Elvenborn

29

Triana lay on her stomach on the cold, hard ground beneath a bush, peering down at an encampment in the tiny valley below her. Water dripped down on the hood of her cloak from the branches above her, and although the cloak itself was waterproof, mist permeated even the cleverly-magicked fabric somewhat. It was not a comfortable position, but her sheer astonishment at the sight that lay beneath her allowed her to ignore her discomfort.

There was a campsite down there in the mizzle, with six or eight standing figures, putting the place to rights, and one sitting figure. It was the seated one that had her attention.

"You see, my lady?" murmured the human tracker in Tri-ana's ear. "It is as I told you. There is the Elvenlord you wished to find."

Well, it was an Elvenlord, all right, but it was not the one she had intended to find. Not that the tracker could be blamed in this case. He didn't know what Lord Kyrtian looked like, especially at a distance. He couldn't know that Kyrtian, the fool, would never have sat back and watched while his slaves put up a camp. But what in the name of all the Ancestors had gotten Aelmarkin to stir his lazy behind and come out to this howling wilderness?

She was rather pleased to see that he didn't look very happy. Hunched over, elbows on knees, even from here she could see his frown. Ancestors! She could feel his frown. His slaves were trying to light a fire and not having a lot of success with the wet wood; he slumped on a stool beneath the shelter of his tent, watching them. She couldn't tell what he was thinking from here, but a moment later, he pointed his finger at the pile of wood and it roared up, causing his slaves to leap back lest they be scorched.

Could it be that he, too, was following Kyrtian? And without ever bothering to inform her?

She ground her teeth in a sudden flare of temper. The nerve of him! How dare he—

But just as quickly the temper subsided, because she couldn't honestly sustain it. Hadn't she expected this? And had she bothered to tell him what she was planning? Of course not, so why be angry with him when she was doing the same thing? And although to her this was just a wager, to him it was a great deal more than that. Enough to force him into a place that was as alien and uncomfortable to him as it was to her.

Well, if he was following Kyrtian, she would just follow him! It would save her a great deal of work, for he was by no means as woods-wise as his cousin, nor were his men. Only if he began to flounder would she have her men strike out on their own.

Meanwhile, Kyrtian was bound to go underground eventually; he had to look for Wizards, and he wanted to look for the Great Portal, and both would be in caves. If the caves were as extensive as rumor painted them, it would be child's play to get ahead of Aelmarkin.

"You've done well," she whispered back to the slave, who beamed at her, the smile of pride transforming an otherwise unhandsome face. "Watch them. I will send Kartar to you. When they leave, you both follow. Send Kartar back to fetch us to where they camp next."

"My lady," the slave bowed. He was a hard man, as were the others she had with her; forest-trackers all, they were used to the roughest of conditions. He was outfitted for the forest, in tough canvas, sturdy boots and a waterproof, hooded tunic. She wore the same, with modifications-—an additional waterproof cloak, and her clothing made of materials that were just as tough, but softer to the skin. From the look of it, Aelmarkin had taken no such precautions, and she smiled grimly as she eased her way out from under the cover of the bush and back down the other side of the hill, where another of her slaves awaited her.

He led her silently down a tangle of deer-trails; only the Ancestors knew how he was finding his way, and she didn't worry about it. That was his job, and he'd been trained very, very well for it. She did wish, however, that the need for stealth had not required the horses be tied up quite so far from Aelmarkin's camp. The thing about deer-trails was that the deer didn't care a bit if there were branches stretched across the path, or roots to trip up the unwary.

It was dusk by the time she and her escort rode into a camp that was, thanks to her good sense in picking the right sort of slaves for this job, in much better state than Aelmarkin's. There was a very small fire burning beneath a clever shelter of branches that not only shielded it from most of the omnipresent rain but dissipated the smoke rising from it so there would be no plume above the trees to betray their presence.

Good men. She was glad that she had bought them from Lord Kyndreth, once she'd learned they were not only foresters, but had been trained to serve as war-scouts. They were efficient, unobtrusive, quiet—they already knew how to work together as a team, and they didn't need constant supervision.

And they already knew their reward could be very great indeed if they served her well. She'd given them a taste of it. There was a time for the lash, and a time for the velvet glove, and when you needed someone's utmost effort in a skill, the velvet glove was the only sensible choice.

Besides, they weren't bad looking, any of them, although they were craggy and rough-hewn—and they were a pleasant change from her usual pretty toys.

So despite being chilled and damp, she bestowed praise all around and made sure Kartar was well-provisioned as well as well-fed before he set off to join his fellow tracker to keep watch over Aelmarkin's camp. Dusk lingered for a long time out here, and Kartar had a clear trail to follow. He'd be in place by dark.

