by Andre Norton
Myre would become, in this tale, Lorryn's willing accomplice and his contact with the wizards. Why not? It would certainly account for her presence in the boat, for a third figure had surely been seen, and it would also account for her absence after she fell out of it. That would also be why Lorryn had not gone straight to the wizards, but had wandered around on his own—without her, he had no guide. Anything that anyone overheard in that brief period between the moment when the pursuers had sighted the boat and the moment when it flew out of sight that might indicate that Rena had been encouraging Lorryn could easily be attributed instead to Myre.
Are you ready? Lorryn asked. She nodded, unable to force herself to speak. Mero was lying down with his eyes closed; that was because Lorryn was going to take all of his magic power and most of his own to send her straight to the border of Lord Tylar's land. The transportation spell, as modified by the wizards and taught to Mero, then taught by Mero to Lorryn, was not as noisy as the version Shana had used. The trick was that the person actually casting the spell had to remain behind, and the noise remained with him. In a big city such as this one, where there were hundreds, even thousands of spells being cast each day, another burst of magical noise would not be noticed.
Mero was actually better at this than Lorryn, but it was Lorryn who knew where Rena had to go, so it was Lorryn who must cast the spell, and it would take its direction from his mind.
As soon as Mero recovered, he would journey by more conventional means to Lord Tylar's estate, where he would wait for Rena and Lady Viridina with horses and supplies. Lorryn had insisted on that part of the plan, knowing that Mero would fret himself to pieces—and be all but useless—if he was not somewhere nearby, where he could help at need. It would be dangerous for him, certainly, but no more dangerous than remaining here with only half of his mind on keeping himself hidden from those searching for halfbloods.
'Take a deep breath and close your eyes, Lorryn said, and Rena obeyed him. She sensed power gathering around her, twisting and turning as Lorryn sent it through the amber globe in his hand as Mero had taught him, twisting and turning around her.
Then there came a flash of light so bright that she saw it through her closed eyelids.
Then, nothing.
No sound, no light, no air, no floor—she was falling, falling, she was going to fall forever! Her stomach churned as it had when Kalamadea had hit what he called an air pocket and plummeted three times his own length before he got back under control. She thought she screamed, but she couldn't hear herself; thought she stretched out her hands, but she couldn't even feel her own body!
Then, with no warning, she was there, feet planted firmly in the grass beside a tall, golden-yellow wall. She stood in the middle of a bare-earth bridle path, with grass on either side of it, in a place she knew as well as she knew her own room. She and Lorryn had been here a hundred times on their rides—there was the apple tree they always used to shade them in the summer when they stopped for a picnic meal, the grass beneath it long and rank, as if no one had tended it in some time. The leaves on the tree were just turning, a reminder that she and Lorryn had escaped in the spring, and now it was already fall.
She had forgotten how far it was to the gate from here—and she was afoot, not riding, wearing boots that were far too big for her, even with rags stuffed in the toes and more rags wrapped around her feet. She shivered as a cool autumn breeze cut through her ragged dress, and the iron jewelry felt very heavy around her waist.
Well, here I am.
And she wasn't going to get anything done by standing there.
With a tiny sigh, she trudged up the path. With luck, she might meet with some of the guards and save herself some blisters.
But no guards appeared—of course, they never show up when you really want them to—and her feet were sore enough to give ample evidence to the truth of her story when at last she reached the gate. She didn't think they were blistered, but if she got away with this, the very first thing she was going to do would be to have a good hot bath and a foot-rub!
The gate loomed much larger than she remembered it, but then again, her memory now was colored by living in the wilderness and in the tents of the Iron People. Many buildings seemed large now, compared to the tents. Made all of bronze, it boomed hollowly when she rapped on it timidly.
The gate swung open on her second knock, revealing a half-dozen fully armed guards behind it. Elven guards, not human, which said more than any words how Lorryn's escape had affected Lord Tylar. He no longer trusted anything important to human slaves, it seemed.
She clasped her hands before her, looked down at the ground, and said in a tired voice that did not need any acting, Please, could I speak with my father, Lord Tylar?
Your what? began one of the guards, as another laughed—but a third cursed and shut the other two up.
By the Ancestors, he swore, It's her! Sheyrena!
She hadn't really hoped for gentle treatment—not until they knew she was fully of elven blood, anyway—but she hadn't quite expected to be bound hand and foot and slung facedown over a horse's back. She hadn't expected to be galloped up to the door of the manor, with the jewelry digging painfully into her skin, and her upset stomach being jounced worse than any dragon-flight had jostled it.
That, coming on top of the effect of the transportation spell, was just too much. When the guards reached the front door of the manor and manhandled her down off her perch, she threw up on the boots of the nearest.
She took small comfort in the fact that it was the one who had insisted on carrying her in that undignified position in the first place. He swore and kicked at her; she fell back, avoiding the kick. He aimed another at her, but before his foot connected, the sound of the door slamming open and an angry shout froze him where he stood.
What is the meaning of this?
