Lord James Dupree’s stomach roiled as he watched the overdressed merchant across from him shuffle the deck. The queasiness might have arisen from the greasy stew he’d just consumed or the inferior wine he had just sampled.  Or it might be because he was about to break his most fundamental rule in gambling: never wager more than you could afford to lose.

Or, again, it could be because he dusted off his youthful card-sharping for this one night for something very much against his own morals and his northlands upbringing.  He was trying to acquire a slave, an elven slave at that.

Coarse hewn timbers supported the low ceiling of the common room of the Dancing Boar.  A few cobwebs that hung in the corner, ragged and torn from a desultory attempt at cleaning.   The walls had been whitewashed too long ago and now grayed with soot from a poorly drafting fireplace.

James leaned his arms on the table, feeling through his shirt the roughness of the scarred wood.

“What was your name, again?” the midlands merchant, Alain, asked.

The man sitting across from him wore fur-trimmed blue cloak over his red silk shirt and blue brocade vest.  His body was less elegant than his clothing— bloated like a day-dead toad. 

James hadn’t given one when he asked to join the game, and the merchant knew it.

“James Northlands,” he answered.

“I’ll drink to that,” said the self-describe playwright on James’ left.

“You’ll drink to anything,” laughed the minstrel across from him.

Both dressed as colorfully as the merchant, if not as richly.  Their clothes were well-worn and had been the cutting edge of fashion a few years ago.  Both were lean, almost too thin.  Clearly neither had found raging success in his avowed field and neither could afford to lose what they gambled away so blithely.

The merchant filled wine cups all around.  “What brings you to our fair town, James Northlands?”

“Business.  For my master.  Looking at some timber down south that he might want to buy.  It’s been a long, lonely journey.  Kind of you to led me break join you.”

Alain laughed.  “And if you can come away with a bit of our gold, all the better, yes.”

James laughed in answer, and raised his cup.  He carefully did not look at the elf with the iron slave collar who stood in the shadows behind Alain’s chair, still as stag downwind of a hunter, his eyes hooded and face carefully expressionless.

The iron had given James pause when he first saw it.  It seemed to contradict the evidence of the oddly slanted eyes, the ears not quite like a human’s.  After all, James had only seen elves in old paintings and tapestries, and everyone knew that iron burned elves’ skin like acid.  But then he had seen the flash of silver in the firelight.  Silver along the top edge of the collar and, he’d wager, lining it as well.  No reason to waste such luxury on a slave—unless the iron collar would kill him without it.

James raised his cup to the merchant, and sipped, fighting not to grimace.  The stuff was an offense to the art of the vine, a homemade concoction of various wildberries and inferior, overripe grapes-- a nose reminiscent of blackberry preserves gone off combined with the musty undertones of wine badly corked, and a finish like grape juice left too long in the sun. 

He drank to be sociable, and because the others would want to get the stranger tipsy.  James knew how to seem to drink more than he was drinking, and to seem more drunk than he was.

Strange that habits of a misspent youth would help him regain his family’s heritage.

In his eavesdropping, James had already pegged Alain as one of those men who loved gambling the way a drunkard loved strong drink.  James knew how to manipulate this sort of gambler to his own advantage. 

But it wasn’t foolproof, and even with card-counting, gambling was always a risk.  Though his estate was doing poorly since the Luck had been stolen, the Duprees were not quite destitute yet.  But he was at the end of a long journey, and the coin he’d brought with him had been depleted.  He had just enough money on him to make it home comfortably, if he didn’t lose it all tonight.

The minstrel dealt the hand.  James studied the faces around the table before calling for another card.  He had to win this first round to have a large enough stake to continue.

His old skills did not fail him, for this hand at least.

He lost the second hand.  Intentionally.  It wouldn’t do to seem too lucky, too early on.  He had practice in losing from months traveling as James Northlands.  Information flowed freely when ale flowed freely, but more freely still when the other was winning.

He wasn’t after information tonight.  He now knew who had murdered his father and stolen the Dupree Luck, and why the thief and the Luck both seemed to have disappeared from the world entirely. 

The elf was the key to regaining the Luck.  If he could win the elf away from his master.

As the evening continued, James won only slightly more than he lost, but always the bigger pots.

He lost a hand he had planned on winning, and began to sweat.  The thrill of chance felt less thrilling now that so many depended on him.  Should he forsake his plan?

No.  Only the Luck would preserve the vineyards, save his mother and daughter from poverty, and protect the families that served his family for generations from an uncertain future.  He needed the Luck.  Therefore he needed the elf.

He fought to keep his gaze on his card.  He couldn’t telegraph his true interest, no matter how much the elf attracted the eye.  James hadn’t tumbled another man since long before his marriage, but the slave was striking—long, flame-colored hair, face more fine-boned than any human’s.  The shirt the elf wore, too light for the season and open to the waist, revealed a slight but smoothly muscled torso and a hairless chest.

Alain caught him looking once, smiled, and slid one hand along the inside of the slave’s thigh.  The slave tensed, though his face remained carefully expressionless.

James’ stomach lurched.  In the Northlands, they did not keep slaves, and taking pleasure with someone who was not willing was a crime, not a matter of commerce.

He had grounds to object.  In a game for any real stakes, players kept their hands in plain sight at all times.  But he was the stranger here.  If the minstrel and playwright didn’t speak, he dared not.

Keeping his eyes on his hand proved difficult, and not just because of the elf’s inherent attractiveness.  Though James hadn’t tumbled another man since long before his marriage, he had to admit the slave caught the eye— long, flame-colored hair many a lady would kill for, and a fine-boned face, finer than James had seen before.  The shirt the elf wore, too light for the season, was open to the waist, revealing a slight but smoothly muscled torso, a hairless chest. 

Slowly, he started his winning streak, losing just often enough to avoid discouraging his opponents, until all of Alain’s gold and all of his jeweled rings were either in James’ possession or in the kitty. 

The minstrel and the playwright folded and left the table.  James sincerely hoped they had left themselves enough to survive on. They had been way out of their class, hapless victims of his true goal. 

Alain smiled.  Now or never.

James raised the bid by the entire sum of his own winnings and all of his original stake.  His heart hammered against his ribs.

