"I never let it out of my keeping," he assured her, as all of the others had. "Till tomorrow night, then?"
"Till tomorrow night." She allowed him to break the connec¬tion, and sat back in her chair, well-content for just a moment.
But only for a moment, for she had a decision to make. Should she display her expertise in magic, by creating a fantas¬tical setting for her party, or distinguish herself by hosting the dinner with no magic whatsoever?
With magic, she decided after long consideration. But it must be subtle. These men were experts in powerful magic, and it would be far more impressive to caress them with surroundings that had a calm depth than to bombard them with—say—an en¬chanted exhibition of song and dance.
Subtlety would take time to produce; she had better start on it now.
She let the chair glide back on its rails, and took herself to her dining room, walking around it to study every angle.
Should she attempt an illusion of space, or create an atmo¬sphere of intimate enclosure?
The aura of intimacy would be better for her purposes.
She called in her servants, and set them to removing the din¬ing table and chairs from her last party and replacing them with two-person dining couches with attendant tables. By the time they returned with the moss-green, velvety drapes she wanted for the couches, she had decided on the theme.
Overhead, stars. As a backdrop, moss-covered stones, as if this place was a deep and narrow, secret valley. Slowly, arid with great care, Triana built up the illusion as she sat on one of the couches, spinning it out of air and energy. She placed, and re-placed each stone, each graceful tree, each tiny violet, until she was satisfied with the balance and harmony. Tendrils of en¬ergy formed into branches and dissolved again until she was happy with the effect.
A waterfall? No. Everyone had waterfalls lately; they'd been done to death. Instead, she simulated the calls of frogs and crickets, and a single nightingale.
She called for refreshments and real trees in tubs that would be masked with draped vines, supervising the slaves as they moved the real trees into position around the six couches. It was already past sundown, but her guests would arrive well be¬fore dinner tomorrow, and she must have the dining room ready long before then.
She overlaid an illusion of moss on the carpet, visual only, as the carpet itself was soft enough to the tread to please. That left only scent—easily taken care of with no illusion at all. She left orders for garlands of flowers and leaves to be draped between the tubbed trees and wreathed around the couches.
She sat down on one of the couches and surveyed her work with a critical eye, making minute changes here and there so that the grotto appeared random, entirely natural. Even the sky
overhead was a clever variation; she had keyed the stars to fol¬low the movements of the real sky. By the time she declared her¬self finished, she was exhausted with the unaccustomed labor. But it would all be worth it, tomorrow.
Triana surveyed her guests and smiled openly. Gildor and his favorite concubine were installed on the most private of the couches, at the rear of the grotto. Gildor clearly considered this to be a favor, not an insult—and so, evidently, did his father.
Each of the other five guests shared his couch with an attrac¬tive female slave, too, but these men were all powerful and probably had concubines that made these girls look like field-slaves. For them these slaves were nothing more than sentient furniture that served them silently without needing direction— pleasant accoutrements, which demonstrated the thoroughness and thoughtfulness of their hostess, but nothing more. They ate and talked as if the girls weren't even there. And the girls had been well-schooled, if not given the kind of intensive training that Triana lavished on her male slaves; they acted on the needs of their temporary masters before those masters even knew they had a need. Cups were refilled after a single sip, plates replaced with ones filled with new dainties the moment the hot foods be¬gan to cool or the cool ones to warm.
Triana herself had no companion, and ate very little. Her guests had loosened up enough to begin to speak of Council business, and she waited for the subject of Lord Kyrtian to come up, as Gildor dallied with his concubine, completely oblivious to his elders.
It was Lord Kyndreth who broached the subject, launching into a description of the aftermath of the climactic battle that routed the Young Lords.
"So where are the wretches?" asked Lord Wendrelith, his brow wrinkled with suppressed anger. "All that's been captured are slaves."
"Scattered like flushed quail—but unlike quail, they aren't regathering," Lord Kyndreth replied. "I suspect that they've each concocted bolt-holes during the time they were holding us
off, and now they've gone to ground. How much time and effort are you willing to spend in tracking them to their lairs?"
