Not Magic Enough and Setting Boundaries - By Valerie Douglas Page 0,40

odds with the younger race.

Until now. Finally, there was the promise of a lasting peace.

Despite that promise both Elves wore their swords, long and short, even in the High King’s castle where no other could, in recognition of those days…and the fact that they weren’t truly over.

Not yet. One last task remained.

The Agreement was too new a thing and still disputed in some parts of the Kingdoms. Hence their mission.

The High King’s chancellor announced him.

Turning, Daran High King looked toward the newcomer. His jaw tightened as he looked at the young wizard who hurried into the room.

Jareth.

He said nothing, instead taking a deep restraining breath.

He could wish Dorcet had sent a more prepossessing wizard.

Oh, there was no doubt as to Jareth’s talent - he was rumored to be Dorcet’s own choice as the next Master once Jareth had the years and practice to supplement his skill in magic. Unfortunately, he was also as homely a man as they came - his features as rumpled and plain as his clothes. As always, the young wizard appeared slightly disheveled. His robes were as wrinkled as if he’d slept in them, his hair with its unruly cowlick mussed and windblown. With his towering height, a height to match Daran himself, the wizard was both ungainly and unmistakable. Worse, rumor had it he’d been an orphaned street urchin, spawned of some harlot and plucked off the streets of Doncerric.

That explained much.

Yet folk seemed uniformly and inordinately fond of the young wizard.

At the Chancellor’s announcement, Elon, too, turned to see who had arrived and his spirit lightened as he spotted the tall young man in wizard’s robes.

He’d feared who they might have chosen to be paired with them. His people had little reason to trust wizards, to say the least. Human wizards had done his people a great deal of harm in the past, in ways that left bitter memories and lasting scars.

Elon bore more than a few of both.

Looking now at the gangly young wizard with his open, curious face and mop of brownish hair, Elon allowed himself a breath of hope. Perhaps this wouldn’t be too much a trial after all.

There was a comfortable air to this one, an ease about him; a sense of being at home in his own skin as few men were.

Elon hadn’t failed to note the young wizard’s reaction to Colath but to his credit he hid it quickly and now showed no evidence of it beyond that first flicker of the eye. That spoke well of him.

Nor did he display the overweening deference or, even worse, the carefully concealed intimidation and accompanying resentment some men displayed toward Elon himself. He didn’t let his relief show any more than he would have allowed himself to show any other emotion in the face of these who had once been the enemy but were no longer.

Or so he hoped.

His voice carefully uninflected, Daran High King said, “Elon of Aerilann, Colath, be known to Jareth, wizard of Doncerric.”

It would have horrified and infuriated Daran to know just how clearly Elon and Colath could see his dismay - who didn’t and wouldn’t care about it or the reason for it - and to Jareth.

Jareth was so accustomed to it he scarcely noticed the sting.

As a boy he’d taken comfort in the Elven view of things. They simply neither noticed nor cared to notice a person’s appearance; to them what mattered was what a person did, not how they were born or how they looked. He’d taken that philosophy to heart.

He still did.

It was to Jareth’s credit, too, Elon noted with satisfaction, that the young wizard didn’t offer his hand or arm to clasp as men often did, determined to force their custom on Elves even knowing they didn’t like it.

Warm brown eyes met Elon’s evenly, giving a quick glance of acknowledgement to Colath before the young wizard grinned with anticipatory delight.

Knowing that Elves and Dwarves were empathic, the thought of shaking hands or clasping arms never crossed Jareth’s mind. Empathy increased with touch, although his own talent there was slight. Neither Elves nor Dwarves touched in public. In private? No one knew. No man had ever crossed the borders into those lands, either Elven Enclave or Dwarven Cavern, not even Daran High King himself. Not that anyone knew.

“Ala, Elon of Aerilann,” Jareth said in Elven, with a nod. “And to you as well, Colath.”

To be greeted in Elon’s own tongue was a surprise.

Heartened, Elon nodded in return. This boded very well indeed.