by Andre Norton
And how is Lorryn doing, and what is Lorryn doing, and why do I never hear from him, only from Mero? Does he—would he—damn it all, Shana, keep your mind on your enemies! But—he's in the midst of the worst of those enemies—
I am telling you, I have it nearly from the mouth of one of the High Lords of the Council himself! she growled, biting off the words savagely. 'The elves know where we are, they are going to attack, and they are going to do it soon! They're coordinated enough to put up a Portal to bring their troops right to our doorstep!
Oh, please, said Caellach Gwain, waving a hand languidly. This is an old tale, and we're weary of hearing it. We haven't seen any signs of this so-called mustering of troops you've been ranting about.
That's because she snarled impatiently, the troops are all being mustered on the estates of three of the High Lords who you have been afraid to watch!
And who is this informant of yours? Caellach asked shrewdly.
She didn't answer at first. They wouldn't believe her, even though they had seen Rena themselves, if only briefly. They would never believe Rena could keep her head long enough to be of any use as a spy. I'm not about to blurt out any names when there might be a traitor among you! she snapped.
Oh? This is nothing more than a ruse to take our minds off the important matter of a treaty negotiated with dangerous barbarians—negotiated without permission of the Citadel as a whole, might I add. Caellach looked disgustingly proud of himself. She glanced over at Denelor and Parth Agon; the former shrugged helplessly, the latter cast his eyes up to heaven. Caellach Gwain did not have enough votes to cause her serious trouble, but he did have enough of the wizards on his side to embroil them in this nonsense until the elven armies were at their very door!
Once again, as she gazed out at those fat, fatuous faces, she heard Mero's voice in her mind, giving her the bad news he had in turn heard from Sheyrena. In' a panic, she had spent all of the energy she dared in trying to send that same message on to Keman, but she had no real idea if he had heard, nor where he was if he had.
It would be just her luck that he and that lady friend of his had decided to flit off somewhere together out of reach of everything and everyone. Or perhaps they had gone back south to her Lair, to gain courting consent from her parents…
Now, as she listened to the same idiocy that had kept her penned in this chamber, day after day, unable to accomplish anything productive, her temper snapped.
She stood up, right in the middle of one of Caellach's speeches, slamming the palm of her hand on the table. He stopped in midsentence, shock on his face at her rudeness.
You can blather about this from now until you're cut down by elven blades, if you want, she spat. I am going to try to do something about it.
With what? Caellach sneered.
With us, Kalamadea replied, standing up himself, as every other shape-changed dragon in the place did the same. Even if it is only to make plans to flee, with those who are wise enough to come with us.
Caellach gaped at him, openmouthed at the revolt of the dragons. But— he spluttered impotently. But—'
But I don't think that will be necessary, came a voice from the door, a voice so hoarse with weariness that Shana did not even recognize it. Until she turned, and saw—
Keman. And behind Keman, a dozen, two dozen—three, four—she lost count of how many strangers there were behind him.
All of them with dragon-shadows.
Shana, here are your new allies, he said, as Alara exclaimed in surprise and joy and ran to embrace not only her son but a tall and handsome, ebony-haired man who stood at Keman's side. Here are dragons from our Lair, O'ordila'i's Lair, Hali'a's Lair, Teomenava's Lair—
He named off a half-dozen more Lairs as Shana stood there, so stunned that she couldn't even speak.
We'll form the force on the right flank, he continued. Dora has gone to the Iron People, and Diric should be able to bring his mounted warriors in to be our left flank before the elven armies themselves show up.
We can plant wedges of iron that will disrupt the elven plan to bring the Portal up right on your doorstep, the black-haired man said with a grin. Our best rock-melders are bringing it up out of the earth now in fist-sized nodules, and we're flying it out here and dropping bits of it along the way. We think we'll have enough to seed the forest for a day's march all around.
That leaves your forces to form the rear of the trap, Keman continued hoarsely, and turned to Caellach Gwain. It was at that point that Shana was struck by the realization that Keman was no longer a boy, by any standards. He was thinking and acting for himself, taking responsibility, and willing to live with the consequences.
She saw by the look on Alara's face that the same conclusion had just struck her on the nose as well.
Her little baby is no longer little, nor a baby… Like every mother, everywhere, her offspring had been a child to her long past the time when that ceased to be true.
Now, you can do what you please. Lord Wizard, Keman continued, and you can believe what you will. But an army of Iron People and another of dragons believe that Shana is right, and you fools are in deadly peril, and we are willing to help her. Now, we have a saying among the dragons—
He stared at Caellach Gwain with a gaze as sharp as a sword-blade, and the old wizard actually shrank back from him.
—lead, follow, or get out of my flight-path, he said forcefully. Now, which is it going to be?
The old wizard sank down into his chair, keeping any further protests behind his teem.
Keman bowed ironically to him, then gestured to Shana. I believe the lightning now comes to you, foster sister, he said, with a weary twinkle in his eye. I shall leave it to you and my friends here. I have done a great deal of flying in the past few hours, and I want to sleep for a week!
