Elvenborn (52 page)

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 en¬dure 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 stupid.

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 in¬terested 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 mo¬tives were. There were her own familial traditions of the Cross-

ing, and journals she had idly leafed through in moments of boredom. Putting Kyrtian's sudden fascination with the jour¬nals 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 impor¬tance 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 sculp¬ture 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 finger¬nail. Kyrtian was not going on what Aelmarkin would con¬sider 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. Some¬thing 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 man¬aged 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 foun¬tains 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 some¬thing 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 fol¬low Kyrtian himself. Even if Kyrtian didn't mean treason, per¬haps 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 of. 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 mas¬ter 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 man¬aged 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 de¬serted him like the cowards that they were. As a consequence of that debate, he had been left utterly, completely without ser¬vants. 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 enjoy¬ing 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 him¬self 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.

Ingrates! He'd show them! If they forbade him meals, he'd go back to the old ways, and steal his own food by magic from the Elvenlords' stores, and to the Netherworld with Lashana's stupid treaty! That would show them!

At least he'd have something decent then; real cheese, real bread, ham and sausage. Hah. If he even filched food from the kitchens, he could have anything he liked!

He thought sourly of his last meal; harshly-flavored goat-cheese, stringy mutton and not much of it, some nasty mess of wild greens, and bread made with coarsely-ground flour, heavy and dark. If they wanted him "punished," die quality of the food

around here was punishment enough. How he longed for the good things filched from the Elvenlords, the delicately-smoked meats, the fine cheeses, sweet butter and clotted cream, the cakes made with proper flour and sweetened with white sugar! His mouth watered at the mere thought of them.

He glared at the fire in his "fireplace"—fortunately for him, he had secured this room before his current disgrace, so at least it had a fireplace: If you wanted to call a mere alcove in the rock wall with an open-topped shaft punched up to the surface with draconic rock-magic a "fireplace." When it rained up above, water dripped down into the fire, and when the wind blew wrong, it drove the smoke back down into his room. Right now it was raining, and drops sizzled and spat in the flames, threatening to put them out. If he wanted a fire, he now had to gather the wood himself, and if he didn't want the plaguey thing clogged with ash, he had to sweep it out and dispose of the ashes himself.