Elvenbane (53 page)

Those were uncomfortable thoughts, and he left them gladly enough as he neared the enemy encampment.

He just couldn’t seem to—cope with feeling.

The encampment wasn’t hard to find. The humans of the army were noisy, and they were patently afraid of the forest, covering that fear by making still more noise. Most of them had never been in this wilderland, but they had heard terrible stories about the beasts and monsters that supposedly ranged it. They didn’t know they were about to have their fears realized.

Valyn sought for the peculiar blank spot that was the creature he had nicknamed the “snatcher.” There were several of them in the forest, but this one happened to den very near the elven lords’ line of march. It was, in fact, the same creature that had taken his horse the first night in the wilderlands. It wasn’t nearly as dangerous as he had thought—it seldom went after two-legged targets, and it never killed more than it could eat—but
they
didn’t know that.

He crept as close as he dared to the den, then froze where he was still safe—the snatcher hunted by movement—and sent out a delicate little thread of magic, creating an illusion of a fat pony just outside tangle of fallen tree trunks and thornbushes that hid its den, an illusion complete with rustling leaves and the sound of equine jaws tearing up grass.

The snatcher lunged, traveling so fast that it was a mere blur, the “pony” leapt away, then turned back to look at it with astonished eyes. It was
very
hard to see, once it stopped moving; it was able to change the coloration of its skin to blend in perfectly with its surroundings.

The snatcher lunged again. Again, the pony escaped, and to the snatcher it must have seemed oblivious to its danger.

Three more lunges and escapes, and the snatcher was within sight of the army’s picket lines. The horses sensed something wrong; they began whinnying and stamping nervously just as Valyn banished the illusion. Hungry, frustrated by the inexplicable disappearance of its quarry, and already farther from its den than it like to be, the snatcher saw the picketed horses, and gave way to temptation.

This time the prey did not escape; one poor, unfortunate beast wound up in the snatcher’s jaws, and the picket line exploded in panic as the snatcher snapped the ropes with a claw and retired swiftly to its den. Horses crashed through the underbrush as the ropes holding them broke and let them fly to the four winds. Some plunged through the camp, scattering gear and trampling people and equipment in their panic. Others plunged off into the forest, with handlers shouting after them.

Valyn withdrew discretely, before any of the elven lords thought to look for traces of magic, chuckling quietly to himself.

Mero waited patiently, lying along the tree limb, a position he had taken up as soon as he had determined where they planned to camp. Knowing, as he did, how the current hierarchy was constructed, and knowing where the choice campsites were, it didn’t take a great deal of thought to determine where the various leaders would choose to have their tents pitched and arrange to be in the vicinity.

He had an excellent view of the encampment. Lord Cheynar paced outside his tent beneath the boughs of another tree not far away. Finally, after what probably seemed like an indecently long time to the elven lord, the person he was waiting for appeared.

Cheynar started to relax—then Mero
nudged
his mind, just a little. Safer, far, than using magic that the elves could set traps for.

:-Stupid wench
—
spends all her time at the mirror
—
thinks it’s all a game
—
should never trust women with power
—
should never permit a woman to command troops
.:

“You took your time getting here, Triana,” he snarled. “Couldn’t you decide what dress to wear?”

Triana, who was garbed quite practically in leather armor very similar to Cheynar’s, frowned.
Her
delay had been occasioned by another one of Valyn’s little ambushes, one that left the entire encampment in shambles, and the picket line decimated. And the horses were supposed to be Cheynar’s duty. Mero reached for
her
mind.

:How dare he! Obnoxious male
—
can’t trust him
—
looking for a way to steal my troops, then my Clan
—
trying to discredit me, make me look like a fool
—:

“It just so happens, my lord Cheynar,” she said sharply, “I was seeing that the resupply of horses
you
lost due to
your
incompetence was taken care of properly. I don’t leave important business to subordinates!”

