Elvenborn hc-3

by Andre Nolton

  "Ancestors—" he breathed. "You've done it. You've found a way—snap one of those over a collar-stone, and you can cut the collar right off without hurting the slave!"

  "Or leave the collar on, it won't matter, and any magic that an overseer flings at a fleeing slave will simply misfire," she pointed out, barely concealing her glee. "We have the iron, we have the craftsmen, and we have the ways to get these into the hands of the slaves. Within months, your Young Lords and my Wizards will be the last things that the Great Lords will be worrying about!"

  "Slave revolts—" murmured Shalvan, wonderingly.

  "All over the estates," Lashana agreed. "Which is why I'm here with you. Every moment of time that you can buy us with your wizard-hunting will enable us to make that many more of these devices, and bring the moment of freedom for all humans that much closer."

  "At which point, my lord," Lynder pointed out diffidently, "Our people will also be the very last thing that the Great Lords will be worrying about."

  "Except that—if you and yours can pull this off, Lashana—" he bared his teeth in a feral grin, the recollection of the stories he'd heard from the mistreated slaves sheltering with Moth fresh in his mind "—you may consider my estate to be the training ground for a new human army!"

  He held out his hand; she clasped it joyfully, as his men made the sounds of subdued cheering—even now, they didn't want to arouse the attention of things that might be out there in the darkness.

  "Lord Kyrtian—" she seemed to be searching for words, then gave up altogether, and just shook her head, her face radiant with smiles. "Thank you—seems inadequate."

  "It's early days yet," he warned, as the men settled down, although he could not help but feel a little intoxicated with the heady intellectual wine she had just poured for him. "We've a long way to go."

  "So we have." She sobered as well, and started to stow the iron device and the collar in her belt-pouch, then evidently thought better of it and handed it to Lynder. "Here. If you've got crafters and a source of Death Metal, you might want to start duplicating these yourself."

  Lynder nodded, and stowed the device away.

  "Now—about the caves and your father—I think I might be able to help narrow your search a little. You see, I've run these hills myself." Lashana then began a tale of her own, about the time when she, a mere child then and not yet the Elvenbane, had rescued a band of human children—with human magic— who were going to be culled by Lord Treves's overseer.

  Lord Treves—would that be Lady Viridina's Lord? Moth's friend? What an odd coincidence!

  Lashana had helped them escape and flee into these very hills—and, by another odd coincidence, had run into the infamous young Lord Valyn, fleeing with his wizardling half-brother and looking for Wizards to protect them both.

  The story was an absorbing one, and Lashana told it well. He could see in his mind's eye the huddle of frightened children, the drenched and miserable young Valyn and the equally miserable Mero. She described the strange monsters they had encountered, one of which sounded eerily familiar.

  "I think we nearly ran into one of those—invisible lurking things back there," Noet said thoughtfully, and described being trapped between it and the alicorn herd, and how Kyrtian had solved the situation.

  "Which is why he's the general, and we aren't," Lynder put in, as Lashana shook her head in amazed admiration.

  "That certainly sounds like one of them—well, as you move deeper into the hills, more or less in that direction—" she pointed "—and don't worry, we can guide you tomorrow—the wierdlings get thicker, and odder. Now, suppose that this Portal of yours isn't entirely closed? I've heard from Sheyrena and Lorryn that your Ancestors left a pretty nasty place to come here...." She looked at him with speculation.

  He nodded. "If the Portal isn't quite closed and shut down, yes, things could slip over, when enough residual power built up to let the Portal open for a moment. And what came over would be very unpleasant."

  "And the area nearest where they were coming through?" she prompted.

  "Would be the place nearest the Portal, of course." He felt another burst of elation—but then worry. "That would make it that much more dangerous. I'm not sure I should ask you fellows to share in something like this—it's pretty certain that Father is—dead—"

  There. He'd said it. It couldn't be unsaid.

  "—so looking for what became of him is really only my concern—"

  "Balderdash! Begging your pardon, my Lord," Lynder exclaimed. "Your father, and his father, and his father before him, are the ones that allowed us to grow up in freedom. It's as much our concern as yours."