In spite of her dislike for this whole situation, things were becoming interesting. Definitely interesting. She smiled again as she accepted a plate of slightly-charred meat from one of the slaves and retired with it into the privacy of her tiny tent. She might never forgive Kyrtian if it turned out he had led her out here on some idiotic wild-goose chase, but if he hadn't—

If he hadn't, this might prove to be the best opportunity for upsetting the balance of power among the Great Lords that had come along in a while.

And there was always one other possibility she could pursue—one which, given the circumstances, could provide a lot of satisfaction even if this was a wild-goose chase.

If Aelmarkin hadn't told her where he was going and what he was up to, he probably hadn't told anyone else. Except possibly Cheynar, and then it wouldn't have been much. Everyone knew these were dangerous forests. Her forest-trackers had been trained for war. His hadn't. And no one knew that she was in these hills as well.

So if he and his men just—disappeared—no one would be surprised, nor was it likely that anyone would come looking for him once Cheynar reported where he'd gone.

She wouldn't win her bet—but she wouldn't lose it, either. And it just might be worth violating every law and compact the Great Lords had sworn just to see his face when she slit his throat.

This was the darkest forest Kyrtian had ever had the misfortune of camping in. He found himself wondering as he kept half of his concentration on the conversation around the fire, and the other half on the sounds out in the woods beyond the camp, if the overcast skies here ever lifted. Surely they had to at some point... it couldn't rain all the time. Could it?

And yet, there hadn't been so much as an hour since they'd entered the place when it hadn't at least misted. And it was a good thing that he and his men weren't depending on that old saw of finding north by looking for moss on a tree trunk, because moss grew everywhere, thick as a carpet in most places. If ever there was a spot meant by nature for ambushes, this was it. So far they'd managed to avoid any more of those invisible whatever-they-weres, but the very nature of the gloom-laden landscape had his whole group edgy.

The snap of a twig brought Kyrtian and everyone in his camp to instant alertness. The whistle of a skylark came out of the darkness, and they all relaxed again. A moment later, Shana and a young male wizard walked into the circle of light cast by the fire, the omnipresent mist sparkling like gems on the edges of their hoods.

"I don't know how you do that—getting past my sentries," Kyrtian complained good-naturedly. "I hope no one else can."

"Only humans that have their special magic, dragons, and Wizards," Shana told him, grinning, as she settled down on a bit of log that one of the men rolled to the fire for her. "Speaking of which—this is my foster-brother, Keman."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance," Kyrtian said politely, but warily. "So, you're another wizard, then—"

"Ah, actually, I'm not," the young man said diffidently, with a glance at the Elvenbane. "Shana thinks it's time you were— ah—"

"If you're going to trust us, we have to give you a reason," Shana said briskly. "I've already talked this over with the other leaders, and they think it's time for you to be entrusted with the biggest secret we have."

"Which—would be what, exactly?" Kyrtian replied, wishing she would just get straight to whatever she was going to say.

"First, just indulge me and do whatever it is that you normally do to dispel an illusion or a glamor. Keman isn't exactly what he seems," Shana said, and there was a certain—tone in her voice that made him look at her with suspicion for a moment. Just what was she up to, anyway? Was this "foster brother" of hers fully Elven—or perhaps human? No, if he was human, there would be no need for all this secrecy and fiddling about.

But it was obvious that he wasn't going to get any further information out of the woman unless he did as she asked, so, with a sigh, he gathered threads of magic and wove them into a net, casting it over the two of them, just for good measure. He might as well see if the Elvenbane herself was under a glamor.

Nothing happened. The two of them remained exactly as they had been when they walked into the firelight.

Now Kyrtian was puzzled. Had the magic been countered? It couldn't have been deflected; he'd have seen that. Could they have absorbed it, then negated it? But how? "Are you carrying something new that works like iron?" he asked. "Or have you—"

He never got a chance to finish his question, because in the next moment, the young man who had been standing at the fireside, looking altogether as normal as it was possible for a wizard to look, suddenly began to ... change. He didn't writhe, exactly, but he blurred and twisted in a way that induced a really violent case of dizziness and nausea. It felt as if something was wrenching Kyrtian's eyes out of their sockets and stirring up his guts at the same time, and Kyrtian clapped his hand over his mouth and turned away. He wasn't alone; the rest of his men were doing the same thing, their complexions in varying shades of green.

What in the name of—

As soon as he turned his eyes away his symptoms subsided, and he looked up, glaring at Lashana, angry accusations on his lips.

Which died, as he continued to look up—and up—and up— into the jewel-like and surprisingly mild eyes of a very large, sapphire-blue dragon.

At least, he thought it was a dragon. He couldn't think of anything else it could be. It was huge, scaled, winged, fanged and taloned. There weren't many other creatures that fit that description.

