Mercedes Lackey - Elvenborn

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 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 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.

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.

At least he was putting some things over on them all. He knew very well when firewood was delivered to other rooms; he just helped himself when the occupants were out. And as for the ashes, well, he didn't sweep them any farther away than the hall, and serve them all right. They could either sweep them up themselves or trample them everywhere; he didn't care.