FEAR—
Shana’s stomach lurched and twisted; she was disoriented, dizzy. Was she falling?
Fear— the growl of thunder—
Sound, an unending roar, a cacophony, overwhelming, surrounding her—
— where am I—
Nothing—not blackness, nothing —all around her.
Dizzy— sick— thunder pounding the senses—
She panicked; couldn’t remember where—what—
—and dropped with a bump that tumbled her rump-first down to the ground onto the lawn of the Citadel cave. The others apparently had no better luck with their landings than she did; when her head stopped spinning and she could look about, she saw them sprawled in varying degrees of disorientation beside her.
She coughed, and cleared her throat. In the near distance, where the Citadel bulked against the back of the cavern, there were shouts. Surprise, alarm, confusion; the entire Citadel had been aroused.
“I—didn’t claim it was a quiet spell,” she said weakly, as people poured out of the building.
Valyn had the presence of mind to cancel the magic that made Shadow look full-elven, and to cast a hasty illusion of halfblood appearance on himself; she saw the features on both of their faces blur and reform at the same moment. In the general disturbance as the transportation-spell’s effects died down, she doubted if anyone noticed the light breath of music that came with his magic.
Right now she didn’t want to even think about casting another spell. No wonder the old ones didn’t do this often . She had known this would be more difficult than the simpler version she and the others had used to steal goods from the elven overlords—but she had not anticipated anything like this.
Zed reached them first, running as if his feet were on fire. When he saw who was sprawling all over the grass, he slowed, then stopped beside Shana, a strange mixture of surprise, apprehension, and wry amusement on his face.
“Well, Shana,” he said, looking from her to Valyn and back again, “you certainly know how to make an entrance.”
I don’t believe it. The one time I do something I’m sure is right and it turns out to be completely wrong .
Shana buried her head in her hands; Keman sat down on the bed beside her, and patted her shoulder sympathetically.
She couldn’t believe what a mess she’d made. She just couldn’t believe it. She’d turned the entire place on its ear and undone hundreds of years of secrecy in one afternoon. How did she do these things?
“Hey,” said Zed. She looked up, and he handed her a cup of hot tea. “Look, it could be worse,” he continued, squatting on his heels next to her. “So, you didn’t know the transportation-spell can be traced—so what? There was no reason you should know that—and I’d be willing to bet it was only a matter of time before the elven lords learned where the Citadel was.”
“But I’m the one who broke the disguise,” she said miserably. “It wasn’t chance, or fate, it was me—doing something stupid.”
“So?” Zed didn’t look terribly worried. “There were a lot of us who wanted to face the elven lords straight on; now there’s no choice. We fight, or we get wiped out.”
“If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t,” she told him sourly.
He grinned. “We’re not exactly helpless, you know—and anybody who’s afraid to fight can pack their things and head into the wilderness or the desert.” He paused a moment, then added, “Besides, even though they won’t tell you this, I will. The elves only know where we are in general. They don’t know the exact location of the Citadel. That gives us a really good tactical advantage when they move into the area to try and find us.”
“But that wasn’t what I wanted,” she protested unhappily. “I didn’t want to force anybody into anything.” She glanced sideways at Shadow and Valyn, who occupied the room’s only chair and the top of her little chest. “All I wanted was to get myself and my friends to someplace safe.”
Zed shrugged. “So it didn’t work out that way. Despite what anyone else says, I think we’re ready to take the elven lords on. Provided we aren’t taking on all of them at once.”
At that, Shadow looked up. “I’ve been keeping track of the Council through the lovely Triana,” he said, “just in case the wizards decided they weren’t going to tell us anything. They’re divided on it. In fact, it’s business as usual. Some of them think this is a trick by one of the others, some are certain it isn’t serious, and some just want to play games of politics with the situation. And of the ones that want to come wipe us out, most think that there isn’t more than a dozen of us. That lot is arguing about who’s to be in charge, and who is to report to whom—where the troops are supposed to come from—who’s going to supply them. It’s funny, really. While they’re debating, Dyran, Cheynar, and a couple of others are stealing a march on them and coming after us.”