As he stared, he heard the men behind him reacting to the presence of the creature. One was praying in the ancient language of the humans, one was cursing with remarkable fluency, and he distinctly heard the thud of a third dropping to the ground, presumably having fainted dead away.

Not that Kyrtian blamed him in the least.

"You can cast all the illusion-breaking spells you like, but dragons can look like anything they care to and you won't know it. The dragons are shape-changers, you see," he heard the Elvenbane say, quite cheerfully, but it was as if he heard her in the far distance. His mind was still too involved with the impossibility of what he had just witnessed, and the sheer presence of the dragon itself. "That's our biggest secret, and that gives us undetectable spies among you Elvenlords. The dragons can go anywhere and be anything or anybody, and you can never tell that they're there, because they're not taking on illusions, they're taking on the real form of whatever they imitate. They've been spying on your people—oh, forever. From the moment the Elvenlords arrived here, the Eldest say."

"Oh," Kyrtian said, faintly. "I suppose—dragons must have been in my camp, then?"

Lashana let out a peal of laughter. "My good Lord Kyrtian, dragons were guarding your tent. And neither you nor your good Sargeant Gel had any notion!"

"Actually," the dragon said, with a note of apology in his deep voice, "I was one of them. Sorry. Hate to eavesdrop and all that, but we really didn't have much choice. We had to know what you were, you understand. Suddenly you were doing all sorts of efficient things against the Young Lords, and we calculated that you'd be coming after us, next."

Kyrtian wasn't entirely certain how the dragon was speaking; the voice seemed to rumble up out of the depths of that massive torso, and the mouth opened and closed, but the dragon didn't have anything like lips, and he couldn't figure out how it could shape words with that mouth....

"At any rate, this is our biggest secret, and now you know it," Lashana continued. "So—well, you can see that we trust you."

"Ah ... yes." Carefully, very carefully, Kyrtian felt blindly for the piece of log he'd been sitting on and lowered himself down onto it. "I... can see that."

The dragon lowered his head until his eyes were level with Kyrtian's face. "You can do us as much harm, knowing this, as we could ever do to you, you know," the creature said, quietly.

"Forgive me," Kyrtian managed, finally gathering some of his wits about him, "If at this moment—with a mouth big enough to swallow me whole not an arm's-length away from me—I find that a little difficult to believe."

The dragon suddenly reared up, and for a moment, Kyrtian was certain that they were all going to be swallowed up—

But then an enormous, rumbling laugh started somewhere deep inside the dragon, bubbled up through the long, long throat, and emerged from the upturned snout as a trumpeting hoot.

It should have terrified him—and his men—further still. It was a completely alien sound, something that could have meant the thing was about to attack them. But somehow, it wasn't frightening at all, somehow, in the depths of Kyrtian's mind where the basest of instincts gibbered in terror and tried to crouch as small as possible so as not to be noticed by this monster, it translated as exactly what it was—the laughter of a fellow creature who meant no harm at all. And that primitive part of him stopped gibbering, and relaxed....

"Look aside, Lord Kyrtian," the dragon said, when he'd finally done laughing. "I think I'd best come—back down to your level."

He didn't need urging, not after his previous experience.

When Keman looked again like an ordinary wizard, poor Resso had been revived, and they were all seated around the fire, Kyrtian contemplated the wizard-dragon from across the flames as Lashana and the foresters discussed which of several possible caves they ought to penetrate first. He couldn't help himself; he couldn't reconcile the apparent size of the wizard with the obvious size of the dragon he'd become. The puzzle ate at him; he couldn't explain it, couldn't rationalize it, and when he couldn't find an explanation for something, he had the bad habit (and he knew it was a bad habit) of worrying at it to the exclusion of everything else.

Finally the dragon himself leveled a stare across the flames and said, "What, exactly, is bothering you, Lord Kyrtian?" in a tone of irritation mixed with amusement.

"Where did it come from?" Kyrtian blurted, as conversation ceased among the others. "I mean, you're no larger than Resso right now, and you're not exactly having that log splitting under you from your weight—but when you were—" he waved his hands wildly "—that wasn't air, that was mass—well, look at the imprints you left! So where did it come from? And where did it go?"

Keman shrugged. "Elsewhere, Kyrtian," he said. "That's all I can tell you. We call it, 'shifting into the Out.' We move the real bulk of ourselves to and from the Out, but—well, we don't know what the Out is. It's here, but it's somewhere else—"

"But when you know what to look for, a dragon casts a sort of—shadow—when he's in another form," Lashana put in. "It's not the kind of shadow you get from light falling on you, but it's there, and when you've learned how to see it and look for it, you can always tell whether something is a dragon or not."