"Not nearly as much as it will take, I suspect," said Lord Van-drien dryly.
"It will be a massive effort," Lord Kyndreth agreed. "Every tracking team will have to have a lord with it—one whose loy¬alty is unquestioned and cannot be subverted. Human slaves can be deceived or corrupted."
Lord Wendrelith shook his head in disgust. "Ancestors! We'd either have to track them down one at a time—"
"Which would take forever, even by our standards—" Triana interjected softly.
"—or strip our estates of supervisors. Neither is a viable op¬tion," Kyndreth said, nodding.
Triana, seeing that she had not been rebuffed, put in another of her observations. "Aren't they now crafting their own pun¬ishment?"
Another of the Great Lords turned his full attention to Tri¬ana. "That is a very interesting idea, my Lady," Lord Arentiel-lan said, with an intensely alert expression in his eyes. "Could you elaborate?"
"They cannot have more than one or two slaves apiece; they dare not collect in groups of more than three. They will not have anything that we think of as decent housing—not so much as a hunting lodge. They are likely to be living in caves or other crude shelters. None of them are truly powerful magicians; if they wish to eat, they must steal, hunt, gather—with their own hands and those of the one or two slaves they still retain." She laughed, in a voice low and husky. "It is entirely possible that many of them are out there, burning their dinners over smoking fires, only to shiver through the night in scant shelter, even as we speak." She smiled sweetly. "I cannot imagine a punishment worse than that—living like a wild human, and knowing that the only way to rectify the situation is to come groveling back to us."
All five of the Great Lords stared at her for a long time; then Lord Kyndreth broke out in unexpectedly loud laughter, in
which he was joined by the rest. Gildor looked up at them for a moment without interest, then went back to his concubine.
"By the Ancestors, my Lady, I think you have the right of it!" said Lord Arentiellan with admiration. "My miserable brat is certainly welcome to all the burned rabbit and rain he can stand."
"What of the army, Kyndreth?" asked Vandrien. "If it were up to me, I'd disband them."
To Triana's veiled joy, the rest murmured agreement.
"It's up to the full Council, of course," Kyndreth demurred. "And there are the Wizards to think of."
"True ..." Vandrien mused.
"Who we will, inevitably, outlive," Triana pointed out qui¬etly. "With half their blood coming from slave-stock, I cannot see that they would have our years. With no more of the full blood, they will dilute their stock to the point that they are no more long-lived than mere slaves. Assuming that they don't kill each other off in their own quarrels."
"Once again, my Lady, you surprise and delight me." Lord Vandrien sat up enough to give her the full bow of respect. "I am in your debt for such reasoned observations."
"Thank you." She lowered her gaze modestly.
"Still, the Wizards ... the question is, whether it is possible that they could pose a threat to us, simply by existing and serv¬ing as a temptation to the slaves to revolt." Kyndreth raised an eyebrow. "After all, our own offspring did."
"And slaves would have no difficulty with the notion of— of—living like wild humans." Arentiellan nodded. "Still, I don't know—"
"If you disbanded the army, there is a question of what Lord Kyrtian would do with himself," Triana suggested gently.
"If you ask me, he ought to be on the Council!" Arentiellan said immediately—but Triana saw Lord Kyndreth exchange a pointed glance with one of the others. She strove to catch his eye, and nodded slightly.
Lord Kyndreth looked surprised, then speculative, then re¬turned her nod.
She leaned back into her couch, secure in the certainty that her message had been read and understood.
When the last honeyed grape had been eaten, and the last pleasantry exchanged, the Great Lords took their leave of their hostess, one by one. Lord Kyndreth sent his son and the concu¬bine back through the Portal and made as if to follow, but found a sudden excuse to remain until all of the others had left but himself. Triana had accompanied them to the Portal herself to bid them a polite farewell, and now found herself, as she had hoped, alone with the Great Lord.
"So, my lady," Kyndreth said, when the last haze of energy had died from the Portal mouth. "You seem to have some no¬tions about Lord Kyrtian."