Shana was surprised; first, because she hadn’t known that Shadow’s reach was that far, second, because of the elven lords’ behavior. It seemed so ridiculous—
But Zed nodded. “That was what I thought would happen. Back during the Wizard War they were united. Nowadays they’re so used to betraying each other that it’s second nature to them. That’s the weapon that is going to win this one for us.”
“Win?” Shana squeaked. “I’ll be happy just to survive! You haven’t seen what they can do—”
Valyn finally roused enough to take part in the conversation.
He had been acting so—flattened. As if when his plan went wrong and she took over, all ambition and energy seemed to drain out of him.
“Shana, don’t write us off the record before we even try!” He turned to Zed. “You can work that business of dividing them up even with the ones that are allied,” he said slowly. “At least you can with Dyran’s faction. No one trusts anyone in that cabal. If we can defeat them quickly, we’ll frighten the rest—and I think at that point there would probably be enough elves on the Council who are concerned only with their own skins and prosperity that we might be able to get them to sue for peace before they figure out how few we are.”
“Now that is what I was hoping to hear,” said a voice from the doorway. Shana’s old mentor Denelor entered, on the heels of his own words. “I’ve been studying the histories, you know,” he said, rubbing a tired eye with one finger, “and I’d noticed something about the elven lords. Since the Wizard War, every bit of real, physical fighting that’s ever been done has been fought through humans. You don’t like to risk your own lives at all, do you, lad?”
He looked directly at Valyn when he said that, and it took Shana a moment to realize that the wording of that last question was significant.
Valyn paled, his fists clenched, and he looked about him as if trying to figure a way to escape.
“Do relax, there’s a good lad,” Denelor said wearily. “I have no intention of doing anything about you, other than picking your brains for information. You there, youngster, give me that chair, will you? I’m too fat to want to stand for long. Which one are you, Mero or Keman?”
“Mero,” Shadow said, giving up the chair and taking a seat on the floor instead, relaxing under Denelor’s matter-of-fact attitude. “Keman’s on the bed. How did you know Valyn was elven?”
Denelor smiled a tired smile. “Two things, I suppose. One was his name—I know something about all the major elven lords and their heirs, and ‘Valyn’ isn’t a human name, anyway. The other was the fuss that occurred when Dyran’s heir and the heir’s bodyslave went missing at about the same time, and the fact that it was hushed up so quickly. That told me that the youngster was probably either a runaway or an abductee, and more likely the former. We don’t all bury ourselves under this mountain, and ignore the world outside, Shana.” That, she presumed, was for the look of surprise she must be wearing.
Denelor settled himself in the chair with a sigh. “At any rate, I keep a quiet eye on the affairs of our neighbors; I put all the facts together and added the faint glow of illusion that hangs about you, and concluded that the V’kass el-Lord Valyn and the Valyn that materialized with our Shana were one and the same.” He gave Valyn a kindly smile. “Sometime if you feel like talking, you’ll have to tell me what led you to bolt, lad.”
“Does anyone else know about him?” Shana asked anxiously.
“No,” Denelor replied, folding his hands over his stomach, “and I don’t intend to tell them. It isn’t relevant. A lad who would keep his halfblood friend—relative?—safe for years, then turn and run with him, is not the kind who would betray us. What is relevant is what you can tell us about our opposition.”
“You were right about them not wanting to risk their own lives,” Valyn said, slowly relaxing again. “That’s absolutely true. That’s why feuds never turn into assassinations. When you have as long a prospective lifespan as one of us—well, you don’t want to cut it short. If we can defeat the forces under Lord Dyran and make them think that we could just as easily defeat anything they’d bring against us, the Council is very likely to want to sue for peace. Especially if—”
He stopped, his expression clearly saying that he was torn between wanting to continue, and wanting to let his words remain unsaid.
“Especially if we can kill one or more of the elven leaders and bring it home to the rest that the immortals can be slain. Is that what you were going to say, lad?” Denelor asked softly.
Valyn nodded, reluctantly.