Kyrtian could only shake his head, more puzzled by the explanation than by not having one. But at least that obsessive part of his mind had it to turn inside out and examine while he set most of his attention to work on more important things. "Never mind," he said, after a moment. "What in the name of the Ancestors are those—invisible horrors that lie in wait for you on deer trails? And what can we do about them?"

Lashana and Keman exchanged a look and a nod, and the planning moved into more practical spheres.

Caellach Gwain was beside himself with rage.

He'd followed Lashana to this benighted forest once he'd scryed out her location and once she'd abandoned it, trusting to distance and preoccupation to keep her from noticing the "noise" of his arrival. Of course, just as he apported into the spot, the wretched trees delivered a load of water from their disturbed branches, creating the effect of a localized downpour for a moment or two, which was certainly enough to drench him from head to toe. Since he hadn't taken the precaution of wearing a waterproof cape, never thinking that Lashana would drop herself into the middle of a rainstorm, he was hardly prepared for such a reception.

His temper wasn't improved when he followed the clear trail that she and whoever she'd brought with her had left. It led through underbrush just thick enough to be a nuisance, catching in his soggy robes and snarling his hair. And it was dark, plague take it all! If he hadn't kindled a mage-light, he wouldn't be able to see where he was going!

Fortunately, he'd been on the alert for the thoughts of others, because he managed to detect the sentries before they got a glimpse of his light, and douse it. And he was able to avoid them the same way, though his command of thought-sensing wasn't the equal of someone who'd wasted his time honing it to a fine pitch. Still—he knew human thoughts when he sensed them. So what was Lashana up to? Had she found yet another group of wild humans to bring to the new Citadel, using up more precious resources that should have gone to support Wizards and not useless mouths?

He spotted a fire, then, and belatedly caution took over. He would far rather have scryed out what was going on, but that would have required light—so instead, he crept on hands and knees, with every bone creaking in protest, until he was close enough to see most of the figures there, if not hear what they were saying.

Sure enough, it looked like another plaguey lot of mere humans!

But then, the one that had his back to Caellach turned his head, and Caellach froze.

An Elvenlord!

And there, chatting away with him, just as bold as could be—Lashana and Keman.

He very nearly rushed out from beneath his covering bush and accosted them then and there. As it was, sheer rage held him frozen in place.

How dare she! Traitor! Unnatural, ungrateful wretched girl!

He wanted to throttle her, there and then. He wanted to blast her into a hundred thousand bits. After everything she had done to the Wizards, who had taken her in, taught her, sheltered her—

He just sat and shook for a long time, while she, oblivious, chattered on as if she was old friends with them all.

He didn't know how long it was that he sat, encompassed by anger so hot it burned away every vestige of thought. But finally, it ebbed, and when it did—

Unholy glee flooded in, replacing the anger with savage joy.

He had her now. Finally, finally, he had her! Let her try to deny this! When the others heard about it, they'd throw her into a prison she could never escape from!

He had to get back, though, before he could lay any charges. And to do that, he had to get far enough away from here that the noise of the transportation spell wouldn't be noticed.

And he mustn't get caught. Not now, not when victory was so close he could taste it.

He opened his mind as he never had before, paying obsessive attention to the whereabouts of all of the sentry-slaves. When he moved, he did so only when he knew that they were nowhere near, and the sounds of his movement would not reach them. He literally felt his way along the path that had brought him here, moving loose twigs out of the way so that he wouldn't step on them and betray himself. At least now the sodden nature of this forest worked for him rather than against him; thick moss apparently covered every surface, and the fallen leaves he encountered were too wet to crackle.

When he was finally far enough away that he felt safe in doing so, he kindled a mage-light once again, got to his feet, and shoved his way along the first clear path he spotted. He didn't particularly care where he was going—and it really didn't matter. He could get back to the Citadel from practically anywhere; what really mattered now was that he get away from here.

The further he got, the brighter he made his light; at first, as the light itself frightened nocturnal animals out of his path, he was afraid that the disturbances they made would betray him, or draw in something like an alicorn that could be a real danger to him. But the further away he got, the less wildlife he saw, until at last there didn't seem to be anything at all along the path but himself.

They must have hunted it all out on the way here, he thought vaguely, most of his attention on what he was going to say when he got back to the Citadel. He recalled some vague admonitions by the stupid dragons that one shouldn't hunt an area out, but apparently that Elvenlord paid as little heed to such things as he would have. And now that the trail was wide and beautifully clear, he was going to get to a point where he could transport himself back in a matter of moments, now—just as soon as he got past that cluster of bushes—

The violent shaking of the bushes was the only warning he got. Then he was engulfed in something horrid, and slimy, and his mage-light went out. There was a moment of absolute surprise, followed by an eternity of hellish pain, and in the end, only ... nothingness.

And then there was no sound at all on the trail, except the noises of something feeding in the dark.