The Council meeting, Lorryn said, to the room full of quiet young elves. The tavern had been closed to outsiders for tonight; only those with an iron necklace were allowed inside. They were all arrayed on every seat, every bench, every space where there was sitting room. He alone stood, in the center of the room, and every emerald eye was on him. Every lord of any importance in their eyes is going to be there, and they plan to go right into battle from the meeting. That leaves the field clear for you, all of you, to act while they are all stuck in the Council Hall, leagues and leagues from anywhere, with little transportation, few followers, and no way to communicate to their estates. There are only three High Lords who won't be there—the three who are going to open the Portals and send their slave armies through while the Council is in session.
And all of those are sending their heirs to the Council, one of the er-Lords who had been part of the planning from the beginning chuckled. They'll be as cut off as the rest of them when the er-Lords close their Portals behind them as they pass through.
The rest of you have to manufacture excuses to be on your lords' or fathers' estates when the Council Meeting takes place, Lorryn told the rest of them. We'll give you each a wedge of iron to spike the Portal with; after that, it will be sealed for all intents and purposes. I suggest that you hide it well; your fathers and lords may have a loyal underling or two who can't be persuaded to come over. Don't waste time trying to find them. Get to the human fighters and take them over. Throw out anyone who won't swear to you. After that? He shrugged. I've given you all the advice I can. Hold the estates for yourselves. You ought to be able to—anyone you shield with the jewelry will be protected from direct magic, so all that will be left to your fathers and uncles and liege lords is force. You'll have your humans; they won't. And by then, it will be too late to recall all the human fighters that were sent through the Portals.
An even chance is all we need, said one of them, his eyes gleaming. He wasn't a young lord, either. He must have been one of those with little or weak magic, and as a result, the grudge he carried was probably centuries in the brewing. That's all we've ever asked for.
Aye to that, said another.
Lorry
n nodded, and rubbed the side of his head wearily. Would this all work? And what was going on with Shana? The last he'd heard, through his craftsmen, Keman had recruited more dragons, but did she know that the armies were coming? Could even a sky full of dragons prevail against the numbers that were coming?
And for that matter, was she even in charge anymore?
It didn't matter; events had gotten away from them all. Now they had to act or be run over by them.
You all know what to do— he said, waving at them in dismissal. He had more of these meetings to hold, even as his draconic friends were holding similar meetings in the other four cities. It's up to you how you do it
And up to the rest of us to make the most of it.
Ah, Shana—I could use your stubborn good sense right now!
Rena had been a very, very obedient little girl, remaining meek and pliant in every way while Lord Tylar ordered her about. She hoped to lull any suspicions that he might have had by never mentioning Lady Viridina in his hearing, and never directly asking about her to the slaves.
He must have suspected something—or perhaps the habit of suspecting everyone had become so ingrained that he could not drop it even if he wanted to—for he took care that she was never alone, even though she thought she was going to scream with frustration.
Finally, though, she had a respite, if an eleventh-hour respite. He was too busy today preparing for the Council Meeting to watch her himself, and as nearly as she could tell, he had not set anyone to watch her. For the first time since she had come back to the estate, she was alone.
It might be her last and only chance, and she was going to take it.
She dared not wear her jewelry, though—she herself was going to have to work magic, and the magics guarding her mother's garden-tower were likely rigged to set off mechanical alarms if they were made to fail. So she took both packets still swathed in their insulation of silk, hid them in her gown, and slipped out of the bower with the silence of a stalking Iron Clan warrior.
Or so she fondly hoped, at any rate.
She slipped along the hallways, as cautious as a cat; she passed through the magic-barriers that Lord Tylar had placed around the bower with no trouble, although she had feared that they might stop her. Her father had told her they were supposed to be for her safety—in case Lorryn came after her again—but she was not going to take anything Lord Tylar said at face value.
Now she passed through corridors made more for use man for show, heading for the herb and kitchen gardens. In theory, since she was in charge of the household, she had every right and duty to go there. In actuality—it would be hard to explain her presence to anything above a household slave.
In the middle of the kitchen garden, some wag of an architect had set a prison-tower for the confinement of anyone Lord Tylar wanted out of the manor, but near enough to keep a personal eye on. It hadn't been in use in Rena's lifetime, but she'd heard of recalcitrant underlings who had spent brief but uncomfortable visits there. It was supposed to be escape-proof, provided the person kept there was less than Lord Tylar in magical power.
Or provided that the person kept there had no allies with any magical power on the outside.
The sun-drenched expanse of vegetables and herbs in their neat and mathematically patterned beds seemed very large as she peered out the door into the bright light. And there in the middle was the tower—very pretty to look at, all of white marble, stretching up toward the sun, a round, slender white column, fluted and sculptured, its whiteness marred by nothing like a window anywhere along its height.
But it seemed that her father had stripped every slave that he could from the household to serve in his army—evidently it was numbers that counted, not skill with weapons. There was only one slave picking cabbages at the foot of the tower, and no one else anywhere in the garden. Rena waited in the shelter of the door until the slave finished her work and hurried toward the kitchen door.