“That’s easier said than done, Master Denelor,” Zed said with direct matter-of-factness. “There aren’t a lot of things that’ll kill an elven lord. Magic, if you can get it past his shields. A sword, a knife, poison, if you can get within range to use them. Projectiles can be gotten rid of at a distance, so arrows are out. Except for elf-shot, and we don’t have any of that—”
“We have something like it,” Shana interrupted. -.Keman, should we let them know what you are ?:
Keman shrugged slightly. I don’t know why not. Between Mother and me, we’ve pretty well let the secret out .:
:Then go ahead. Just don’t fill up the room, please.:
“Oh?” Denelor said, turning back to Shana. “And just what is this— my word]”
Keman, who had transformed himself back into his real shape, though at less than one quarter of his real size, grinned toothily. Shana’s bed creaked and threatened to collapse, and he slid quickly from it to the floor. Zed and Mero scrambled hastily out of the way, and Zed’s eyes were as big and round as wine goblets. Shana couldn’t help herself; she chuckled, just a little, to see the otherwise unflappable Zed so thoroughly discomfited.
“Dragon-claws, Master Denelor,” Keman said, hissing the sillibants just a trifle. “You may ask Valyn if they are effective. Clippings from my claws can be made into an arrow-point, just as elf-shot can be. They pass magic-shields, and they are quite poisonous to those of elven blood.”
He transformed again, back to his halfblood shape, and Zed moved cautiously back to his place, although he kept a wary eye on the young dragon.
“My word,” Denelor said weakly. “This is—rather astonishing. But—there is nothing of magic about you, no telltale—how—”
“It’s not an illusion, Master Denelor,” Shana told him. “It’s a true shape-shift. Use an illusion-breaking spell on him and he’ll look exactly the same. That’s dragon magic, to change the shapes of things, including themselves.”
Denelor mopped his brow with his sleeve. “Well,” he said, after a long pause. “I thought I would come down here to consult with you about our present situation, then bring something to the elders as a kind of given—but I’m going to bring back a great deal more than even I bargained for. Well.” He sat there for a moment longer, looking at each pf them in turn, then heaved an enormous sigh. “Let’s get on with it, then, shall we? There’s no point in wasting time.”
Valyn slipped from tree to tree, letting his clothing blend in with the bark as he came up on the enemy’s rear.
Thank the Ancestors he finally had something to do. Something he could do. He felt so—useless. He hadn’t been able to think of anything for himself lately—his mind just wasn’t working. And every time Shana came up with another brilliant idea, he felt more and more inadequate. He’d assumed he would be pivotal in this whole rebellion—
Not only was he not pivotal, he wasn’t particularly useful.
It was not a good feeling. And all his life, he’d thought of women as being the useless ones—not really consciously, of course, but—it was one of the “givens,” like the fact that the sun set in the west. Shana had turned his “given” on its ear. Sometimes he half expected to find that the sun was not setting at all anymore.
Compared to that, finding himself working against Dyran was hardly worth thinking about.
Though it was odd to think of his father as the enemy. And yet, not odd at all. Somehow they had always been enemies, from the very beginning; and only now had the hostilities come out into the open. He had never really known his father, he thought, as he froze behind a tree trunk. It was strange, but he felt more kinship with old Denelor than he did with his own father.
As far as that went, he’d never really had the sense of family with anyone that the humans and halfbloods seemed to take for granted. Even Mero had always been—kind of an extension of himself. The shadow he had been nicknamed for. Mero had never seemed to have a life or a mind of his own—and one of the few times he’d balked, over handfasting to Shana, Valyn had never once hesitated to use a glamorie to change his mind.
In fact, the only time he’d done something against Valyn’s wishes when Valyn hadn’t used a glamorie to bring him round, was over Triana.
And was that because he didn’t think he should—or because he didn’t want to go head-to-head with Triana, he asked himself soberly.
He had found himself feeling very isolated and alone, watching the affection that Shana and Keman shared, the relationships between the older wizards and the children they had adopted. There was room in a relationship like that for quarrels and disagreements, for each party going his own way. There didn’t seem to be that kind of freedom in the bond between himself and Shadow. It would indubitably have been better for both of them if there had been.
Those were uncomfortable thoughts, and he left them gladly enough as he neared the enemy encampment.
He just couldn’t seem to—cope with feeling.
The encampment wasn’t hard to find. The humans of the army were noisy, and they were patently afraid of the forest, covering that fear by making still more noise. Most of them had never been in this wilderland, but they had heard terrible stories about the beasts and monsters that supposedly ranged it. They didn’t know they were about to have their fears realized.