  "And my people have—ways of dealing with most of these creatures, or getting you around them," Lashana added. "We've both got magic, you know, and mine's enough different from yours that they'll combine well. I'd be pleased to help you out, here."

  "It's settled, then," Shalvan said, as the rest of his men nodded.

  Once again, Kyrtian felt a surge of emotions—pride, gratitude, a touch of embarrassment. But most of all, the warmth of knowing that they would support him, and they knew that he would support them, through anything. And a different kind of warmth, of discovering an unexpected friend and comrade in the woman called the Elvenbane, who was so very different, and so very much more, than he had ever imagined her to be.

  "Then in the morning—?" he made it a question. She laughed and stood up.

  "In the morning you can expect me—and a friend," she promised. "And until then, sleep well. And don't worry, you're being guarded. So get a good night's sleep."

  And with that, she walked off into the darkness. And managed, again, not to trip over the bells.

  "My Lord," said Shalvan, looking after her with undisguised admiration, "begging your pardon myself, but that is one fine woman. Not to my taste," he added hastily, "but one fine woman."

  "Yes she is," Kyrtian agreed. "And not to my taste, either! But I hope she finds a man who deserves her, assuming that's what she wants! I will make no assumptions about anything the Elvenbane might want!"

  That startled a laugh out of them, and on that note, they took to their tents, and to bed, knowing that the morrow would begin an entirely new and stranger quest than they had ever imagined.

  28

  Triana set her jaw grimly as she paced in and out of the bars of sunlight pouring through the windows of her solar—a traditional part of the bower, where she seldom spent any time. Why bother, when she was the mistress of the entire manse?

  It looked as if she was going to have to leave her domain, for a short, but distinctly uncomfortable quest. Of all the things she would have preferred not to do, this was going to be right on the top of the list. She did not enjoy "the outdoors," she loathed having to camp without proper amenities, and she despised rain, damp, drizzle and cold. But she was going to have to endure all of that, because where she was going and what she needed to do required secrecy.

  Her skirts swished around her ankles with a hissing sound. She hated this idea. But she couldn't trust Aelmarkin; she couldn't trust him to be any fitter for trailing someone in the savage forest than she, and she was pretty certain he would try to keep whatever he found all to himself. She had failed in her attempt to subvert his boring cousin for now—she was grateful that she hadn't put any term on the bet with Aelmarkin—but Kyrtian's ongoing success was making Aelmarkin impatient. Not that she cared whether she lost the bet. It wouldn't be all that difficult to train one stupid slave for Aelmarkin's use. No, the thing itself had become a challenge, an obsession. She would not be beaten, not in this, not when it was only her own skill and wit that stood between her and failure. For once, she didn't have to rely on anyone else.

  It hadn't taken long in a conversation via teleson with Lord Kyndreth to discover what Kyrtian was up to and where he was going—openly. That was the key; Kyrtian might be pompous, might be deadly dull, but after his decisive victory over the Young Lords no one would ever claim that he was st
upid.

  She kicked the train of her skirt out of her way impatiently as she turned. No, he wasn't stupid. And just because he was dull, that didn't mean he wasn't capable of keeping some things to himself.

  Triana had her own ideas of what else might be going on, when a quick check with Lord Kyndreth confirmed that Kyrtian was planning on a new expedition at the behest of the Council. What hadn't made any sense was why he would have been interested in the caves beneath those hills before that second batch of Wizards made an appearance. Because he had been— she knew it, because she knew some of the questions he'd been asking, and some of the maps and books he'd been requesting, before the two mind-addled captives had appeared in Lord Cheynar's forest.

  It hadn't made any sense, that is, until she visited Morthena again, determined what he'd been doing there in the first place, and ferreted out just what books he'd been looking at. The two slaves who had been helping him were no challenge to her; within moments, she had them eagerly pulling volumes down for her perusal.