 “I’ve got nothing left to gamble,” Alain said.  “Unless you’ll take a pledge?  I swear I’m good for it.”

     James shook his head.  “I never take pledges.  But I will wager all my stake against your slave.” He had to play the next moment very carefully—he could see the hesitation in Alain’s face.  “Come now, I’m the one taking the biggest risk here, after all.  The way I’ve been winning, odds are against me.  Lady Fortune is ever fickle, and it’s about time she turned your way.”

     Even without his card counting the argument held about as much logic as a sieve did water, but James knew how gamblers’ minds worked.  And Alain was more than slightly drunk. Alcohol seemed to feed the flames of reckless gambling like pitch fed fire.

     The gambler glanced at his slave, who had gone a bit pale.  While he doubted that the elf held any affection for his master, still the monster one knows is always safer than the one still in the shadows.

     Sorry.  But you’ll be better off with me.  I won’t use you like he does.  And when I have the Luck, you’ll be free.  He dared not risk a reassuring glance.  He must seem casual, almost disinterested, or he would push Alain in the wrong direction.  He took another sip of the awful wine, which was, among its many other faults, too weak to warm the ball of ice forming in his gut.

     “Agreed,” Alain said at last. “Call.”

     Alain must have a good hand.  James was pretty sure his was better.  If he was right, he would have the elf he needed to regain all his family had lost.  If he was wrong, he would have no way to get the Luck back and he wouldn’t even have the funds to cover his shelter this night.

     Alain laid down his cards, and smiled in anticipated triumph.

     James sighed.  “Ah, the Fair Lady’s court.  Nearly unbeatable.” He smiled, and spread his own cards.  “Except, of course, by the Dark King’s.”

     The merchant turned white as a lordling presented with breakfast the morning after his first weekend-long drinking binge.  “Of course, you’ll be a gentleman and take a pledge.  You know the elf can’t be replaced.”

     “I know.”  James smiled.  “That is why I will not accept a pledge.  Of course, you will be a gentleman and pay up.”

     Alain’s face turned from white to red with anger.

     “The Blue Boar has a reputation, you know,”  James said.  “I always ask around when I come into a town.  Not the most elegant place, but safe and fair.  I’m sure the innkeep wouldn’t was word to get out that a guest had been cheated at cards.  Fairly sure he’s take measures to protect his reputation.  Even if it means upsetting one of the local merchants.”

     Alain growled, grabbed the elf by the arm, and swung him around the table.  Startled and unbalanced, the slave crashed into a chair. James reached out instinctively to steady him.  The elf flinched under his touch, and James stepped back.

Explanations would have to wait until they were alone.

     “Right, then,” James gathered up the coins and baubles on the table.  “Will you send someone along with his things?”

     Alain snorted.  “He’s a slave. He doesn’t have ‘things’, he is a ‘thing’.  I’ll be generous and let you have the clothes on his back and his collar.  And this.”  He reached under the table, brought up a coiled length of black iron chain.  “Keeps him where he’s put when you can’t keep an eye on him.  Oh, and this is yours, too.”  He pulled an iron key from his pocket.  “Fits the locks on the chain, and the one on the collar, as well.  I’ve left him entire, but you can have that fixed quick enough if you like.  He used to be a handful to manage, ‘till I sent him to the gelder’s to watch for a day.  Made it pretty clear what would happen if he didn’t get cooperative.  Worked wonders on his attitude.”

     He needed to leave the room before he struck the man.  Standing, he excused himself, taking the chain and the key.  He gestured for the elf to follow, not quite able to look at him.

     He now owned someone.  Gods help him.

     “I’d wish you a goodnight,” Alain called after him, “But I’m sure it will be.”

     James glanced at the elf walking just behind him.  He’d blanched.  

 “It’ll be all right,” James murmured to him in an undertone, just soft enough for the two of them to hear.

The elf startled at being addressed, and regarded James with wary eyes.

James let the elf into his rented room, closed the door behind them, and shot the bolt.  He dropped the chain on the night stand.  It clanked loudly.  James winced at the sound.  He set the bag with the rest of the winnings beside it.

The room was small and rather plain, neither the best nor the worst of those he’d stayed in on his journey.  It held a single bed, an uneven night stand, and a small, rickety chair.  The air smelled only slightly musty, and the linen looked like it had been washed recently.

The space seemed infinitely shabbier now for the presence of the long-limbed, elegant, infinitely graceful elf.  He should be in a grand ballroom or a walled garden of rare flowers or among the towering trees of an ancient forest.  He seemed as out of place here as a falcon in a chicken coop, and as frightened as a wild fox in a kennel full of hounds.

The elf backed into a corner, sage-green eyes regarding him with a fearful, hostile stare.  He had to secure the elf’s obedience for the sake of his plan, and his trust for both their sakes.  He had no idea where to begin.

     “Look,” he said at last.  “I— what’s your name?”

     The elf shrugged. “Whatever you want it to be, Master.”

     “What did he call you?” James loathed Alain too much to even say his name.

     “Pretty.”

     Gods of vine and weather, this was not going well.  “What is your real name?”   

     “Whatever you—“

     James refused to hear that again. “What did your mother call you?”

     The elf went rigid.  Had the question overstepped some elven taboo?

     “Loren,” the elf said softly after a moment.  “My name is Loren.  Master.”

     “Please, even my servants call me James.”

     Loren’s eyes narrowed.  “And what do you slaves call you?”

     “I have none,” James said hotly.  Oh gods’ mercy “Except, well. . .”

     “So you are not a man who lightly owns another.  And I am an exception.  Is it because I am an elf, not a mortal, that my slavery is acceptable to you?”

     “No. . . yes, not exactly,” James took a deep breath, decided to start over.  “Loren, I won’t . . .use you as Alain did.  I would take no one, not maid nor elf nor mortal man without consent, and a slave cannot consent because a slave cannot refuse.”

     “What, then?”  The suspicion in Loren’s eyes did not abate.

     “Do you know of the Luck of the First Families?”

     “How could I not?  Or have the short memories of mortals forgotten from whence the Luck came?”

     He should count it a victory that Loren felt confident enough to challenge him so.  Really, he should.

“We have not.  The Duprees have not, at least.”

