The Second Generation

“No harm come to him!” Jenna laughed. “Why, what possible danger could you be to Dalamar? He is the most powerful of all the black—robed mages. He is head of the Order of Black Robes, and he will, when my father retires, take over the leadership of the entire Wizards' Conclave.

“Please, I’m sorry. Forgive me,” she added, trying to stifle her laughter. The two were obviously deeply offended. “I was thinking of your safety, gentlemen. A friendly warning. Don’t try any tricks with Dalamar. You won’t enjoy the consequences.”

“Of all the insolence!” The Silvanesti was livid with rage. “We don’t have to—”

“Yes, we do,” said his companion in a low voice. The Silvanesti choked, but kept silent. “When may we meet with the Master of the Tower?” the Qualinesti asked coldly.

“Dalamar agrees to meet with you, you will find him here, tomorrow night, in my chambers. I trust this place will be satisfactory to you? Or perhaps you would rather meet in the Tower of High Sorcery itself? I could sell you a charm—”

“No, mistress.” The elves knew she was mocking them. “This room will be quite suitable.”

“Very well.” Jenna rose to her feet. “I will see you tomorrow night, at about this same time. Pleasant dreams, gentlemen.”

The Silvanesti’s face flushed red. He seemed prepared to strike her, but the Qualinesti halted him.

“Pleasant dreams—what a tactless remark,” Jenna murmured, lowering her eyes to hide her amusement, “considering the terrible tragedy that has befallen Silvanesti. Forgive me.”

She escorted them down the stairs and out the door, kept watch until they had disappeared down the street. When they were gone, she replaced the spell of warding, and—laughing out loud—went upstairs to prepare for her lover’s arrival.

Chapter Two

The two elves were prompt. Jenna admitted them into her shop. Serious, demure, she led them to the stairs. At the foot, however, the elves came to a halt. They both were wearing green silk masks that covered the top half of their faces.

They looked, Jenna thought, decidedly silly, like children dressed in costume for the Festival of the Eye.

“Is he here?” asked the Qualinesti, with dread solemnity.

His gaze went up the stairs. Evening’s shadows had gathered at the top. Undoubtedly the elf saw a different form of darkness, one more solid, more substantial.

“He is,” Jenna replied.

Both elves hesitated, prey to inner turmoil. By even speaking to a dark elf, they were committing a crime that could well bring upon them the same fate—disgrace, banishment, and exile.

“We have no choice,” said the Silvanesti. “We discussed this.”

The Qualinesti nodded. The green silk was sticking to his face. Beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip.

The two mounted the stairs. Jenna started to follow.

The Silvanesti turned. “This conversation is private, madam,” he said harshly.

“You are in my house,” Jenna reminded him.

The Qualinesti hastened to make amends. “Forgive us, mistress, but surely you can understand...”

Jenna shrugged. “Very well. If you need anything, you will find me in my laboratory.”

Dalamar heard the elven voices, heard the light tread of booted feet ascending the staircase. He smiled.

“This is my moment of triumph,” he said softly to the darkness. “I always knew this would happen. Sooner or later, you self-righteous hypocrites, who cast me out in shame and disgrace, would be forced to come crawling back to me, begging for my help. I will grant it, but I will make you pay.” Dalamar’s slender fist clenched. “Oh, how I will make you pay!”

The two elves appeared in the doorway. Both were wearing masks—a sensible precaution, to prevent him from recognizing them—which meant, of course, that he knew them, or at least knew the Silvanesti.

“How long has it been since I was cast out of my homeland?” Dalamar muttered. “Twenty years, at least. A long time to humans, a short time for elves.”

And the memory was burned into his mind. Two hundred years might pass, and he would not forget.

“Please, gentlemen,” Dalamar said, speaking Silvanesti, his native tongue, “enter and be seated.”

“Thank you, no,” said the Qualinesti. “This is not a social call, master. It is strictly business. Let us understand this from the very beginning.”

“I have a name,” Dalamar said softly, his eyes intent on the elves, much to their discomfiture.

They found it difficult to look at him—to look on the black robes, decorated with arcane symbols of power and protection; on the bags of spell components hanging from his belt; on his face—youthful, handsome, proud, cruel.

He was powerful, in control. Both men knew it, but neither man liked it.

“You had a name,” said the Silvanesti. “It is no longer spoken among us.”

“What a pity.” Dalamar folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes. He bowed, prior to making his departure. “Gentlemen, you appear to have wasted your time ...”

“Wait!” The Qualinesti gulped. “Wait, D—Dalamar.” He mopped sweat from his lip. “This is not easy for us!”