The Second Generation

The elves again exchanged glances, then both nodded stiffly and began to ascend the stairs behind their hostess. The elves appeared vastly relieved to see that Jenna’s small living room looked like any other human’s living room, replete with table and chairs and soft-cushioned couches.

Jenna stirred up the fire and brewed tea, using a leaf mixture imported from Qualinesti.

The elves drank their tea and nibbled at a cookie, for politeness’s sake, nothing more. Jenna made small talk; elves never discussed business while eating and drinking.

The elves made suitable comments but offered nothing of their own, and the conversation dwindled away altogether. As soon as they could, without insulting their hostess, both elves set down their teacups, indicating they were prepared to discuss serious matters. But, now that they were here, they didn’t seem to know where to begin.

Jenna could either let them stew or offer to help. Since she was expecting far more pleasant company later this evening, she wanted these elves gone, and so she prodded them along.

“Well, gentlemen, you’ve come to me—a red-robed magic-user. What is it you need of me? I must tell you, in advance, that I do not travel out of the city. If you want me to work magic, it must be magic that can be done here, within the confines of my own laboratory. And I don’t mix love potions, if that's what you’re in the market for ...”

Jenna knew very well that love wasn’t what they sought—not two bitter enemies, coming to her shop in secret, in the twilight. But it never hurt to feign ignorance.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the Qualinesti elf abruptly. “I . . . I. . . ” He snapped his mouth shut, collected his thoughts, and started over. “This is most difficult for me. For us. We have need to talk to . . . someone. A special someone. And we have been advised that you were the one person who might be able to help us.”

Ah, thought Jenna. Well, well, well. Isn’t this interesting. She gave them a sweet and limpid smile. “Indeed? Someone I know? I can’t imagine who that might be. You gentlemen appear to be of high birth. Surely, all doors on Ansalon would be open to you.”

“Not this particular door,” said the Silvanesti elf harshly. “Not the door to . . . ” His voice dropped. “The Tower of High Sorcery.”

“The dark tower,” added the Qualinesti. “The tower located here, in Palanthas. We want to speak... to the master.”

Jenna studied them. Two high-born elves; that much was proclaimed by their expensive clothing, their ornate swords, the fine jewels adorning their fingers and dangling from around their necks. Both elders, too, for though it was sometimes difficult to tell the ages of elves, these two were obviously in their middle years. High-birth, high-rank, longtime enemies, short-time allies. And they wanted to talk to the worst enemy each could possibly have in this world—the Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.

“You want to talk to Dalamar,” Jenna said calmly.

“Yes, mistress.” The Qualinesti’s voice cracked. He coughed, angry at himself.

The Silvanesti, it seemed, had no voice at all. His face was rigid and set, his lips pursed together, his hand tightly clenched over the hilt of his sword. They were both obviously hating this.

Jenna bit her lip to keep from laughing. No wonder these elves had been so intent on privacy. Dalamar was one of their own, an elf of Silvanesti, but he was one who had been exiled, banished from elven society in disgrace. He was what they termed a “dark elf”—one who has been cast out of the light. His crime was the study of evil magic, the donning of the Black Robes. Such a heinous deed could never be condoned in elven society. For these two to even look on Dalamar would be considered a shocking act. To actually speak to him!...

Jenna could hardly wait to hear Dalamar’s reaction. She decided to make these two suffer a little first, however.

“What makes you think that I can gain you such an inter view?” she asked, in all innocence.

The Qualinesti flushed. “We have been informed that you and ... er... the tower’s master (he would not say the name) are friends . . .”

“He was my shalafi.[1] And he is my lover,” Jenna replied, and enjoyed watching the elves squirm.

They again exchanged glances, as much as to say, What can you expect of a human?

The Silvanesti had apparently had enough. He rose to his feet. “Let us end this as swiftly as possible. Can you . . . will you . . . put us in touch with the Master of the Dark Tower?”

“Perhaps.” Jenna was noncommittal. “When?” “As soon as possible. Time is pressing.” Jenna arched a shapely eyebrow. “A word of caution. If you are considering laying a trap for Dalamar—”

The Qualinesti eyed her. “I assure you, madam,” he said grimly, “no harm will come to him.”