by Andre Norton
A pin for your thoughts, Mero said softly.
She laughed. Oh—that I am very glad that you are yourself.
If I weren't myself, who would I be? he replied comically.
Not that idiot I was betrothed to, anyway. She had told him all about that horrid betrothal dinner; he had grimaced in sympathy, but then he had pointed out how the concubine must be feeling in all this. That she must surely be afraid of losing her position, and when that happened, it was a long, long fall—
At the end of that long fall, mere would probably be plenty of her fellow slaves who would be happy to see her brought down.
She had thought, then, of all her own father's former concubines, and had realized that much of their bitterness was due to that very thing. How could they not feel bitter? And what other recourse did they have to ease their broken pride but the kinds of subtle insubordination she had seen over and over?
Her mother must have known mat—and it was why her mother had ignored it, showing sensitivity that Rena had not at the time imagined.
Well, I'm glad I'm myself, too. And I am glad that you are becoming more of yourself. He squeezed her hand gently, and she moved a little closer to him. Cattle lowed somewhere in the distance. You are stronger every day, you know. You remember, more and more often, not to be afraid.
Oh, I'm a coward for all of that, she told him, but he shook his head.
No. You only forget, now and again, that you're really very brave. That's all. He took the hand he held, turned it palm upward, and planted a kiss in it, closing all her fingers around it. Keep that to help you remember.
She shivered with pleasure and happiness, and felt herself blushing. I will, she whispered.
I know, he replied.
And he did. That was the glorious part. He did know.
She held to the moment as she held to the kiss. Whatever else came, she had this.
She would always have this.
Chapter 9
TODAY, WHILE JAMAL was watching his warriors in their practice games, the conspirators were meeting for the first time under blue skies rather than beneath the roof of a tent. Keman glanced around their little gathering uneasily; he didn't like the fact that they were meeting in the open, in a clear space between two of the tents belonging to the Priests, but he hadn't been able to voice his objections clearly.
He had been uneasy from the moment when Jamal capitulated to Shana's demand to speak only to Diric. There was something wrong; there had been for some time, but the wrongness lay only in the fact that things were going entirely too well. That made his unease all the more difficult to justify. Jamal was silent where they were concerned; he made no inquiries about them, accepted the maps and lists of properties and the means used to guard them with no comment, and didn't seem to care about anything else. There was something very wrong about that—given the fact that Jamal had been shamed before his own people by Shana's declarations, and Jamal was not a man to take such things lightly. He was a bad man to have as an enemy; he would never forget a slight, much less a wrong.
Shana told Keman that he was manufacturing trouble where there was none, and asked him with a touch of acidity if things were simply not perilous enough for him. But he could not get over the feeling that there was something they were all missing, and the clues were in Jamal's behavior, if they could only read them.
Today had begun warm, and was soon sweltering; muggy, without a hint of breeze. Heat shimmered the air above the grasses, and sweat did not dry, it only trickled down the body without cooling anything. The tents had collected so much heat that not even the Iron People could bear to remain within them; even Diric had agreed to Shana's suggestion that they conduct their business outside for a change. After all, Jamal and every warrior in the Clan were supposed to be engaging in contests today, to determine their fitness—though fitness for what, Jamal was not yet ready to reveal. Not to the majority of the Clan, anyway. It seemed safe enough for them all to meet in the open.
Yet Keman could not escape the feeling that they were all somehow following a plan of Jamal's devising.
If we could arrange for the roof of the tent to part, as if we had all grown claws to rend it, then wings to fly away, Shana suggested, as Keman returned his attention to the group. Or would it be better to look as if we had escaped into the earth instead?
That would be my preference, Kalamadea began. Perhaps by—
Oh, what a touching little gathering, a slow, drawling voice interrupted loudly.
Kalamadea, Shana, and Keman all jerked upright as if their heads had been on strings pulled by a puppet-dancer, for the language of the speaker was not the Iron People's tongue.
It was that of the dragons, and the voice was someone Keman recognized only too well—
Myre?
A tall woman of the Iron People, lean and muscular and dressed as a warrior, leaned indolently against the side of a wagon. It was no form that Keman recognized, and yet the woman had all of the arrogant stance that he associated with his sister. And she had a dragon-shadow.
You see, Lord Jamal, the woman continued in the tongue of their captors, a sly smile on her face, it is as I told you. The Priest confers with the demons to aid in their escape, and as I claimed, the two Com People are not Corn People at all, but yet more demons.
Even Lorryn's illusions were something the Iron People were able to see through, if they simply stopped believing in them. Jamal's eyes narrowed as he stared at Lorryn and his sister, and he nodded, slowly.
Keman's heart stopped.
So I see. Jamal stepped forward a pace, and stood with his arms crossed over his chest, an angry smile on his face. I see six enemies, and one traitor. Or—perhaps not. I shall give you a chance to save yourself, Diric. Perhaps you have grown senile with age, Diric, and these demons have deluded you. Perhaps it is time for the powers of the Priest to pass into the hands of the War Chief. Should you decide to come to your senses and grant me those powers, I might forget this meeting.