Mere reached again. :
Uppity bitch! Should be in the bower where she belongs! Probably out scouting the slaves for likely bedmates
!:

“Really? Was it the horses that interested you—or the horse-keepers?” Cheynar smiled nastily. “It couldn’t have been the horses—we don’t have any stallions here—”

The sound of a palm striking a cheek with a
crack
that made heads turn all over the camp was sheer music to Mero’s ears.

Shana lay flat on her back in her bed in the Citadel, all alone, her eyes closed, to all outward scrutiny completely asleep.

In actuality, she was very, very busy.

Between her native ability and the amount of practice she had in using the amplifying powers of her stones and crystals, her “touch” in the use of the spells that moved things about was unrivaled, even by older wizards. Add that to her ability to levitate objects, and she was, essentially, an invisible, undetectable saboteur. So she had taken it as her task to make life interesting for the elves hunting them.

At first, she had confined herself to simple sabotage. Now she was after bigger game.

From Mero’s mind, she found Dyran’s tent. With that location verified, she could “look” inside it, and even peer within caskets, “read” unopened documents, and sift through piles of papers without moving any of them.

Thus, letters vanished from a locked box in Dyran’s tent, and reappeared under a pile of dispatches on Triana’s portable desk. Cheynar’s secret dispatches to the Council appeared in Dyran’s correspondence. A series of small, valuable objects belonging to various subordinates ended up among Lord Berenel’s personal effects.

A large cache of gold coins, moved from the storage vaults under the Council chamber, appeared in Berenel’s luggage.

She still had some strength left after all this, so she concluded her exercise by disarranging the papers in all the elven lords’ tents, making it look as if someone had been rummaging through them.

Then, greatly daring, she eased a touch into Cheynar’s mind.
.-Something is wrong
,: she whispered into his thoughts.
:You can’t trust anyone. Dyran is a powerful mage, and even Triana could be hiding something besides who she wants in her bed. Perhaps you had better check the tent
—:

Shana found the dim lighting of the Citadel meeting-room restful to her tired eyes. The other four looked just as weary; even Keman had been hard at work, keeping watch as best he could on the elven lords’ thoughts.

The council of war in the wizards’ meeting-room included the four youngsters for the first time, at Denelor’s urging. Up until this moment, their efforts had been discounted—but the effect they were having at slowing the elves’ advance and disrupting their movements had finally convinced the older wizards that they knew what they were doing.

“… and I
think
it’s working,” Shana concluded wearily. “I think we might be able to get rid of them without exchanging a single blow ourselves. They haven’t moved their camp for the last two days, and yesterday Cheynar came so close to challenging Dyran that I was ready to place a bet.”

Denelor straightened his tunic and nodded. “There’s no doubt that what you’re doing is keeping them distracted. More than that, really. The seeds of mistrust you planted are flowering so that they are
finding
excuses to quarrel. What I cannot comprehend is why things haven’t fallen completely apart by now.”

Valyn, who had been silent until now, finally spoke up. “It’s Dyran,” he said softly.

All heads turned in his direction.

“Would you care to elaborate on that, lad?” said Denelor.

“It’s Dyran,” Valyn repeated. “Haven’t you noticed that while all the others are at each other’s throats,
he
never gets angry, never makes accusations? That’s been one thing that he’s been noted for, all of his life. He may
betray
his allies, but he will never, ever lose his temper with them. He saves his tempers for his slaves—and for the halfbloods.”

Denelor nodded thoughtfully, as if Valyn’s words confirmed a guess of his own. “Go on, lad. You obviously know something we don’t.”

Valyn frowned. “He’s always been able to keep people under his thumb. He’s a master at it—threats, bribes, persuasion, glamorie—it doesn’t matter, he knows how to handle them all. He’s the one who’s kept the quarrels patched up, who’s found a face-saving explanation for the inexplicable. I don’t know
why
he’s so determined to find us, but he is, and he isn’t going to let anything or anyone get in his way.”

“Dyran is the real foe here?” asked Garen Harselm, his green eyes icy and calculating.