Valyn sought for the peculiar blank spot that was the creature he had nicknamed the “snatcher.” There were several of them in the forest, but this one happened to den very near the elven lords’ line of march. It was, in fact, the same creature that had taken his horse the first night in the wilderlands. It wasn’t nearly as dangerous as he had thought—it seldom went after two-legged targets, and it never killed more than it could eat—but they didn’t know that.
He crept as close as he dared to the den, then froze where he was still safe—the snatcher hunted by movement—and sent out a delicate little thread of magic, creating an illusion of a fat pony just outside tangle of fallen tree trunks and thornbushes that hid its den, an illusion complete with rustling leaves and the sound of equine jaws tearing up grass.
The snatcher lunged, traveling so fast that it was a mere blur, the “pony” leapt away, then turned back to look at it with astonished eyes. It was very hard to see, once it stopped moving; it was able to change the coloration of its skin to blend in perfectly with its surroundings.
The snatcher lunged again. Again, the pony escaped, and to the snatcher it must have seemed oblivious to its danger.
Three more lunges and escapes, and the snatcher was within sight of the army’s picket lines. The horses sensed something wrong; they began whinnying and stamping nervously just as Valyn banished the illusion. Hungry, frustrated by the inexplicable disappearance of its quarry, and already farther from its den than it like to be, the snatcher saw the picketed horses, and gave way to temptation.
This time the prey did not escape; one poor, unfortunate beast wound up in the snatcher’s jaws, and the picket line exploded in panic as the snatcher snapped the ropes with a claw and retired swiftly to its den. Horses crashed through the underbrush as the ropes holding them broke and let them fly to the four winds. Some plunged through the camp, scattering gear and trampling people and equipment in their panic. Others plunged off into the forest, with handlers shouting after them.
Valyn withdrew discretely, before any of the elven lords thought to look for traces of magic, chuckling quietly to himself.
Mero waited patiently, lying along the tree limb, a position he had taken up as soon as he had determined where they planned to camp. Knowing, as he did, how the current hierarchy was constructed, and knowing where the choice campsites were, it didn’t take a great deal of thought to determine where the various leaders would choose to have their tents pitched and arrange to be in the vicinity.
He had an excellent view of the encampment. Lord Cheynar paced outside his tent beneath the boughs of another tree not far away. Finally, after what probably seemed like an indecently long time to the elven lord, the person he was waiting for appeared.
Cheynar started to relax—then Mero nudged his mind, just a little. Safer, far, than using magic that the elves could set traps for.
:-Stupid wench— spends all her time at the mirror— thinks it’s all a game— should never trust women with power— should never permit a woman to command troops.:
“You took your time getting here, Triana,” he snarled. “Couldn’t you decide what dress to wear?”
Triana, who was garbed quite practically in leather armor very similar to Cheynar’s, frowned. Her delay had been occasioned by another one of Valyn’s little ambushes, one that left the entire encampment in shambles, and the picket line decimated. And the horses were supposed to be Cheynar’s duty. Mero reached for her mind.
:How dare he! Obnoxious male— can’t trust him— looking for a way to steal my troops, then my Clan— trying to discredit me, make me look like a fool—:
“It just so happens, my lord Cheynar,” she said sharply, “I was seeing that the resupply of horses you lost due to your incompetence was taken care of properly. I don’t leave important business to subordinates!”
Mere reached again. : Uppity bitch! Should be in the bower where she belongs! Probably out scouting the slaves for likely bedmates!:
“Really? Was it the horses that interested you—or the horse-keepers?” Cheynar smiled nastily. “It couldn’t have been the horses—we don’t have any stallions here—”
The sound of a palm striking a cheek with a crack that made heads turn all over the camp was sheer music to Mero’s ears.
Shana lay flat on her back in her bed in the Citadel, all alone, her eyes closed, to all outward scrutiny completely asleep.
In actuality, she was very, very busy.
Between her native ability and the amount of practice she had in using the amplifying powers of her stones and crystals, her “touch” in the use of the spells that moved things about was unrivaled, even by older wizards. Add that to her ability to levitate objects, and she was, essentially, an invisible, undetectable saboteur. So she had taken it as her task to make life interesting for the elves hunting them.
At first, she had confined herself to simple sabotage. Now she was after bigger game.