  Now she knew. And she was, perhaps, better than any other Elvenlord, equipped to figure out what Kyrtian's ulterior motives were. There were her own familial traditions of the Crossing, and journals she had idly leafed through in moments of boredom. Putting Kyrtian's sudden fascination with the journals in Morthena's library together with his father's lifelong obsession with finding the Gate, and she knew, she knew, that he expected to find, at long last, some trace of his father.

  But as important, given Lord Kyrtian's new-found importance as a military leader to the Great Lords, were the weapons supposedly left behind as useless. With those weapons, Lord Kyrtian would not need an army to impose the will of the Great Lords. With those weapons, he could become a Great Lord himself. Perhaps more than that. Perhaps—their first king?

  Perhaps. That dull exterior might conceal a great deal of ambition.

  Unless someone else got there at the same time. Someone who could bring accurate information back to—say—Lord Kyndreth.

  Or someone who could use that information for herself.

  Triana liked to keep her plans fluid. Which was why her slaves were putting together the gear that she and two male slaves—men who knew how to hunt and track—would take through the nearest Gate and on to the thrice-bedamned rain-soaked forest that Lord Cheynar's estate bordered.

  Lord Cheynar did not approve of Triana. No matter. She didn't need his approval, and she didn't need his help. She didn't even need to get onto his lands; she had only to journey to his estate and follow the fences and walls around it, entering the forest where she pleased. Her men were good enough to find Kyrtian's track and follow it.

  Even if that meant she did have to camp in a wretched forest in the constant rain. Just because Triana loved her comforts, that didn't mean she wasn't perfectly prepared to sacrifice them without hesitation for the right incentive.

  Without hesitation. Not without complaint. She kicked savagely at her train.

  Aelmarkin brooded over the injustice of the world from the comfort of a favorite lounge, staring at a delicate stone sculpture of a dancer as if it had offended him personally.

  Aelmarkin did not trust his cousin. There was more, much more, to this business of pursuing stupid Wizards in a half-inaccessible forest than appeared on the surface. Kyrtian might be dull, he might be obsessive, but he wasn't stupid.

  Aelmarkin traced a circle in the upholstery with his fingernail. Kyrtian was not going on what Aelmarkin would consider a "military expedition." He wasn't taking any other Elvenlords with him, nor was he taking a very large party. In fact, he wasn't taking any slaves other than those from his own household; either he was ridiculously sure of himself, or...

  ... or he thought there was something in that forest that he could use for himself. What could it be?

  There had to be something. There was no reason to take that sort of risk, unless there was a powerful reason for it. Something to do with the Wizards themselves? Aelmarkin hadn't heard anything that made them sound different from the ones that had already been driven out into the wilderness. Quite to the contrary, in fact, it seemed very much as if they were fewer.

  Except. . .

  Except that they also had that curious ability to nullify magic that the Young Lords had somehow acquired!

  Aelmarkin slapped the arm of his lounge with a feeling of angry triumph. Of course that was it! So far, no one had managed to catch any of the ringleaders, so no one knew just what the trick was—but if Kyrtian could capture a Wizard and get the answer that way, he'd be in a position to demand, and get, anything he wanted from the Council, including a Council seat even if there were no vacancies!

  And if that happened—Aelmarkin's chances of getting the estate dropped to less than zero. For all their bickering, no Council member had ever been known to back a move to oust another Council member from his lands, position, or seat, and not just because it "wasn't done." They guarded their primacy jealously, and when an outsider threatened one, he threatened all, and they closed ranks against him.

  For a moment, Aelmarkin despaired, and began pounding the arm of his lounge with frustrated fury. He broke the underlying wooden frame with a crack, but his anger didn't ease until the arm of the lounge sagged, its structure reduced to fragments.

  Finally his temper wore out, and he was able to think clearly. He left his study and went out into his gardens to continue thinking. The sky was overcast, but the pall over his spirit was darker than the grey sky.

  He had to think ... as he paced, his feet making no noise on the velvety sod of the paths, he ignored the murmur of fountains and artificial waterfalls he passed.

  First, this all might come to nothing, but he didn't dare to take that chance. Kyrtian was too good at finding what he wanted to find. Persistent—obstinately persistent.