     Loren went on as though James had not spoken  “When the elf-lord Varen gave talismans to the noble families of this new, short-lived race that had come from far across the sea, it was meant as a symbol of the friendship built between elf-kind and mortal kind.  Your families held on to your Luck, as you called them, but you forgot about the friendship.”

     “My ancestors did not.  The Duprees never turned on your kind.”  James’ father was very proud of that bit of family lore, always emphasized it when he told James stories of the long-ago when mortals drove elves from the Sunlit Lands to the Lands Between. 

     The elves had knowledge and magic on their side.  But mortals had more children, faster than their mortality took them.  Elven wisdom ans elven powers had not long stood against sheer numbers

     “The Duprees did nothing  while my people were slaughtered and driven from these lands!  And you have no problem, apparently, keeping one of us as a slave.”

     If Loren felt comfortable enough to talk back, that must be progress.  Of a sort.

     James was tired, and wanted to sleep.  More than anything, he wanted to be sleeping at home, in his own bed. 

Home meant rolling vineyards and mist in the orchards; the weathered stone of his ancestral manor; the rose-bordered graveyard where his ancestors were buried, where his beloved wife was buried.  He owed it to those who depended on him, and to the memories of those gone before, to regain the Luck.  That meant gaining the cooperation of the justifiably suspicious elf before either of them could sleep this night.

“I have no choice,” James said.  “Years ago, my father was murdered and our Luck stolen.”  

A married man, and he should have been spending the feast-night with his parents, with his wife and young daughter.  Instead, he’d gone out for a night of drinking and gaming with an old friend.  He’d come home to

Pool of blood on the hall floor.  A body.  Oh, gods, his father. 

Hours later, he had realized the Luck was gone.

James swallowed, and went on.

“Without the Luck, my family’s fortunes have declined.  I will not see my family’s estate taken to pay our debts, see my mother homeless in her old age and my daughter without prospects.”

     “Other mortals survive without Luck.”

     His hands clenched into fists.  Loren pressed back against the wall.  Still afraid, and you’re not helping.   He took a deep breath, let it out, opened his hands/

“For myself, I could survive, by the strength of my back, by my skill with a blade,”  James said.  “By my skill with the cards, if it came to it.  But not well enough to support my family as they are accustomed to living.  Not well enough to keep the estate my ancestors built.  Certainly not well enough to keep the servants who have worked for us for generations, who depend on me to provide their livelihood.  It has taken me years, but I have found the identity of the thief— a wastrel younger son of one of the upstart midlanders.  And I have found out what he was after, and where he likely perished, and where my family’s Luck might still rest.”

     “And what has this to do with your sudden desire to hold a slave?”  Curiosity now mingled with the hostility in those gray-green eyes, and the elf held himself less stiffly.

     James leaned against the wall, deliberately making himself less threatening.  The elf’s posture relaxed further.

“I had to ask myself why it was the Dupree Luck  that was stolen. Not the Normand Luck, to bestow good fortune in commerce, nor the Halstead Luck, which gives advantage in armed conflict.”

“The Dupree Luck was the finest of all Lucks, the essence of my people,” Loren spat.  “Given your ancestor who was, among all mortal lords, best beloved of our king.  Though I suppose a mortal could not be expected to appreciate such a sublime gift.”

Rising to Loren’s baiting would only make matters worse.  James raised a hand in a gesture of peace. 

“I meant no slight to your family’s gift.  I was raised to cherish our own Luck, both for the spirit in which it was given, and how it nourished the wine-yeast that was also a gift from your king, the yeast that made our wines the most prized from the North to the midlands to the very South.”

He began to pace.

“The worth of that wine was enough to keep us, my household and its servants.  When the Luck was stolen, the yeast failed to thrive and. . .changed somehow.”

Loren had pressed back into the corner.  James stopped pacing, and Loren relaxed a fraction.

“The wine is still good, among the best, is no longer prized above all other wines.  And, strange as it sounds, the vines seem less vigorous, and my people and even the livestock get sick more often, when before they were uncommonly healthy.”

If the Luck had not been stolen fever might not taken his wife’s life.

“Not so strange,” Loren said.  “The very heart of our magic, the power of the green, the spark of life itself, went into the Luck we gave to your family.”

 “And that’s why it was stolen.  The thief thought it would get him safely into your people’s lands, hoping to steal things of greater power than that you freely gave to mortals so long ago.  I believe he died somewhere in the Lands Between, and that the stolen Luck remains there still.”

     “And so you need an elf to guide you to the Lands Between.  I will not betray my people by bringing a mortal into their sanctuary.”  The elf raised his head proudly, but his voice trembled in anger and fear.

     He doesn’t know you.  He has no reason to trust you.   “I mean no harm to your people, and I would not ask you to betray them.  I only wish to recover my heritage.”

     Loren’s eyes narrowed.  “Why should I believe you?”

     James spread his open hands in appeal.  “You don’t have to.  No human could find his way back to the Lands Between without an elf’s aid.”

     “Your thief did.”

     “And died there.”

     “If I refuse to take the risk?”

     Could the elf not be the least bit grateful that he’d saved him from Alain?  It was too late at night to deal with this dance between fear and defiance on top of his own guilt. 

     James’ slow-building temper boiled over.  “If you refuse, then I suppose you would be of no use to me, and you could take your chances with the highest bidder at the next slave auction.  Who might or might not have you cut as a precaution.”

     Loren stiffened; fear flashed in his eyes.  James opened his mout the apologize—gods of my ancestors, did I just say that—but couldn’t find the words to even begin.

The elf lowered his head in submission.   “I am yours to command, Master.”

     There was no way to unsay the words, and they had achieved his purpose.  Damn.   

“I told you, my name is James. And I am glad we have reached accommodation,” he said more softly.  “Truly, I do not wish to see you harmed, nor do I intend harm to your people.  When I have recovered my family’s Luck and am safely back in the Sunlit World, I swear you will go free.”

     Loren did not look up; drawn in on himself, a slave’s posture, the body language of fear and mistrust.  James put a hand on Loren’s shoulder, intending comfort, but the elf flinched under his touch.  James stepped back.

     “It’s late.  Let’s try to get some sleep.”