From Mero’s mind, she found Dyran’s tent. With that location verified, she could “look” inside it, and even peer within caskets, “read” unopened documents, and sift through piles of papers without moving any of them.
Thus, letters vanished from a locked box in Dyran’s tent, and reappeared under a pile of dispatches on Triana’s portable desk. Cheynar’s secret dispatches to the Council appeared in Dyran’s correspondence. A series of small, valuable objects belonging to various subordinates ended up among Lord Berenel’s personal effects.
A large cache of gold coins, moved from the storage vaults under the Council chamber, appeared in Berenel’s luggage.
She still had some strength left after all this, so she concluded her exercise by disarranging the papers in all the elven lords’ tents, making it look as if someone had been rummaging through them.
Then, greatly daring, she eased a touch into Cheynar’s mind. .-Something is wrong ,: she whispered into his thoughts. :You can’t trust anyone. Dyran is a powerful mage, and even Triana could be hiding something besides who she wants in her bed. Perhaps you had better check the tent —:
Shana found the dim lighting of the Citadel meeting-room restful to her tired eyes. The other four looked just as weary; even Keman had been hard at work, keeping watch as best he could on the elven lords’ thoughts.
The council of war in the wizards’ meeting-room included the four youngsters for the first time, at Denelor’s urging. Up until this moment, their efforts had been discounted—but the effect they were having at slowing the elves’ advance and disrupting their movements had finally convinced the older wizards that they knew what they were doing.
“… and I think it’s working,” Shana concluded wearily. “I think we might be able to get rid of them without exchanging a single blow ourselves. They haven’t moved their camp for the last two days, and yesterday Cheynar came so close to challenging Dyran that I was ready to place a bet.”
Denelor straightened his tunic and nodded. “There’s no doubt that what you’re doing is keeping them distracted. More than that, really. The seeds of mistrust you planted are flowering so that they are finding excuses to quarrel. What I cannot comprehend is why things haven’t fallen completely apart by now.”
Valyn, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. “It’s Dyran,” he said softly.
All heads turned in his direction.
“Would you care to elaborate on that, lad?” said Denelor.
“It’s Dyran,” Valyn repeated. “Haven’t you noticed that while all the others are at each other’s throats, he never gets angry, never makes accusations? That’s been one thing that he’s been noted for, all of his life. He may betray his allies, but he will never, ever lose his temper with them. He saves his tempers for his slaves—and for the halfbloods.”
Denelor nodded thoughtfully, as if Valyn’s words confirmed a guess of his own. “Go on, lad. You obviously know something we don’t.”
Valyn frowned. “He’s always been able to keep people under his thumb. He’s a master at it—threats, bribes, persuasion, glamorie—it doesn’t matter, he knows how to handle them all. He’s the one who’s kept the quarrels patched up, who’s found a face-saving explanation for the inexplicable. I don’t know why he’s so determined to find us, but he is, and he isn’t going to let anything or anyone get in his way.”
“Dyran is the real foe here?” asked Garen Harselm, his green eyes icy and calculating.
“That would make sense,” said Lukas Madden thoughtfully, hand stroking his beard. “It makes excellent sense. But what does Dyran expect to get out of this?”
Valyn shrugged. “I know a lot about Lord Dyran, but I don’t really know him ,” he said with a straight face, as Shana held her breath, afraid that he would make a slip. Only Denelor knew who and what Valyn was—and she was afraid of the consequences if any of the other wizards should discover Dyran’s heir in their midst. The fully human children she and Zed had rescued had made more than enough of a stir—and they were children, too young to be traitors or spies, young enough to fit into life within the Citadel and learn loyalty to the wizards.
But a full-grown elven lord?
The first thing the others would think of would be betrayal; the next, how Valyn could be used as a hostage.
So, Valyn had miraculously become a halfblood cousin, like Mero, named for Dyran’s heir and placed in the heir’s service until that worthy had gone off to Lord Cheynar for fosterage. Whereupon, fearing discovery, the two had escaped. None of the other wizards knew as much about the elven lords as Denelor, the subterfuge had passed unremarked.