Lord Tylar stood framed in his own marble doorway, glaring down at the guards gathered there. They moved aside, quickly, revealing a trembling and miserable Sheyrena huddled at the feet of one of their number.
Lord Tylar's face turned a lush crimson, which went very badly with his pale gold hair and green eyes. You! he spat. How dare you show up here again?
F-f-father? she faltered, ready tears springing to her eyes, for she really did feel entirely awful. F-f-father? I—Lorryn fell asleep, and I hit him on the head and stole his boots and—
He gestured, and the words froze in her mouth; now she was glad that she had insisted the iron jewelry be swathed in silk so that none of its protection would reach her. The success of her ruse depended entirely on her vulnerability to Lord Tylar's initial spells.
You dare to claim to be the daughter of my body? he spat. We will see about that! And with those words, he cast his second spell, which she assumed must be the one that broke illusions.
Of course, she remained precisely as she was, a huddled, wretched mess in a torn gown, dirty, tear-stained, and sick, but entirely, completely, indisputably elven.
And Lord Tylar, who had assumed right up to this very moment that his daughter was a halfblood just as his son was, stared with his mouth falling open.
But only for a moment; he recovered quickly from his shock. He had not become the kind of power he was by being a complete dolt, after all.
And now he turned his anger on another target: the guards. You! he raged, although his face was no longer scarlet You imbeciles! How dare you treat my daughter like this! I'll see you broken to sweeping stables for this!
And before the guards could react, he himself was down the steps and stooping to help Rena to her feet; cutting the ropes that bound her hands and feet with his own belt-dagger.
Oh, Father?' she sobbed, and flung herself at his feet, to cling to them and weep into the leather of his boots. Father, it was so horrible Lorryn was—Lorryn is—
As she had expected, since any display of emotion horrified him, and hysteria made him desert the scene of the uncomfortable outpouring immediately, he backed hastily away. Y
ou—you— he said, pointing at two of the guards as Rena watched covertly through her lowered eyelashes. 'Take my daughter to her chamber. Instruct the slaves to attend to her every need, and gown her according to her station. Now, you fools!
And he turned and fled back into the hall, leaving the poor, bewildered guards to help her to her feet again—very gingerly this time, as if they were afraid to touch her—and guide her to her own rooms.
The maids were already waiting—all new ones, which somehow didn't surprise her much—and the guards released her into their hands with ill-concealed relief. As they undressed her, Rena found the opportunity to slip the packets of iron jewelry into the old hiding place in her bed where she used to keep books. Within a few moments, Rena was sinking back into that longed-for tub of hot water, with a maid attending to each hand and two more to each foot, and another to wash and untangle her artistically tangled and dirtied hair.
It was altogether lovely, and she gave herself up into their hands with a sigh of bliss. The maids twittered to each other like a flock of her little birds, exclaiming over her roughened hands and sore feet, and the state of her hair.
My lady! one kept saying, as she mended the damaged nails as best she could. My lady, how could you do this to your pretty white hands?
As if I had nothing to worry about in the howling wilderness except care for my nails! She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
Eventually they finished with her, dressed her in a gown of a soft rose color, and sent her on her way to her father's study. They had offered her a drink that she suspected was meant to tranquilize her; she accepted it, and surreptitiously poured it into a vase after pretending to drink from it. Their expressions of satisfaction confirmed her suspicion, and she took care to act relaxed and just a bit giddy when she made her way between two much-chastised guards to the study.
But as the door opened, she discovered that her father was not alone, and she was very glad that she did not have the jewelry on her person. She did not know these lords by name, but their faces told her all that she needed to know about them. Such arrogance only came with the greatest of power.
She made a deep, though unsteady, curtsy, and did not rise until her father gave her leave, in a voice that betrayed his pleasure at her action.
These are two High Lords from the Council, Sheyrena, he said, speaking slowly, as if she were a child, or feebleminded. Or both! 'Tell us all what happened to you at the hands of the monster that stole you away.
One of the High Lords brought her a chair, which she sank into gratefully; in a trembling and hesitant voice, she told her story, beginning with Lorryn supposedly coming to her room with her maid to take her on a sunrise picnic, and ending with her escape from the terrible halfblood, stealing his boots so that he could not pursue her, and retracing the path she had memorized even in her terror.
He was going to sell me to the wizards, Father, she cried, her voice shaking, not with suppressed tears as they supposed, but with suppressed laughter. He told me that he was going to sell me to the wizards, to feed to their dragons! He told me that dragons would only eat maidens, and—
She couldn't stand it anymore; she hid her face in her hands, and her shoulders shook as she laughed silently. The three lords conversed among themselves as she strove to get herself under control again.
Finally she raised her head from her hands, and, sniffing bravely, she faced them again.
It all fits, she heard one of them say in an undertone; her father and the other one nodded.
You have been a good and a brave child, Sheyrena, said the one who had spoken, in a voice as unctuous as massage-oil and as sweet as treacle. You are a credit to your father and to the name of your House.
She bowed her head submissively, and the unctuous one turned back to Lord Tylar. By your leave, my lord, we will return to the Council with these tidings.
