The Second Generation

Markus shuffled off disconsolately down the street, to drown his unrequited love in ale. The fabric merchant next door to Jenna locked his door, then bowed to her in respect as he passed by on his way home. He had not been pleased when she had first moved in next door, but when his sales—particularly of white, black, and red cloth—increased, his protests decreased proportionately.

Jenna wished him a good evening. Stepping inside her shop, she shut her door, locked it, and placed a spell of warding on it. She lived above the shop, keeping her own guard on her wares during the night. Casting a final glance around, she mounted the stairs that led to her quarters.

A knock on the door halted her.

“Go home, Markus!” she called out irritably.

Three nights ago, he had come back to sing love songs beneath her window. The incident had been most embarrassing.

The knock was repeated, this time with more urgency. Jenna sighed. She was tired and hungry; it was time for a cup of tea. She turned, however, and went back down the stairs. Owners of Three Moon Shops were expected to open their stores to any mage at need, no matter what time, day or night.

Jenna opened a small window set into the door and peered out, expecting to see a Red Robe, humbly apologizing for disturbing her, but could he possibly have some cobweb? Or a Black Robe, imperiously demanding bat guano. Jenna was startled and displeased to find two tall and heavily cloaked and hooded men standing on her stoop. The rays of the setting sun glinted on swords, which both wore on their hips.

“You have the wrong shop, gentlemen,” Jenna said in excellent Elvish.

By their slender legs, expensive, well-tooled leather boots, and fancifully designed leather armor, she guessed them to be elves, although their faces were hidden in the hoods of their cloaks.

She was about to slam shut the window when one of the men said, speaking halting Common, “If you are Jenna, daughter of Justarius, head of the Wizard’s Conclave, we do not have the wrong shop.”

“Suppose I am Jenna,” Jenna replied haughtily, though she was now extremely curious. “What do you want of me? If you have a magic item to sell,” she added, as an afterthought, “please return in the morning.”

The two men glanced at each other. She could see the glitter of almond-shaped eyes in the shadows of their hoods.

“We want to talk to you,” said one.

“Talk away,” Jenna said.

“In private,” said the other.

Jenna shrugged. “The street is deserted this time of day. I don’t mean to be rude, but you must know that owners of Three Moon Shops are careful about who they let into their shops. If s for your safety more than mine.”

“Our business is serious, not to be discussed on the street. Believe me, mistress,” the elf added, in a low voice, “we like this no more than you do. You have our word that we will touch nothing!”

“Did my father send you?” Jenna asked, playing for time.

If Justarius had sent them, he would have told her first, and she’d had no word from him in months, ever since their last quarrel. He strongly disapproved of her lover.

“No, mistress,” said the elf. “We come on our own.”

Odd, Jenna thought. One of the elves is Qualinesti, the other Silvanesti. She could tell the difference by their accents, though probably no other human in Solamnia could have done so. But Jenna had spent a great deal of time around elves, one elf in particular.

Long, long ago, the elves had been one nation. Bitter wars, the Kinslayer War, had divided them into two, Qualinesti and Silvanesti. Neither nation had any love for the other. Even now, after the War of the Lance had united every other race on Ansalon, the two elven states—though ostensibly one—were, in reality, farther apart than ever.

Her curiosity aroused, Jenna opened her door and stepped back to permit the elves to enter. She wasn’t the least bit fearful. They were elves, and that meant that they were upstanding, law-abiding, and good to the point of boredom. Plus, she had a spell on her lips that would blow them back out into the street if they tried anything.

The two elves stood together in the very center of the shop. They kept their elbows locked to their sides, fearful of even touching a display case.

They stood near each other—on the defensive—but were studiously careful to avoid touching each other. Allies, but unwilling allies, Jenna guessed. Her curiosity was now almost overpowering her.

“I believe you two gentlemen will be much more at home in my chambers upstairs,” she said, with an impish smile. “I was about to make tea. Won’t you join me?”

The Silvanesti elf had covered his mouth and nose with a handkerchief. The Qualinesti elf had half-turned and come literally eye-to-eye with a jar filled with eyeballs, floating in their protective fluid. He blenched and backed up a step.

Jenna gestured up the stairs. “You will find my chambers quite comfortable. And ordinary. My laboratory is downstairs, in the cellar,” she added, for reassurance.