     Though it made him sick to do so, James chained the elf by his collar to the bedpost on the far side of the bed.  He made sure the chain was long enough for Loren to move comfortably.   

James lay down, and Loren promptly shrank against the wall.  James turned his back to the elf, and tried to sleep.

     What have I gotten myself into?

II

      The morning was awkward almost beyond bearing.  He unchained Loren, careful not to let the iron touch the elf’s skin. Loren would not look at him, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall past James’ right shoulder.  Just as well.  James had no good answer for the accusation he would find in the elf’s eyes.

     “We can break our fast down in the common room,” James said.  “Then we’ll go into town and find you a horse and some sturdy travel clothes.”

     Loren nodded once.

     Over breakfast, James studied his porridge to avoid looking at his unwilling companion.  James had little appetite, and what breakfast he did choke down lay like a millstone in his stomach.

How had Loren come to be a slave in mortal lands?  James had not heard of any elves venturing into the Sunlit Lands since the wars.  He had despaired of finding a way into the Lands Between until he had set eyes on Lauren last night. 

Any casual question, no matter how carefully phrased, would carry the force of command.  He would demand of Loren nothing inessential to the recovery of the Dupree Luck.

     James left the table to inquire of the innkeeper what shop in the village might sell cast-offs too good for the rag-picker, and where he might find a mount for sale.  The sooner Loren was outfitted and they were on their way, the better.  Harvest was fast upon them, and he needed to be home.

Loren would have a whole estate in which to avoid James until harvest was done and James could start planning the journey to the Lands Between.

From the innkeep, James learned that the minstrel and the playwright had lodged the night in the inn’s hay loft, and he left money to cover a few meals for both.  It assuaged his guilt a little; as a rule he never preyed on players so far below his own skills.

He turned to go back to his table.  Alain was there, leaning over Loren’s shoulder.  James couldn’t make out the words, but then Alain laughed suggestively and Loren flushed.

     James strode to Loren’s side of the table.  Alain stepped back, and James put himself between the merchant and the elf.

     “He is yours no longer,” James said. “If you cannot address him with courtesy, you will not address him at all.”

     Alain stared at him for a moment, then stalked off.  Loren glanced up at James.  Something flickered in his eyes— surprise, maybe a hint of gratitude— before he dropped his gaze.

     Don’t do this.  Stay with me.

     Loren had every reason not to trust mortals.  James had a feeling he’d be reminding himself of this often.  In acquiring a slave, he had increased by one the number of people for whom he was responsible.  In some ways, he owed Loren a greater obligation than he did to his servants.  A free man could look for another master if he found fault with him. 

Last night had not been a great beginning.  He would do better.

They finished breakfast and stepped out of the inn.              James squinted in the bright autumn daylight, eyes taking a moment to adjust after the dimness on the Blue Boar.  Even this early, the air was filled with the dust and noise of traffic and commerce.  Gazes downcast and postures hunched with fear, slaves in iron collars scuttled here and there on their masters’ business.  He felt Loren’s presence, to his side and a step behind, silent and sullen.

     He could unlock the collar, press last night’s winnings into the elf’s hands, and at least one slave would be free.  But Dupree Manor and its people would be doomed.

A thin, nervous cat crouched in the shadows of the inn.  It meowed piteously but with little hope.  James regretted that he didn’t have any scraps to feed it.  If his daughter were here, she’d want to take it home.

James and Loren started across the street, only to jump back as a heavy cart rumbled by, harness jangling, the driver keeping the heavy team to an immoderate trot for the populated street.    A local spat at the passing wheels; another swore at the driver with creativity but little heat.

     Southern pace, southern customs.  The sooner he could get the elf outfitted, the sooner he could be on his way home.

Loren followed James silently to the shop the innkeeper had suggested.

“We’ve no time to have clothes made for you,” James said.  “I’ve brought little enough of my own, and I doubt any of it would fit.”

Though he was of average height for a mortal man and on the lean side of average build, he was still shorter and broader than the elf.  Finding any clothes that fit would be a challenge.

     The proprietress was a slight woman who came up to James’ chest, barely.  She wore her steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun.  The eyes in her pinched face were hard as iron and nearly as dark.

     “We’ve come to buy clothes for my—for him,” James stumbled over the words.

     She looked Loren up and down.  Her thin lips turned firmly downward, and her nose wrinkled as though she smelled something foul.

     “I doubt very much I have anything to suit.  I don’t cater to that sort of business.  I’ll thank you to remove your fancy thing from my shop.”

     Loren went rigid beside him.  James wanted to turn on his heel and leave.  Only they had weeks of riding ahead of them, and Loren had no clothes appropriate to the journey.

     “Forgive me, mistress,” James said.  “I am a stranger here.  We only need some sturdy, warm clothes, and I am willing to pay a fair price.”

     In other words, I’m desperate, gouge me.  He saw the moment the shopkeeper’s instinct kicked in and the woman’s expression changed from disdain to unctuous greed.

     Loren barely glanced at the clothes they were shown. He met any attempt to solicit his opinion with a stubborn deference.  “Whatever you wish.”  “Whichever pleases you best.”  With “Master” unspoken but clear each time. 

James was ready to shake him until his teeth rattled just to get a reaction.  Patience.

There was little enough to choose from that would fit the elf.  James bought the sturdiest and best quality he could find.

“Sorry about. . .all of that,”  James said when they left the shop.

Loren looked at him without expression.

“Hopefully, finding a horse will go more smoothly.”  James said with false cheer.

Loren did not answer.  James felt absurd, like a village madman talking to a fencepost.

     He approached the horse trader’s yard with a mixture of trepidation and resignation.  Ordinarily he would never buy a horse from such a place; the best he could hope for was to not be cheated too badly.  But he didn’t have time to locate a reputable local horse breeder.  Nor would his traveling funds, even augmented by last night’s winnings, cover the cost of a quality horse.

     The paddocks were filthy and stank of old manure.  The fences, unpainted and well-gnawed, leaned in such a way that it seemed only habit kept them standing at all.  The ribby horses within hung their heads, despondent.  A few had weeping sores over their withers or backs.

     The beasts startled at a sudden commotion from inside the barn.  A horse’s angry scream.  The sound of hooves striking wood.  A man cursing.  Then splintering boards and a brief impression of red chestnut coat and flying red mane, charging towards them. 