This all had the sound of something carefully rehearsed, as if Jamal was reciting words he knew by heart. But—why?
Diric stood up, slowly, his face as still as the iron of his forges. You will have those powers only if you dare to challenge me for them, young fool, he replied, his own voice as cold as the snows in the mountains. And remember, I can name a champion.
Diric had been courting the Man-Hearted Women, who were angry with Jamal's treatment of them—and who composed some of the best fighters in the Clan. He could name one of them as a champion, and not only would the fight likely go to her, since Jamal was somewhat out of practice, but Jamal's defeat would mean disgrace in his own eyes.
As can I, came the lazy reply. And I choose—her.
And, unexpectedly, he pointed to Myre.
I think you have no champion her like, the War Chief continued gleefully, openly reveling in the shock of Diric's face. If I were you, I should surrender your authority now. It will go easier on all of you.
And Myre smiled, the smile of someone who knows that the dice are loaded, that the game is already decided.
Of all of them. Keman was the swiftest to realize what the sly smile on Myre's face meant, and the smug one on Jamal's. She's told him! Or she showed him! He knows that she's a dragon!
And before Diric could make the fatal error that Jamal was probably expecting, of naming one of the other Man-Hearted Women as his own champion, Keman acted.
He pulled open his collar, threw the collar to the ground, and shifted as quickly as he had ever done in his life, forcing the others to spring to their feet and back away as his rapidly increasing bulk filled the space between the tents. He shifted so quickly that it made him dizzy, but he fought back his dizziness, as he towered over them all.
The surprise—but utter lack of shock on Jamal's face—told him that he had guessed right. Jamal knew that Myre was a dragon, and he had seen the shift from human to dragon before.
But maybe Myre had not told him there were t
wo other dragons among the prisoners. Or else both of them had assumed that the collars were still functional.
Diric chooses me! he roared, as Myre belatedly followed suit, shock still visible on her rapidly changing face. I am the First Priest's champion!
Then, before Myre could end her shift, leap upon him, and end the conflict before it could begin, he took to the sky with a thunder of wings that half-collapsed the tent nearest him. A cloud of dust and dead grass billowed up around the place where he had stood, and those closest to him threw up their arms to protect their faces from a pelting.
Then the tents dwindled below him as he pumped his wings, rapidly gaining altitude, going from tents to toys to the merest mushrooms on the green-gold plain beneath him. Altitude was his friend and ally. Myre had defeated him before in a straight combat; she was bigger and heavier than he was even now. He dared not allow her to close with him, to take the fight to a point at which that weight and length could make a difference.
He would have to defeat her with brain, not brawn.
:Running away, little brother?: came the sneering voice in his mind. :Running so soon?:
:Leading the race, little sister,: he taunted back. :Having trouble keeping up with me? Been eating a bit too well lately, haven't you? I thought that might be a bit of a paunch I saw. Perhaps a layer of fat around your hips?:
He'd seen no such thing, of course, but if he was going to force her to do what he wanted, he was going to have to enrage her until she wasn't thinking anymore.
His best weapons were agility and speed; he had to keep her in the air. For that, he had to keep her following him.
:Better give in to me before it's too late, brat,: she answered back furiously. :Or else keep running and leave your pets behind. I might let you go crawling back to those two-legger friends of yours while there's still something left to crawl back to.:
Something to crawl back to? Had she information that he didn't have about the wizards? It certainly sounded like it. He didn't reply; no point in it. If she wanted him to know something, she'd tell him; she couldn't help herself. And if it was bad news, she would definitely want to tell him, to demoralize him and make him stop thinking.
She was sending her voice out to every mind capable of picking it up, too, and he knew why. She wanted Shana and Kalamadea to hear. The trouble was, she didn't know that Dora was out there as well. Dora was his hidden ally, the unknown factor that could defeat Myre's ultimate purposes even if Keman lost this fight; if the very worst happened, and he was defeated, even if Myre managed to destroy or imprison all of them, Dora would know what it was that Myre wanted to taunt Keman with. If it was information vital to the wizards, Dora would surely see that it got to them before it was too late.
Wouldn't she? He didn't want to call to her; Myre might overhear. He had to keep all of his attention on what he was doing.
He could only hope, and wait for anger to force the words out of his sister.
:Your wizards are in revolt against each other, little brother,: she spat, as below him, she pumped her wings furiously to try and catch up to him. :The old ones want the old ways back again, the younger are refusing to serve them, and they are all so busy with their little internal grievances that they are not bothering to keep a watch on the elves. And they really should. Lorryn's escape has sent them all into a panic, and they are already planning to unite their magics for the first time in centuries to track you all down and destroy you! The Council is moving to reconcile every feud and grievance that has ever erupted. They are moving slowly, but they are moving. Soon, within a few moons, by spring at the latest, the third Wizard War will begin—and it will be the last Wizard War:
His heart went cold; she would not have said anything at all unless she was sure of her information, and the feeling of familiarity with the Council that permeated her thoughts made him certain that her information was as accurate as it was foreboding. The elven lords' refusal to reconcile their differences and work properly together was all that had saved the wizards from annihilation the last time. With that factor gone—
He took himself firmly in hand. This was no time for distractions. Never mind. It hadn't happened yet. And he had a fight to win before he could see that it didn't.
