'Sallin opened her eyes. Another wave of murmurs swept the room at the sight of those eyes. They were large and heartbreakingly tilted, both winsome and sly beneath brows of fine fire-gold. The irises were vivid wintergreen, their gaze clear and direct. Everyone upon whom that gaze fell experienced a tingling rush of connection, an instant of personal and deeply private bonding with the magnificent woman upon the stage. Those whom her eyes passed over felt bereft, even if they did not consciously notice it.
She held them in her spell even before she began to sing. Once that happened, once her voice poured forth pure and deep, a voice like spring water, like a clear autumn night, a motionless enthrallment claimed the room.
In the luxurious box reserved for the establishment's owner – who was at the moment down on stage lost in the melodies of an Emerinian ballad – sat a lone man. A glass of blue-violet Morvalan wine was at his elbow, and he sipped at it with mingled pleasure and gratitude at being once more among the trappings of civilization. This might not be Perras Peliani, but it was close … and the odds of getting Morvalan wine were better here anyway. The best of both worlds, as it were. If one could overlook the presence of the humans, as prevalent and irksome but unavoidable as aphids.
He was still quite young by the standards of his people, although he'd completed his schooling and had operated, for a time, a quite successful medical practice. His eyes, though, told of age beyond his years. They were steel-blue, the Reyes eyes that came to him from his mother's side of the family, and contrasted nicely with his dark hair and fair skin. Those eyes spoke of things that few living people had seen, wonders and horrors both.
Tavelorn Ilhedrion took some measure of pride in knowing that with all he'd seen, and all he'd done, he remained in his right mind. What he'd experienced would have shocked many an Emerinian elf into numbed insanity, and yet he had persevered. Even seasoned soldiers might have been shaken to the bone had they been faced with the trials he'd overcome.
He relaxed into the embrace of his chair, relishing the sensations of being clean and comfortable again almost as much as he relished the taste of the wine, or the sweet sounds of Kyra's soaring voice.
His dark hair had been neatly trimmed and styled, still in the short military fashion although he had never been a soldier, a style he chose out of reverence to his uncle. His clothing was in darker hues and sterner cuts than the Emerinans favored, but not quite so strictly functional and severe as the Morvalan. A mixture, a blending. Just as he was. Just as he hoped to bring about, by helping to blend the best of their two societies.
Below, Kyra finished her song on a flourish. The music, directed by her spell, held that final triumphant note for a long, emotional moment, and then faded away into a whisper. Applause shook the room as the lights came up. People stood, clapping fervently. Tears glistened on many faces, mostly those who were hearing Kyra for the first time.
She inclined her head in a gesture as gracious as any he'd ever seen made by his grandmother. As if that were some signal, the doors at the rear of the room swung silently open, and the audience began trickling out to the terrace.
Tavelorn waited until the crush had ebbed, not wanting to be pressed in among the humans. True, these were the better ones, not the stinking and dirty peasants of the lower Rings, but the blunt plainness of their features, the ridiculous rounded nubs of their ears, and the broad thickness of their bodies never failed to hamper his appetite. Kyra was at the center of an admiring knot of people, most of them human and pitifully eager for a moment of her time, an instant of notice. Her laughter at the inane witticism by a portly man in a brown brocade doublet was as intoxicating as her singing. Tavelorn came up behind her, and stood there for a moment, watching the play of her hair across her shoulders.
"Lo esaya, Vali Ro'Sallin," he murmured.
She turned to him. "Why, Tavelorn! What a surprise!"
Had he surprised her? He might never know, for she wouldn't let on. Her eyes, pale jade, danced and danced. She touched his elbow lightly with one gloved hand, leaned forward to brush a kiss on his cheek. It was chaste and proper, soft as a butterfly's wing, but as she withdrew, she puffed a teasing breath against his ear and he suppressed a shiver.
"I'm on again soon. Why don't you join me after? A late supper in my rooms?"
"I'll be there."
Kyra kissed him on the cheek again, a more lingering kiss this time. "Have you arranged for a room?" she whispered into his ear.
"Yes."
"Would it trouble you unduly if I had Joretta send someone to bring your things upstairs?"
"Not at all." He slid his hand along the side of her neck, and while it was hidden by the lush fall of her hair, ran his thumb slowly over her earlobe. For an instant, he caught himself imagining how she'd look in diamond earrings to match the necklace she wore, a touch of Morvalan wickedness, and suffered a sudden pang of sharp desire.
"I'll see you soon," she promised.
The second half of her performance was as enchanting as the first, though livelier. Rather than ballads and long, slow Emerinian songs, she did a variety of Northlands ones, and somehow lent an elven air to those rustic, country-simple tunes. He found it perhaps not quite as pleasant as before, but Kyra could have made orc-music sound good.
When the show ended and the doors opened again, people began filing out. Tavelorn waited until most of them had gone, waited a while more to be sure that he would not run into Virine Fistrel, and made his way upstairs. He stopped by his room and found that his personal belongings had already been moved.
The topmost floors were accessible only to preferred clients of the Lord's Retreat. The truly wealthy or powerful could retire here, where secluded lounges and card-parlors and libraries awaited their pleasure. Nearly any elf of reasonable means would quickly be welcomed into that elite group.
The door to Kyra's sitting room was ajar. Tavelorn let himself in, swallowed up by velvety shadows and flickering candlelight. A supper for two had been set up on the small round table by the bay window. Few places in Thanis could boast such a view. The Rings of the city, outlined in lanterns, descended toward the river. The Tower of the Archmage could not be seen from this side of the building, but its ever-present soft rainbow glow danced at the edges of the windows like the ice-lights of the north.
"Would you pour the wine?" called Kyra's voice from her bedroom.
"Of course." He did so, noting that it was one of his favorites of the Morvalan vintages.
Delicious aromas rose from the covered dishes. He saw his bags piled by the sofa, his cloak and his sword Discordant hanging from the coat-pegs.
"Mmm, I'm starved," Kyra said. She came into the room belting a seafoam-green satin wrapper around herself. She hadn't removed her necklace, or her stockings, he saw.
He met her midway, taking her in his arms. Beneath cool satin, her flesh was warm, and the shape of her body at once exciting and familiar. Their kiss now was not a polite buss on the cheek but a deep, searching, hungry one. Her fingers combed through short dark hair and stroked, with a feather-light touch, the outer rims of his ears.
"I've missed you," he said as they broke apart.