James leaped out of the way, taking Loren with him.

The horse wheeled in the yard and stood, snorting a challenge, muscles twitching readiness for fight or flight.  He was a beauty-- clean, straight legs, a deep chest, and a refinement of head that spoke of more than a little Eastern blood.  Shame the horse’s disposition didn’t match his appearance.  Surely the temperament had landed the beast here.

     As James caught his breath from the near-miss, Loren approached the wild-eyed horse.

     “Loren, no!”

     The elf hesitated, then continued toward the horse, who pinned his ears and snorted.  He was glad to see the elf showing some signs of life, but not if it led him to trampling distance of that beast.

     The horse shook his head and bared his teeth.  Loren spoke to him sing-song in his own tongue and reached out to rub his forehead.  James fully expected to be taking the elf to the barber to be stitched up.

The horse allowed the touch.  After a moment the beast sighed and lowered his head.

     James stepped up to compliment Loren on his skill with horses.  As soon as the red horse noticed his approach, it snaked its head around the elf, mouth gaping wide and teeth bared.

     James leaped back.  Loren grabbed the halter and dragged the horse’s head toward himself, then spoke softly to the beast until it settled.  Loren glanced at James, fear in his eyes. 

     He expected James to retaliate against him or against the horse.  What kind of monster did Loren think he was?

The kind who kept slaves, apparently.

James forced a smile, hoping to set Loren at ease.   “It would seem your new friend does not care for me.”

     Loren turned from James to stroke the red chestnut nose.  “He has little enough reason to love mortal men.  He was passed from owner to owner.  Each chose him for his beauty.  Not one of them understood his sensitivity or his spirit.  When the beatings didn’t break him, they gelded him.”

     Loren’s voice broke on the reference to gelding.  James winced.   

     “But the gelding did not make him as meek as they wished,”  Loren continued, “and the beatings only taught him to hate and to strike before he was struck.  Being only a horse, he cannot know that rebellion will ultimately lead to his death.  I imagine that he’ll finish as some hunter’s bear bait.”  Loren’s voice trembled with all the emotion he dared not display on his own behalf.

     They had come to buy Loren a horse.  Only it would be madness to buy this. . .devil in a horse-skin coat.  Loren would not ask him.   Loren would not ask him for anything. 

     “Can you make the beast rideable?” James asked.

     “He would let me ride him.  I don’t think he’ll ever accept one of your kind.”

     “You’re the only one who’ll be riding him, believe me.  If you want to take him on.”

     A wary hope lit the gray-green eyes.  “Please.  If you want me to beg—“

     Gods of the harvest, what has Alain done to him?

James held up a hand to stop the words he couldn’t bear.  “No.  Never.  I only have to know you’re sure.  I can only afford to buy one horse today. If he won’t carry you, you’ll be the one walking.”

     If it came to that, James suspected that they’d be riding double on his own horse or taking turns walking.  No matter, he wouldn’t be leaving the stableyard without Loren’s red devil.

     “G’day, sir.  I must thank ‘ee for catching that monster for me.  Last time, ‘e went tearing down Main Street, nearly ran down the sheriff’s wife.             Caused me no end of trouble, I can tell ‘ee.”

     The horse trader, a wiry, brown-haired man, held a hand to his ribs.  The horse in question must have landed at least one solid kick.  James didn’t bother to point out that Loren had been the one to catch the horse. The slave collar made the elf a non-entity in the eyes of society, and James had no right to be offended on Loren’s behalf when he himself kept him a slave.

     “What will you do with him, then?”  James asked, nodding toward the red horse, who had noticed his master’s approach and cocked a hind leg in clear threat.

     “Flashy as ‘e is, I’d hoped some young fop would see him as a challenge, but so far none has been that reckless.”

     “There’s recklessness, and then there’s suicide,”  James observed as the beast rolled his eyes and shook his head in menace.

     “’e seems quite taken with yer pretty one, there.”

     Though James bristled at the appellation given        Loren, he kept his best gambling face and shrugged.  “Meaning he has let the elf within striking distance without attempting murder.  How much to take him off your hands?”

     “Three silver.”

     James snorted.  “You’d be lucky to get three copper for him as bear bait.”

     “Ah, but ye won’t be using him as bear bait, will ye?”

     “Doesn’t matter what I intend to use him for.  What matters is what another buyer might possibly pay for him.”

     Loren glanced at him, silently pleading.

     Trust me, Loren.  You’ll have your horse, and we’ll have enough funds to eat on our journey.

     “I’ll give you one silver for him, which is more than he’s worth.”

     “The horse I traded for him was worth five silver.”
     “Maybe he was, though I doubt it.  If you’re telling the truth, then you made a bad bargain, friend.  I suggest you cut your losses while you can.”

     The trader hesitated, but when the red beast swung his hips and started to back towards him, he nodded.  “One silver it is then.  Five coppers more, and I’ll throw in the tack ‘e came with.”

     “Done.”

The trader left to get the promised tack.  The red horse relaxed, lowering his head to nuzzle against Loren’s face.  The horse’s gleaming coat was a near match for the elf’s auburn hair.

     Loren looked over at James and smiled.  “Thank you.”

     He had never seen Loren smile before.  It warmed him through like sunshine.  He gladly would have spent twice what he did on the horse just for that smile.   He smiled broadly in return.

     The trader returned with a gaudy but serviceable saddle and an equally gaudy bridle equipped with a long-shanked, sharp-edged silver bit.  Loren settled the saddle onto the horse’s back and tightened the girth.  He picked up the bridle, ran a finger over the severe bit.  With a shudder he dropped the bridle in the dust.

     “The halter is enough.  I won’t use that. . .barbarity.”

     James nodded, agreeing with the elf’s assessment of the bit. He suspected that the horse would choose to carry Loren, or not, and the bit would not help one whit.

     “Ye’d better watch that one,” the merchant said in a low voice as James paid him.

     “The horse?  I shall.  Have no fear on that account.”

     “No, yer pretty one there.  Far too bold with his tongue.  Best crack down on him now, or ‘e’ll end up as unruly as the horse.”

     Out of the corner of his eye, James saw Loren stiffen.  The elf’s hearing was far probably better than his own.