“That would make sense,” said Lukas Madden thoughtfully, hand stroking his beard. “It makes excellent sense. But what does Dyran expect to get out of this?”

Valyn shrugged. “I know a lot
about
Lord Dyran, but I don’t really know
him
,” he said with a straight face, as Shana held her breath, afraid that he would make a slip. Only Denelor knew who and what Valyn was—and she was afraid of the consequences if any of the other wizards should discover Dyran’s heir in their midst. The fully human children she and Zed had rescued had made more than enough of a stir—and they were children, too young to be traitors or spies, young enough to fit into life within the Citadel and learn loyalty to the wizards.

But a full-grown elven lord?

The first thing the others would think of would be betrayal; the next, how Valyn could be used as a hostage.

So, Valyn had miraculously become a halfblood cousin, like Mero, named for Dyran’s heir and placed in the heir’s service until that worthy had gone off to Lord Cheynar for fosterage. Whereupon, fearing discovery, the two had escaped. None of the other wizards knew as much about the elven lords as Denelor, the subterfuge had passed unremarked.

“We have to conjure up some trick that not even Dyran can explain away,” said Parth Agon decisively. “The longer we keep them quarreling, the more time we will have.” He smiled thinly. “I must admit that I find it ironic to think that the very tactics that defeated our predecessors may be our salvation.”

“Only if we can continue to make them work for us,” Denelor warned. “The combined troops of all of the allies could easily overrun the Citadel, despite its protections, if they ever learn exactly where it is. Arrogance and overconfidence lost the last war for us. And according to the old chronicles,
we
were the victims of manufactured quarrels the last time. We
must
stand united in this.”

He looked directly to each of the wizards in turn, before concluding his speech. “Let’s learn from our history, shall we?” he said mildly.

Please
, Shana thought, with an intensity that threatened to give her a headache.
Please listen to him
.

There was a moment of silence—

Then Parth cleared his throat, and half a dozen voices spoke up at once, each with a different plan.

So, Lord Dyran was the one to reckon with, hmm? Garen Harselm left the war council with a decidedly different set of ideas than his fellow wizards. And as he made his way to his quarters, he weighed all the possible options in his mind.
They
were all set to oppose the elven lords—even old Parth had screwed up his courage, now that there was no choice except to run or stand and fight.

And probably die. Denelor was right. The wizards should learn from history. And history said that opposing the elves was suicide.

Garen opened the door and lit the lamps in his suite with a negligent flick of his hand, and surveyed the accumulations of a lifetime, all crowded into three cluttered rooms. Not so much, really. Nothing that couldn’t be replaced. Very little he couldn’t live without.

There were a few things he would like to take along—a book or two, a favorite robe, a carved fish he liked to hold when he was thinking—

But—no. None of it was worth encumbering himself. And if he was seen in the halls carrying a bag, there would be questions that he was not prepared to answer.

So he turned his back on the possessions of a long and acquisitive life, and closed the door again, heading down into the maze of corridors in the caves behind the Citadel, towards an exit he was fairly certain only he knew existed.

“Lord Dyran?” The human guard was diffident, humble, and reluctant to disturb his master’s concentration.

Having learned, no doubt, from the example of his predecessor.

A predecessor whose ashes were even now being swept into the fire-pit by yet another slave.

“Yes?” Dyran said, without looking up from his letter. It was another missive to the Council of course; damned fools, all of them, who could not forget their quarreling long enough to deal with a
real
problem. But he could not be there and here at the same time—and once he crushed this menace, he could deal with the Council at his leisure.

Why was it that none of them could understand that the halfbloods were
more
dangerous than any elven lord? If he’d known that the thefts all these years had been due to halfbloods and not wild humans with wizard-powers, he would not have left a tree standing in this wilderland.

“Lord Dyran, there’s a Lord here to see you,” the guard said, with commendable civility. “He says he’s here to offer you an alliance.”

An alliance
? Dyran looked up, his interest piqued. Were they flocking to his banner already, and the war not yet won? “Send him in,” he told the guard, “and see that we aren’t disturbed.”