"You are coming to the point with unaccustomed abruptness, if I may say so, Lord Kyndreth," Triana demurred.
"I am—somewhat concerned about Lord Kyrtian," the Great Lord replied, shifting his weight restlessly from his left foot to his right. "I may have awakened sleeping ambition in him, and if now he finds no outlet for it, he may be—distressed."
"He may use his new-won reputation within the Council to the disadvantage of others," Triana retorted, coming to the point just as directly as Lord Kyndreth had. "The strategies of war and politics are not unalike. On the other hand—"
"Yes?" Kyndreth prompted.
"His energies could be turned elsewhere, by someone who is clever enough to devise a channel for them." She looked up at him from beneath her long lashes, and smiled.
"And what would this distraction cost me, if I may ask, my lady?" Kyndreth was wasting no time; it occurred to Triana that he might be more worried about Kyrtian's ambitions than she had thought.
She decided to risk all on a single throw of the dice. "The Council Seat once held by my father."
His mouth pursed, but he didn't look as if he particularly ob¬jected to the notion. "It could be done ... there have been fe¬males on the Council before now."
But he hadn't committed to the bargain either. "The same
clever person who found one outlet for his energies could turn them back to a more—unfortunate—direction, if bargains made are not kept."
Now he smiled, wryly. "You have a way with words, my lady. The bargain will be kept—and I believe that you will find our young Commander at the estate of his Aunt, the Lady Morthena."
She smiled radiantly at him. "Thank you, my lord. That is all I need."
He gave her a full court bow. "And all I require, as well." He stepped towards the Portal, which began to glow with energy in response to his proximity. Then he paused on the threshold, to look back over his shoulder at her. "Good hunting, my Lady," he said.
"And to you, my lord—" she replied. And he was gone.
23
Shana hadn't seen Kelyan and Haldor in ages—and she would have been hard-pressed to recognize them now. Rena had been right to take action; perhaps the change in the two "young" Elvenlords had been so gradual that it had passed relatively unnoticed by the people who saw them every day, but to Shana's eyes the change was something of a shock. Elvenlords were rarely "robust" by human or halfblood stan¬dards, but Kelyan and Haldor were wraith-thin, bones showing through skin gone quite translucent. Their silver-gilt hair was lank and brittle, and they bruised badly and easily. The dragons had brought them to the Citadel in a stupor induced by Mero; after waking them only enough to stuff them full of food and drink and clean them up after their journey, Shana had put them back to sleep again.
Two elven captives summarily dumped on their doorstep— one more problem to try and fix.
This time she was at a loss; this was not her area of expertise! If it hadn't been for Lorryn coming in and volunteering to find a group to help her with them, she wouldn't have known where to start.
Now Shana and the group of young wizards Lorryn had called together stared down at their pair of captives as they slept in a magic-induced fog, illuminated by a pair of mage-lights. And it wasn't just wizards that Lorryn had asked for help, ei¬ther; the group included some of the strongest of the human mages that Shana had ever met as well.
I wouldn 't have thought of that—stupid of me. Humans are the ones with the magic that works on thoughts. There were several of them now, living among the Wizards, drawn down out of the hills by the promise of a place where they could live without fear of being captured by elven-led slave-hunting ex¬peditions. They stayed because Caellach had been very quiet ever since he had been defeated in the war of words with Shana. She was not altogether certain just how long he would remain quiet, but for now she was going to take the gift and not worry about him.
One of these human magicians was a middle-aged man called Narshy, whose ability to create illusions within the minds of those who were not adept at the Iron Peoples' mind-wall technique was nothing short of boggling. It was he, evidently, that Lorryn had first thought of when Mero had first suggested that the Wizards take over where Mero and Rena had been forced to leave off. Narshy could sometimes even get past the mind-wall—and because of that, Shana considered it a good thing he was on their side.
It made Shana wonder—before she dismissed the idea, ap¬palled that she'd even considered it—if Narshy could be used to manipulate Caellach Gwain. A base and immoral idea—but oh, so tempting! It had taken a distinct effort of will to put the idea firmly aside.