     “We’re doing just fine,” James said coldly.  “Good day, sir.”

     “Yer throat ‘e’ll be slitting in the middle of the night,” the trader muttered as he turned away.

     James kept a cautious eye on the red horse as he approached Loren.  “I know you heard that.  I’m sorry.”

     Loren shrugged.  The earlier smile was gone.

     James squinted at the sky.  “It’s long past noon.  If we start today, we’ll be sleeping rough tonight.  We won’t make it to the next town before the gates close.  We’ll stay at the inn another night and get started early tomorrow.”

     Loren bit his lip.  He took a breath as though to speak, but held his silence.

     “Loren, if you have something to say, I’d like to hear it.”

     “Alain is powerful in this town,” Loren said, voice quiet, hesitant.  “And he doesn’t like to lose.  The longer we stay here, the more time he has to organize trouble.  He’ll try to get me back.  I’ve no desire to return to him.  And you don’t want the sort of trouble he can cause.”

     James hated Alain more each time he heard the fear in Loren’s voice.  Hated himself, too, for the barely-veiled threat that had seemed necessary last night.  “Let’s get some things straight.  I can’t set you free right now, and I will compel you to help me regain my family’s Luck.  If you try to escape, if you try to harm me or mine, there will be consequences.  But I will never punish you for asking questions, speaking your mind, making a suggestion, and especially not for warning of a danger.  Do we have an understanding?”

     The elf nodded, though his eyes were still mistrustful.

     “You think I’ve made an enemy,” James continued.  “Alain won’t be the first, or even the worst.  Still, I’d rather avoid trouble.  I’m no stranger to sleeping beneath the trees, though it’s a bit late in the season.  We just have to collect my own mare and the baggage from the inn, and we’ll be on our way.  I hope you can keep that red devil from causing mayhem passing through town.”

     A hint of a smile. “I shall do my best.”

     “Please do.  And when this is all through and you have your freedom, you will take the beast with you when you go.”

     That won a bit more of a smile, and a quiet sound that might have been a chuckle.

III

     They made it back to the inn without incident, largely                      because the townspeople recognized the red horse and scattered before him.  Loren managed to curb the horse’s bloodier urges; the beast contented himself with pinning his ears and wringing his tail at anyone who came closer than a cart’s length.

     James’ bay mare whickered happily when he came to lead her from the barn.  She was less pleased to meet Loren’s red horse.  Clearly remembering that he used to be a stallion, the gelding rumbled a greeting from deep in his chest.  The mare wanted nothing to do with his nonsense and told him so, stomping a front hoof with a squeal of annoyance.

     James sighed.  It was going to be a long journey.

     As they passed through the city gate and onto the North Road, James’ back shivered as though he were being watched. Imagination fueled by Loren’s warning?  The elf hadn’t been lying; his fear was real enough.  James’ gambler instincts told him that much.   

Maybe Loren’s time with Alain had left him more paranoid than the current situation warranted. On the other hand, if Loren was as good at reading people as he was horses. . .

     Best to stay alert until they were well away from the town.

#

Loren breathed deeply as they left Dunbar behind them. The road took them through forest.   Deep green spruce and brilliant gold of autumn aspen mingled with the deep fire of the towering oaks.  The air was cleaner here than in the mortal town.  Less dust, no stench of too many mortals living too close together with too little sanitation.  Further from Dunbar, the mortal traffic thinned, and they rode side-by-side, a cart’s length between them to keep peace between the horses.  The horse’s hooves rustled in the fallen leaves, stirring up the sweet wild scents.

Alain was not one for quiet places where things grew wild.  Loren had missed the forest.

At least his new master had listened to Loren regarding the danger Alain presented, even if he had done so with condescension, as though he were merely humoring his slave’s unreasonable fears. 

But then he didn’t know Loren as Alain did, and Loren knew Alain far too well.  The man was used to getting his own way, and he wanted his toy back.  Loren shuddered remembering that morning and what Alain promised to do to Loren once he possessed him once more.

The message boy the guard sent off just after Loren and James passed through the gate might or might not have had nothing to do with them.  Should he mention it to James?  His new master might be at the limits of his patience with Loren.  Even if Alain had news of their leaving, there was little practical they could do about it now.

Before his capture, Loren had given mortals little thought.  He’d not yet been born when his kin fled the Sunlit Lands, though he’d been taught the mortal tongue as an intellectual discipline. 

Loren regarded mortals as he might regard boar or badgers— ill-tempered, noisome animals, dangerous in close quarters but otherwise insignificant.  His experience with the slavers who captured him, and even more so his time with Alain who bought him, changed his opinion of mortals. 

     He’d come to consider them beneath animals.

But he had to concede that there were some differences between individual mortals.  However little he trusted James Dupree, the man had to be preferable to Alain.

Loren watched his new master covertly. James.  Not master, James.  The mortal had been insistent on that.  For his own safety, Loren would have to learn the new rules quickly.

James carried himself well, his form athletic but not bulky. Loren found it hard to guess mortal ages, since his own people did not grow old.  The silver scattered liberally through James’ black hair would mark him as an older man, but his skin, still relatively youthful, made Loren think James was still in his prime, if perhaps the later years of it.

Contradictory, this mortal.  Contradictory and confusing.  Being utterly in the man’s power made confusion dangerous. 

James had made promises. But Loren remembered James’ appraising first glance over the gambling table and he had little reason to trust the honor of a mortal. 

     James seemed kind, so much as a mortal man was capable of kindness.  His easy generous charm that sometimes tempted Loren to respond to the quiet humor, the gestures of false friendship.  But he had shown another side last night, and Loren would not let himself forget that threat. James was not safe, and Loren did well to remember that.

     The North Road was wide and relatively straight, rutted with wheel tracks and torn by the hooves of horses and oxen.  If they kept straight on this road rather than taking any of the coming forks or crossroads, they would be in the town of Greenbrae tomorrow.  The road continued north from there, past James’ estates, north and north again to the place where he could cross to the Lands Between.  Home.