“We have to conjure up some trick that not even Dyran can explain away,” said Parth Agon decisively. “The longer we keep them quarreling, the more time we will have.” He smiled thinly. “I must admit that I find it ironic to think that the very tactics that defeated our predecessors may be our salvation.”
“Only if we can continue to make them work for us,” Denelor warned. “The combined troops of all of the allies could easily overrun the Citadel, despite its protections, if they ever learn exactly where it is. Arrogance and overconfidence lost the last war for us. And according to the old chronicles, we were the victims of manufactured quarrels the last time. We must stand united in this.”
He looked directly to each of the wizards in turn, before concluding his speech. “Let’s learn from our history, shall we?” he said mildly.
Please, Shana thought, with an intensity that threatened to give her a headache. Please listen to him .
There was a moment of silence—
Then Parth cleared his throat, and half a dozen voices spoke up at once, each with a different plan.
So, Lord Dyran was the one to reckon with, hmm? Garen Harselm left the war council with a decidedly different set of ideas than his fellow wizards. And as he made his way to his quarters, he weighed all the possible options in his mind. They were all set to oppose the elven lords—even old Parth had screwed up his courage, now that there was no choice except to run or stand and fight.
And probably die. Denelor was right. The wizards should learn from history. And history said that opposing the elves was suicide.
Garen opened the door and lit the lamps in his suite with a negligent flick of his hand, and surveyed the accumulations of a lifetime, all crowded into three cluttered rooms. Not so much, really. Nothing that couldn’t be replaced. Very little he couldn’t live without.
There were a few things he would like to take along—a book or two, a favorite robe, a carved fish he liked to hold when he was thinking—
But—no. None of it was worth encumbering himself. And if he was seen in the halls carrying a bag, there would be questions that he was not prepared to answer.
So he turned his back on the possessions of a long and acquisitive life, and closed the door again, heading down into the maze of corridors in the caves behind the Citadel, towards an exit he was fairly certain only he knew existed.
“Lord Dyran?” The human guard was diffident, humble, and reluctant to disturb his master’s concentration.
Having learned, no doubt, from the example of his predecessor.
A predecessor whose ashes were even now being swept into the fire-pit by yet another slave.
“Yes?” Dyran said, without looking up from his letter. It was another missive to the Council of course; damned fools, all of them, who could not forget their quarreling long enough to deal with a real problem. But he could not be there and here at the same time—and once he crushed this menace, he could deal with the Council at his leisure.
Why was it that none of them could understand that the halfbloods were more dangerous than any elven lord? If he’d known that the thefts all these years had been due to halfbloods and not wild humans with wizard-powers, he would not have left a tree standing in this wilderland.
“Lord Dyran, there’s a Lord here to see you,” the guard said, with commendable civility. “He says he’s here to offer you an alliance.”
An alliance? Dyran looked up, his interest piqued. Were they flocking to his banner already, and the war not yet won? “Send him in,” he told the guard, “and see that we aren’t disturbed.”
But when the visitor entered Dyran’s tent, his face shrouded in the hood of a cloak, Dyran frowned. There was a glow of magic about him, the faint hint of illusion. If this was some kind of a trick—
With a single word, he overpowered and broke the spell, and the man chuckled, and put back his hood, allowing the golden glow of a mage-born light to shine on his face.
There was no mistaking those features.
Halfblood! Dyran raised his shields immediately, and his hand stole beneath the table to grasp the knife hidden there.
“What do you want of me, wizard?” he asked coldly.
But the other made no offensive moves, indeed, no moves of any kind. His bearded face remained calm, even bland. “It is not what I want of you, my lord,” he said, in a smooth, even voice. “It is what I can offer you.”
Dyran’s eyes widened in surprise, but only for a moment. Then he, too, began to smile. “So,” he said, releasing his hold on the dagger’s hilt and leaning back into his chair, “one of the wizards chooses to turn his coat. Is that it?”
“My lord, I protest,” the stranger replied, irony thick in his tone as he spread his empty hands. “I am simply choosing to provide my services to someone who would appreciate them. The choice is simple, or so it seems to me. I can choose to serve you, live, and most likely prosper—or I can oppose you with the rest, and die, as the old ones did long ago. My name, by the way, is Garen Harselm.”
“You interest me,” Dyran said, and gestured at one of the stools on the other side of the table. “Do sit down. Now, what exactly are these’services’ you offer, Garen?”