Now I know why the house has sounded so quiet, so odd. Father probably took every male slave we had and sent them off to make up his share of the forces. He may even have taken the brawniest of the females as well! No matter that they've never held anything but an eating knife; I doubt that matters to him. There are always more, waiting in the breeding sheds.
She thought about the humans she had come to know in the tents of the Iron People: Diric, Kala, the new War Chief.
She thought about the craftsmen, who were not warriors, and how ill suited they would be to fight. She thought about all those people being herded off to die like so many cattle, but without the care and dignity granted to the Iron People's cattle, and she burned with rage.
She had hated her father before, but this hatred was no longer personal—it was for everything he and every lord on the Council stood for.
She waited a moment longer, fighting her anger—both to see if the slave came back out to the garden and to get herself back under control. As long as she was this angry, she could be distracted; she could not afford to be distracted.
Finally the anger subsided to a slow burning in her heart; she took a deep breath and strolled out into the garden as if she had a perfect right to be there.
The door was on the opposite side of the tower from the manor; she walked with simulated carelessness up the pathways of round gravel, paced around the base, and stepped up onto the white marble stoop, all without once spotting anyone who might have been set to watch. She studied the lock to the door with her eyes closed, as Mero had taught her, but it was a lot simpler than she had expected it to be. Perhaps for a male, unused to working magic at so fine and controlled a level, it would have been very difficult to open—but for a female, well, it was easier than sculpting the feathers on a living bird.
She had it open in a moment; she slipped inside, and closed the door behind her.
The bottom story was quite empty: one echoing white marble room, with that sourceless light that illuminated most elven-made dwellings. She listened then, straining her ears against the silence, trying to determine if there was more than one occupant here. Talk among the slaves indicated that Lady Viridina was not even allowed a single body servant and had to tend to all her needs herself, but talk among the slaves was not always accurate.
She heard footsteps, faint and far above, but there was only one set of them. Someone was pacing, around and around the round wall of the tower, but it was only one person.
Silently Rena slipped up the stairs, pausing to peek over the edge of the next floor to see what was there.
This room was like the one below, except that it held a marble table, and a single chair. There was no one here, either, but as Rena moved up into the room itself, she saw a tray of partially eaten bread and a pitcher of water on the table. The bread did not look particularly fresh, and it was the coarse brown bean-bread generally fed to slaves.
Clever.
She headed for the next set of stairs, and once again paused to listen. The footsteps sounded as if they were directly above her now.
She got halfway up the stairs before the footsteps stopped, suddenly.
Who is there? Lady Viridina called sharply.
Rena couldn't stop herself; she ran up the rest of the stairs, heedless of the fact that her mother might not be alone.
But Lady Viridina was alone; dressed in a simple gown of bleached fustian, the kind a slave might wear, her hair confined in a single neat braid, with no sign of the fine lady she had once been. She stared at Rena—made a sign, and Rena felt the tingle of magic that told her a spell had just passed over her—then ran to take her daughter into her arms, babbling and sobbing as incoherently as if she had been mad.
Then again, Rena was doing the same thing.
When they both got themselves under control—and in a much shorter period of time than Rena would have thought—Lady Viridina held her daughter at arm's length and shook her as if she were once again a naughty child.
What are you doing here? she scolded. Don't you know dial no one
is supposed—
I'm getting you out of here, Mother, Rena replied, interrupting her, although she did not pull away from the admonishing hands. Listen to me—there isn't much time to explain.
Lady Viridina did listen, as Rena made a brief explanation of how she and Lorryn had escaped, how they had met the Iron People and learned of the protective power of their jewelry, and how they had finally joined forces with the wizards. That's what I have here, she said, pulling one of the packets out of the breast of her gown with difficulty. That was the problem with fashionable gowns—there was nowhere to put anything. Here, this is some of it. You put this on, and we'll cross the garden to where Mero is waiting and—
Not this time! With a burst of power that left her nerves jangling, Lord Tylar appeared in the center of the room as if he had been brought there by magic—which, of course, he had. Rena was familiar enough now with the transportation spell to know what it felt like.
If his face had been scarlet with rage when she first appeared on the doorstep, it was purple now, and he came at Rena, not with magic, but with his bare hands.
She tried to evade him, but he had been a trained warrior in his youth and he still kept in practice. With a single powerful blow of his fist, he knocked her across the room and into the marble wall.
Her body hit the wall first, knocking all the breath out of her, and her head followed a moment later, sending black waves of stars across her eyes, and leaving her stunned and unable to draw in air. She lay there in pain, trying to gasp, hands clawing at the bare marble, as with a tiny part of her mind she heard the jangle of the jewelry her mother had been holding and the clatter as she dropped it to the floor at his feet.
Rena shook her head to clear her eyes, and the movement must have cleared something else as well, for suddenly she could breathe again. She pulled in a long, cool gasp of air, coughed, and pulled in a second, then looked up, trying to make her mind work again.
Her father stood with his back to her, stiff with anger. Her mother huddled against the far wall, her face white with terror and shock. There was a gleam of silk and silver on the floor under his foot.