He continued to gain height, wings pumping strongly, heading straight up into the sun, which gave him the added advantage that Myre couldn't see him—
—which meant she couldn't see what he was doing!
He had a considerable height advantage on her now; would it be enough? Only one way to find out!
Abruptly he flipped over, folded his wings and plummeted, straight down, talons fisted in front of him like a falcon's fisted claws. Not for nothing had he been studying the way that hawks and falcons flew and fought. He would have to be the little peregrine here, who weighed far less than the ducks he pursued. More than that, he would have to be the peregrine defending his nestlings from a goshawk. He would have to outfly her to outfight her.
He dove at Myre with the wind of his passage whistling in his nostrils and pulling at the edges of his wings. He had to fight the pressure of the air to keep his wings tucked in tight to his body; had to strive with aching muscles to keep his rear legs pulled in hard against his stomach. Myre still had no idea what he was doing; she grew larger and larger in his sight, squinting against the light, wings pumping, lungs panting as she tried to catch him—
Then suddenly her eyes widened as she spotted him diving down at her out of the sun; abruptly she turned, her first instinctive action to turn tail and evade his attack.
Too late.
With a thud that surely reached down to the ground, he hit her in the back of the head with both fisted fore-claws, knocking her into an uncontrolled tumble and surely bringing stars to her eyes. But it would take more than one blow to the head to knock Myre out of a fight, and her instincts were sure. Before she could lash out with her claws and catch him, he snapped his wings open again, and turned the dive back into a climb. The sudden pressure of air against his wings was so much like hitting a solid object that it made him gasp, and his speed was so great at that point that he shot past her before he could begin climbing again. He lost sight of her for a moment as he fought to control his own headlong climb; when he found her again, she was far below him, but doggedly climbing to reach him once more.
She said nothing now, though, even when he taunted her about being too fat to fly. Though his chest muscles were afire with exertion, and his wings aching with stress, he smiled. The only time Myre didn't talk was when she was so angry that she couldn't respond.
But he knew he couldn't expect his attack to work a second time—at least, not in the same way. She might be angry, but she was a good fighter, and had probably gotten better since the last time he'd dealt with her.
So—make her think he was going to try the same tactic again, feint to draw her out, and switch to something else at the last minute? That could work.
He turned head over heels again, and dove a second time, although this time he did not have the advantage of the sun behind him. He had intended, instead of thumping her in the back of the head, to rake her back with his hind-claws, perhaps even tearing the tender membranes of her wings. But Myre wasn't finished yet; as he feinted, then snapped his wings open an instant earlier than before, she turned on her back, risking all in a desperate attempt to grapple with him and carry him down!
He eluded her only by side-slipping violently, and be lost all the advantage of the speed his dive had given him in that panicked maneuver. She could have had him then—except that she had counted on being able to close, and she lost even more height trying to recover both from the flip and the uncontrolled tumble it sent her into.
Once again he raced for the sun—but slower this time. His breath burned in his throat and lungs as he panted; his wings felt as heavy as stones, and his body a burden too great for his wings to carry.
Now what? Now what? I can’t keep running like this; she has more endurance than
I do! 1 have to end this, and end it quickly.' Running me out of endurance was how she won that last fight!
Finally it came to him. It was desperate—but right now, a desperate chance might be the only one he'd have.
Once again, he turned and dove. Once again, she flipped over to grapple with him, claw to claw.
This time he let her catch him.
Her fore-claws grabbed and locked with his, her hind claws raked across his belly-skin, sending rivers of agony racing along his nerves. He screamed—but pulled her closer, pulling her head between his wings.
And he sent the lash of captured lightning that was a dragon's most feared weapon arcing between the tips of his wings, catching her head in the middle.
Her mouth snapped open in a silent scream; her head arched back on her long neck until the back of her head met her shoulders. Her claws convulsed closed once, as he maintained the arc—then, when he released the lightning, she went limp.
He was ready for that, or else she might have achieved a Pyrrhic victory by making them both tumble headlong out of the sky onto the hard and unforgiving earth. He pumped his wings furiously as her limp body dragged at his; holding both of them in the air in a controlled fall instead of an uncontrolled one. Instead of both of them tumbling and plummeting to earth, he achieved a hard landing, with her body still locked in his talons. Fortunately, he had her to cushion his fall. He was not feeling charitable enough not to take advantage of that.
Just as well, since she had started to come to just as they landed. Her head hit the ground, and the force of the blow knocked her out again.
Not for long; just long enough for him to pin her to the ground, helpless beneath his weight, as the wizards ran toward them from the tents. Behind the wizards, the humans of the Iron People approached them cautiously.
Shift, Myre! he growled. Into a human. Do it now, or I swear I'll—
You'll what? she taunted, although there was panic in her eyes as she tried to squirm away and couldn't. You'll kill me? You haven't the stomach!