He nodded; they turned and left through the Portal door.
As soon as they were gone, he chuckled. Sheyrena raised her eyes, feigning shyness.
You have done very well, Sheyrena, he said, and studied her. He blinked once or twice, as if in surprise. I do believe that your ordeal has actually improved your looks, girl! he exclaimed, in a voice full of astonishment. By the Ancestors, you actually are attractive^
Thank you, Father, she replied meekly; she flushed with anger, but dropped her eyes so that he would assume that it was a blush of embarrassment.
This—this all puts a new complexion on things, he muttered, and drummed his fingers on his desk. You are of full elven blood, and now my only heir—your value as a marriage-piece is a great deal higher than when you were stolen. Hmm.
He got up from his desk, came around to her side, and put a finger under her chin, tilting it up so that he could study her face. Hmm, he repeated, as she veiled her eyes with her lashes to hide her anger. Add to that the fact that you're no longer a little cream-faced loon, but a handsome little thing—your value is even greater.
He allowed her to drop her head again, and stood beside her chair. She didn't reply, but he didn't seem to expect her to.
You may go, he finally said, abruptly.
She took him at his word, rose unsteadily, curtsied, and fled. And once she was back in the safety of her own chamber, she took the packets of jewelry from their hiding places, and quickly concealed them in the best of all hiding places, and the one place no man would ever look—
—in the midst of all the other jewelry in her valuables chest.
Then, and only then, did she strip off her gown without calling for her maids, slip into her bed in her petticoat, and fall into an exhausted sleep.
Her father woke her—or rather, her maids did, fluttering about, agitated beyond measure that he was waiting outside and she was in no state to receive him! In something of a fog, she let them gown her again, and brush out her hair; the very instant she was decent, he swept in with all the high drama of a state entrance.
Have your maids pack up your things, Sheyrena, he said to her. You are moving to the bower.
She stared at him stupidly; he smiled, the smile of someone who is doing what he wants and thinks he is conferring a tremendous favor.
You are my only right-born child, Sheyrena, he said, ponderously, and he held out a hand. She put her own in his, not really knowing what he wanted, and he set a ring of keys into it—the same ring of keys she had seen her mother wearing, for as long as she could remember.
You are the lady of the House, he told her. You now have charge of the bower and the household. At her look of naked shock and dismay, he laughed. Oh, don't worry, child—it's only an honor and a title. The slaves really see to it all. You only need to see to it that the slaves know to come to you for their orders, and I will tell you what to tell them.
Yes, Father, she faltered.
His smile broadened. You are far too valuable to waste on the likes of Lord Gildor, he said, sounding very pleased with himself. I have sent my regrets to Lord Gildor, telling him that you are too precious to me now, and that I cannot bear to be without your comfort and company. I have dissolved the betrothal.
You have? She stared at him; she would not have believed that he would go that far!
He mistook her astonishment for dismay. Oh, don't be disappointed, child! You are worth ten Gildors now! No, now, listen to me closely.
She shut her mouth, and kept her face carefully schooled into the appearance of attentiveness.
I am going to find you a marriage-alliance that will put our House in the ranks of the High Lords, he told her gleefully. You have a job to do, a very important one. You must not allow this present attractiveness to fade, and that is an order! I want you to rise every morning, put yourself right into the hands of your maids, make yourself presentable, and keep yourself that way! None of these afternoon naps, when you can't be viewed! No disappearing for long rides! Don't go hiding in the garden as if you were a child! Is that understood?
Yes, Father, she replied, flushing
again with anger. And, predictably, he interpreted the anger as embarrassment.
Now, Sheyrena, don't be upset, he said, in what he probably thought was a coaxing tone. I'm not angry with you, but you aren't a child anymore, and you are far too important to the House now to play your childish games. Just do as you are told, and things will work out wonderfully for you. Just wait and see!
Yes, Father, she replied, still flushed.
I have decided, now that virtually every lord on the Council knows your name and your story, to announce that you are free for betrothal at the next Council meeting. It will make a pleasant diversion for everyone from our final preparations for war against the wizards. I will be able to marshal my forces beside those of whoever becomes your lord. He beamed, as if he had thought of something terribly clever. I shall—ah—put you up for bid, so to speak. And I do expect the bidding to be brisk!
But Lord Gildor— she said, unable to think of anything else to say.
Hah! He laughed. Put him from your mind. I don't know who your husband-to-be will be, yet, but you can take it as written that whoever he is, he will be as high above Lord Gildor as Lord Gildor is above the chief of my guards!
But all that Rena could think—could hope—was that Mero would be able to read all of this from her thoughts, for she had no other way to send him this all-important message. The elves were about to break the treaty and the truce—months before any of them had thought possible!
Shana fumed, as she stood before the assembled wizards in the bare cavern they used for their meeting place, wanting very much to knock sense into several heads with a large and heavy stick! Especially the head of Caellach Gwain—and why had he chosen to take this line now, when he had been the one howling about the danger of the elven lords only a few months ago?