Garen hooked one of the stools neatly with his foot, and drew it to him before settling himself onto it. If he was disappointed at not being called “Lord” Garen, he did not show it. “First, I offer my services as a wizard. You, of course, are an acknowledged master of elven magics—but I can provide you with the other half of the equation. The wizard-powers. The ability to know what your enemies are thinking—to know what they are doing—to move objects without needing to cast a spell—”
“Enough, Garen, I know what wizards are capable of,” Dyran said with a trace of impatience. “I also know that not all wizards are equally able in all aspects of those powers.”
Garen shrugged. “I can’t expect you to believe me when I tell you that I am as much a master of my magics as you are of yours. I shall, of course, prove that to you in time. But I can offer you two more things that
I think are of great import to you.” He held up one finger. “The location of the wizards’ stronghold.” He held up the second finger. “The location of your son and heir.”
Only years of self-control—and the suspicion that the wizard was going to say that he knew where Valyn was—kept Dyran from betraying himself.
“And just what are you asking in return for all this?” he asked smoothly, raising a long, elegant eyebrow.
Garen spread his hands. “Simple enough, my lord. The opportunity to serve you. After all, isn’t it better to live in service than to die in dubious freedom?”
“Indeed,” Dyran replied, smiling. “So—just where is this stronghold?”
Dyran waited, still smiling, while Triana, Cheynar, Berenel, and the rest seated themselves. Triana alone looked unruffled—but then, she was a creature of the night, and had probably been awake when his summons arrived. “My lords,” he said, “and lady. Permit me to thank you for answering my call to assemble this evening.” He smiled a little more as Berenel stifled a yawn. “I know it is late, but I think, Lord Berenel, you will find it was worth breaking your rest to come.”
“It had damn well better be,” Berenel grumbled, wrapping his cloak about himself. “This is the third night in a row that something’s rousted me out of my bed.”
“It should be the last, my lord,” Dyran replied with a friendly nod. And you can go back to your dragon-chasing, my lord — while I go on to overlordship of the entire Council. “I have had a most unusual visitor tonight,” he continued. “A wizard.”
He chuckled at the swift intake of breath from Triana and Cheynar. “Yes, that is correct. A halfblood. He offered me the location of the wizards’ stronghold—and his own services. An offer that would be extremely difficult to turn down, wouldn’t you say?”
“In exchange for what?” Berenel demanded sharply. “And how do you know he wasn’t lying?”
“In exchange for his safety, and my protection—and of course, I don’t know that he was telling the truth. He could easily have been lying, both when he told me freely, and when I burned his hands off.” Dyran steepled his hands before his chin, thoughtfully. “It is possible of course. But I rather think he was telling the truth both times. And I don’t think he was tampering with my mind—I have had dealings with wizards before, you know, and pain completely destroys any control they have over their powers.”
“Where is he now?” Triana asked—uneasily, Dyran thought. He regarded her askance for a moment. There was something going on there. When this was over, he would have to see to the Lady, perhaps. She was hiding something…
He nodded at the pile of ash a slave was sweeping up. “He’d outlived his usefulness.” At Triana’s frown he pointed an admonitory finger at her. “You are very young, my lady. I take it that you disapprove of my promising this renegade safety, then disposing of him.”
Triana nodded slightly, reluctantly, as if she had not wanted to admit to that disapproval.
“Firstly, I never offered him safety,” Dyran told her. “He assumed it. And secondly, a man who has betrayed his friends, his own kind, is never to be trusted—and a wizard, a halfblood, triply so. Anyone who turns traitor once will do so again, when the stars turn in favor of a new master. Remember that, my lady. Halfbloods are treacherous by nature, and become more so with every passing year they add to their age. Like a one-horn, they will always turn on their masters.”
“For once, Dyran, I agree with you,” Berenel said emphatically. “So where is this’stronghold’ of theirs, and what are we going to do about it?”
Ah, I have you, my reluctant allies, Dyran thought with satisfaction, as he unrolled his map before them.
He had them all. And to think it was his bitterest enemies who gave them to him!
“Here is the stronghold,” he said, pointing to the spot he had carefully plotted from the renegade’s directions. “And this is what we are going to do about it___”