  Second, it was just barely possible that Kyrtian would fail; either he wouldn't find a wizard or he wouldn't be able to take one captive. Aelmarkin thought sourly that this was not something he should count on; Kyrtian's luck had been disgustingly good. Persistence and good luck. It was damnably unfair.

  Third-Third ...

  It hit him, blinding as a ray of sun lancing through the clouds. He hadn't ever expected duplicity out of Kyrtian—but he hadn't expected brilliance, either. What if all of this was a double-game ?

  What if Kyrtian planned, not to capture a Wizard, but to treat with them? What if he intended to ally with them?

  Ridiculous thought, of course but—it stopped him in his tracks. Both because of the audacity of it, and the possibilities the mere idea opened up.

  If the Great Lords thought that was what Kyrtian had in mind, their support of him would not only collapse, they'd turn on him. Rightly so, of course; treason didn't even begin to cover it.

  Well, there was only one way to find out, and that was to follow Kyrtian himself. Even if Kyrtian didn't mean treason, perhaps the appearance of treason could be manufactured.

  For the first time in many days, Aelmarkin's spirits rose.

  He even laughed out loud at the thought, his mind working busily. The first thing, of course, would be to follow Kyrtian and see if, against all probability, Kyrtian really was a traitor. It would be best not to have to manufacture anything out of whole cloth. If he could find even the appearance of duplicity, he could build on that. This, of course, meant that he could not trust this to anyone else.

  Least of all Lady Triana.

  He curled his lip in contempt, trying to imagine Lady Triana actually exerting herself enough to follow Kyrtian as far as Cheynar's, much less entrust herself to the privations of rough camping. She couldn't be bothered to visit her own gardens without a dozen slaves, a pavilion and cushions.

  No matter. This wasn't something to be shared with anyone. And the saying was, after all, that if you wanted to be sure of something, you had better see to it yourself.

  Besides, there was one last possibility, one that he doubted even Triana, as ruthless as she was, would think o
f. He could arrange a little "accident" to befall Kyrtian, especially if he had left that bodyguard of his behind.

  Oh yes. Now he had it. Kyrtian would not leave that forest as he had entered it. When he came out, it would either be as a prisoner, or in a shroud.

  For the first time that day, he smiled, and the slave walking patiently and invisibly behind him to supply whatever the master needed shuddered at the sight of that smile.

  Caellach Gwain paced the uneven stone floor of his miserable excuse for a room, brow furrowed, a banked fire of anger in his gut that hadn't diminished in the least in the time since that wretched girl had debated him in front of the entire population of the Citadel. How had he let himself get drawn into that? A disaster, a total disaster; and he still couldn't see where it had all gone so horribly wrong. He'd only told everyone exactly the truth!

  At the time, it had seemed like a stroke of the purest luck; the brat had no experience at making speeches, and she didn't know how to exude the confident authority that he certainly could. And over and above all of that, he had been the one in the right! Miserable creature! How had she managed it? How, when he had spoken nothing that was not true, had she managed to turn virtually everyone in the Citadel against him? By the time he realized that every word he spoke was turning more people away from him, it had been too late.

  He kicked a shoe out of his path with a savage wish that it was the rear end of one of his so-called "friends" who had deserted him like the cowards that they were. As a consequence of that debate, he had been left utterly, completely without servants. No one would lift a finger to so much as keep him from tripping over an obstacle.

  Even the humans, even the human children, ignored any command he gave them. If he wanted to eat, rather than enjoying a meal in quiet dignity in his room alone, he had to trudge up to the cavern used as a common dining hall, sit down at one of the common benches wherever he could find a place, and serve himself from a common pot. There could not possibly be anything more degrading than that—a regular punishment, thrice daily. How he hated it! He didn't know what was worse; having to starve himself until the last moment and content himself with whatever the rest had left him so that he could sit at a bench alone, or braving the crowd to get something edible, but having to bear the snickers and the way people ostentatiously spread themselves out so as to leave no room at their tables for him. At least they were still permitting him to eat. There were a growing number of loud remarks every time he appeared that there should be a rule in the new Citadel about having to do some work if you wanted to eat.