     This horse James had bought him— and Loren was still surprised that the mortal showed such consideration to both the horse and to him to make such a impractical choice— this horse James had bought him was bred for speed.  James’ bay was not.  An unassuming little mare, probably quite sound.  Sweet and kind in temperament, she had an almost maternal affection toward James.  A good horse, she’d do anything to take care of her rider.  But she’d never match Devil in a full gallop.

     Devil wanted to run.  So, for that matter, did Loren.

Alain would have never risked taking Loren outside the city walls like this, alone with no armed men to accompany them and insure Loren’s obedience.  Yes, James was armed.  But even if that fancy steel fighting dagger at his waist was more than decorative, Loren could make it past him before he had time to wield it.  Probably.  But if he didn’t.  Steel.  Iron alloy steel.  If he survived, and if James made good his threat, he’d face the auction, the dangers that the auction entailed.

     And if he won free, then what?  He’d have no money, no resources. He wore an iron collar he couldn’t remove himself that branded him as a slave to any who saw.  A slave without a master, a runaway, one whom anyone could capture and claim for bounty.  An honest hunter would return him to his rightful master, and then he would find out how well James made good on his threats.  A less scrupulous slave hunter might simply sell him to the highest bidder.  To another rich man looking for a toy, or worse yet, to a brothel. 

     But this was his best chance at escape in his years of captivity.  Surely the risks were worth it?

     He remembered the day at the gelders.  The screams, the blood, the sickening knowledge of the permanence.

     No, he was a coward, maybe, but he couldn’t risk it.  Not without better planning, better prospects for success.

The sun took on a fiery amber hue as it slipped lower on the horizon, slanting now more through the tree trunks than the canopy.  The shadows deepened, and the air turned cooler.

 “We’ll stop here,” James said.

Loren did not answer, but brought the red horse to a halt and sprang lightly from his back. 

#

James left Loren to tend the horses while he wandered the surrounding forest in search of firewood.  He kept an eye or ear on the campsite to be sure Loren hadn’t left the vicinity.

     He hoped the elf wouldn’t try to flee.  He hoped the night would pass more comfortably between them than the day had.  He also hoped every year for perfect weather and cooperative fermentation, and look where that got him.

     By the time he returned with the wood, Loren had finished untacking the horses, and was rummaging through the saddle bags.

“The key’s not in there, you know.”  James said. 

Loren startled, jumped to his feet and backing away from James and the baggage both.

“I wasn’t. . .”

Loren’s eyes darted left and right, as though looking for escape.  Fear, or guilt?

“Then what were you doing?” James took a step forward, deliberately menacing.

Loren retreated a step.  “I was looking for a curry.  For the horses.”

It was plausible.  And if it were true, James being the worse sort of ass. 

“The other saddlebag,” he said.

Loren went to the bag he indicated, going slowly, telegraphing each move, keeping a wary eye on James the whole time.  The elf found the curry, and started to groom James’ mare, who whickered softly to the elf. 

James laid the fire.  Last night’s rain had left the wood damp, and it refused to kindle from the flint’s spark. 

     “Would you like me to do that?”

     James started at the voice directly behind him; he had not heard the elf approach.  “If you like.”

     He handed over the flint.  Loren rearranged the wood to his own satisfaction and struck a spark.  In a few moments a fire blazed brightly. With a self-satisfied smile he handed the flint back to James.

     “Elven magic?” James asked.

     Loren snorted.  “Elven woodcraft.”

     “Well, thank you anyway.”

     Loren shrugged.  “Cold does not endanger me as it does mortals, but on the whole I’d rather be warm.  Besides, it’s not like you couldn’t order me to start the fire.”

     “But I didn’t.”

     Loren bowed his head— in concession, James hoped, and not in submission.  He didn’t know which would be worse— if                he never stopped feeling uncomfortable with his status as a slave-owner, or if he did.

     It’s only until I regain the Luck.

     They shared a meal of bread, cheese and meat in silence save for the whispering of the breeze through autumn-dry leaves, the pop and crack of the fire, the occasional thump of a shifting log.  Finished eating, James stared into the flames, eyes occasionally drawn to the elf sitting across from him, angular face made even more strange by the play of light and shadow.

So much he wanted to know about this mysterious new presence in his life.  But how to broach any subject and have it be an invitation to conversation and not a command to divulge information?  An innocuous question, then, to start with.

     “You seem to know quite a bit about that red horse, without having met him before,” James ventured.  “It’s as though you were reading his mind.”

     Not innocuous enough; Loren’s face regained the closed, guarded look.

“And you want to know if I can read your mind as well,” Loren asked. “Would you believe me, whatever answer I gave?”

     James shrugged.  “So far, you’ve given me no reason to doubt your word.  And yes, I had wondered about that, though I was genuinely curious about the horse, as well.  Mostly I hoped to pass the time.  It’ll be a long journey indeed, with you and I not speaking.”

     “You own me.  You command my obedience.  You cannot command my friendship.”

     Was the elf trusting his request to speak openly, or testing it?  Challenge in his eye, but also the glint of fear.  James preferred even this hostility to overt submissiveness.

     “I would not try to command your friendship.  I’ll not even require you to be civil, so long as you cooperate.  But because it’s not in me to treat you as a thing, I will continue to be civil to you.  And to travel in silence is hardly civil.”

     “Keeping me as your possession is not treating me as a thing?”

     James sighed.  “I don’t want to.  I have no choice.”

     “You have a choice.”

     “I’m not going through this with you again.” Guilt gave his voice more of an edge than he had intended.

     “As you command.” Loren bowed his head in exaggerated submission.

     James let the fire burn down to embers before he dug through his pack for Loren’s chain.  Gods, but he wished he didn’t have to do this. He steeled himself with the memory of Loren going through his bags.  Maybe he was looking for the curry, but maybe he wasn’t.

Jamws approached the elf awkwardly, the iron links in his hand.  Loren went very still.

     “Don’t,” he said quietly.  “Please.”

     James’ stomach twisted, heavy like the chain.  He hated the necessity, hated the collar, hated the chain, hated the whole idea. 

     “Please don’t make this difficult,” James said.  “I don’t have a choice.”

     Loren’s bitter smile was far different from the warm, genuine expression of gratitude that afternoon at the horse trader’s.  “You never have a choice, do you?  You have no idea what that really means.  Find yourself captured, stripped and sold, spend seven years owned by a man such as Alain, and you will know what it is to not have a choice.”

     Loren’s pain cut him, as did the justness of his accusation.  “I’m sorry.”

     Loren shook his head.  “No, you’re not.  Or you’d not do this.”

     If James listened to any more of this, the elf would talk him into acting against his interests.

     “You say you will not treat me as a thing,” Loren continued. “But then you chain me.  Not a thing then, but an animal.  I wonder—“

     “Enough!” 

     The elf responded immediately, dropping his head, seeming to grow smaller as he drew into himself.  When James locked the chain onto his collar, he held still but shuddered.

     “I-“  I’m sorry, he almost said.

     But Loren’s words had been fair; James had no right to apologize for what he would not change.

     “I shouldn’t have raised my voice to you,” James said at last.

     So much for encouraging the elf to speak his mind.  He’d never convince Loren to come out from behind his walls if he shouted him to silence every time he said something James didn’t like.

     The elf was going to drive him mad switching seamlessly from cold defiance to abject servility.  But then, James couldn’t fault him, given his own inconsistency.  He hated how quickly Loren submitted to an angry tone of command, hated how easy it was to slip into that tone. 

He lay down on his bedroll on the other side of the fire ring, his back turned to Loren’s silent accusation, and waited for the sweet oblivion of sleep.  It took a long time to find him.

     Dried grapevines twined with ribbon and ivy draped from the rafters of the grand feast hall.  Bright tapestries adorned the walls.  Candles and torches gleamed everywhere. 

His father sat at the head of the table, proud and merry in his holiday clothes.  The polished bronze Luck, brought out of its locked and secret hiding place for this night, gleamed on his chest.  James knew its shape as well as he knew  his own father’s face— a cluster of grapes, ringed with holly and grapevines twining.

Harvest feast. The midpoint between the equinox and the winter solstice.  The death of the old year. 

On this night, any of the household, down to the least of the servants, could hold the Luck briefly in his or her hands, to gain fortune for the coming year.

     “The thorn of the holly protects,”  his father had told him when he was but a child.  “The grape nourishes, body and soul.  The Luck of the Dupree, the gift of the elf lord Varen, cherished and kept by your ancestors.  It will be yours one day, to pass down to a child of your own.”

     This dream again. . .the last harvest feast his father had presided over.  The last night of his father’s life.     In the recurring dream James stayed at the feast, walked with his father to lock away the Luck, was there to stop the brigand’s knife.  Woke always with the knowledge of what might have been.

     Only this time, the dream took a different course.

     Loren appeared, chain dragging from his collar, and knelt before James’ father, begging his intervention.  His father’s gaze followed the chain to where it ended in James’ hands.  Never, not in all James’ wastrel years of gambling and dueling, did his father look at him with such utter disappointment.

     “Master!  James!”

     Loren’s frantic cry jolted through his sleeping mind.  He jumped to his feet, dagger in hand before he came fully awake.  Dark shapes in the shadows.  Glint of metal.  Old instincts woke.  James dodged and struck, and one dark shape fell.

     James spun. The world narrowed to attackers and the chained elf he had to defend.  Time slowed, he could count between the heartbeats loud as a drum in his ears.

Loren had grabbed the chain that trapped him, using his cloak to protect his hands as he swung it, doubled, against two knife-wielding ruffians.  The nearest ducked a swing of the chain.  James charged before he regained his balance. 

The man went down hard.  James pinned the wrist of the brigand’s knife hand, thrust his own dagger heart-deep.   Hot blood spilled over his hands.

     The last ruffian grabbed the swinging chain and yanked Loren forward.  James sprang.  Too late. 

     The ruffian pulled Loren against him, dagger pressed to skin just above the iron collar. With his other hand, he looped the chain several times around the elf’s wrists and pulled it tight.  Loren’s scream seared James’ soul as the iron burned into the elf’s flesh. 

James could not aid Loren without risking Loren’s life.  His hands went numb.  He closed his right fist tighter around the hilt of his dagger, trying to keep the feeling.  He used his breathing to focus his thoughts, just as he had been taught.

     No time to be sick.  No time for fear.  Duelist’s bravery.  Gambler’s calm.  For Loren, if not for yourself.

     Hard to think with the rush of blood roaring in his ears.

     “I’ll make you a deal, gambler,” the brigand said.  “I was told to kill you and take the elf.  But seeing as you turned out to be a better fighter than we figured on,” he spared a glance at the bodies of his erstwhile companions, “I’ll let you live.  If you don’t try to stop me leaving with the pretty thing here.  And the horses, so you won’t be following too close.”

“If I don’t agree?” James asked to buy time while he came up with a plan.

“I’ll slit the pretty’s throat and we’ll see which of us has the quicker knife.”

     Loren, deathly white, breathed now in great, heaving gasps of pain.  The sound rent the stillness of the night.

 Don’t think about that now.  Just like any high stakes game, focus on the other player and not on the risks.

 It was the best chance he had to get them both out of this alive.

If it were just a question of giving up Loren in order to spare the elf’s life, James wouldn’t hesitate.  But what would happen to Loren if he allowed the elf to be taken?

     “You’re hurting him,” James said.  “Alain won’t like it if you bring him back marked.”

     The man’s laugh was like spiders crawling down James’ shirt. 

“Alain don’t care if the pretty gets messed up this time.  He’ll be putting marks enough on him.”

     Very good.  He hadn’t been certain that Alain was behind the attack.  “Why take it out on the elf?  None of this was his doing.”

     “Didn’t put up much of a fight, did he?  Alain figures you couldn’t have won so big unless the elf was helping you.”

     James couldn’t let this man take Loren anywhere.  He just didn’t know how to prevent it without getting the elf killed.

     My fault.  If he’d left Loren where he’d found him, the elf wouldn’t be standing here, knife at his throat, iron burning into his wrists.  The chain he himself had clipped to Loren’s collar was the instrument of his torture.

     Loren met his eyes and mouthed ‘be ready’.

     And then the elf shoved himself backwards into his captor.  James leaped in and struck with his knife, even as Loren fell with blood blooming at his throat.  James stabbed and stabbed again, until he was sure the ruffian was dead.  Afraid of what he would find, he rushed to Loren’s side.