Mercedes Lackey - Elvenblood

As she had seen before, he paused only long enough to collect his bow and arrows from the weapons rack in its shelter at the side of the wagon, and strode out of the encampment. No one ventured to stop him; everyone knew what he was like in this state, and no one wanted him to vent that temper on anything other than a few wild beasts.

Once Jamal reached the grasses at the edge of the encampment, he broke into the ground-devouring lope typical of these people when they were not riding their cattle. They could cover as much ground as any wolf when they chose, and right now, Jamal seemed intent on bettering his record.

Excellent. She needed him to be well out of sight or sound of the encampment for what she planned next.

She continued to circle, but now the center of her orbit was Jamal, a tiny black figure flowing through the grass as a dolphin flowed through water.

Soon… soon…

Abruptly he changed direction, and as she saw which way he was going, she thrilled with pleasure. I couldn't have planned this better. He was heading for a shallow blind canyon, so remote from the camp, it might as well have been in elven lands. There was a spring at the back of it, and two horns often came there to graze; that was probably why he was going there.

She waited, a falcon preparing to swoop, as he reached the mouth of the canyon, paused for a moment, then moved inside.

Yes!

She dove, wings flattened tightly to her body, falling from the sky, a dark stone out of heaven. Wind rushed against her nostrils, against her eyes, forcing her to pull her second lid over them to protect them, forcing the comers of her mouth back.

At the last possible moment she flipped and opened her wings, back-winging in a thunder of wingbeats, breaking her fall and turning it into a true and graceful landing at the entrance to the valley.

And Jamal whipped around, mouth falling open in surprise, bow and arrows dropping from nerveless fingers, as he gaped at the creature that had suddenly appeared to block his way.

He froze for just a moment; then, eyes narrowing, he snatched up his weapons again and prepared to sell his life dearly.

Myre laughed.

"Put your toys away, my friend," she rumbled at him in his own tongue. "And I call you friend most deliberately. It is said among your people that 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend,' is it not?"

Jamal nodded cautiously, clearly taken aback again, as much by her ability to speak his language as by the speech itself.

"Well, then," Myre chuckled, "I am your friend. My enemies are yours. Shall I name them?"

At his second nod, she did so, and watched as his own eyes narrowed in satisfaction at each name.

"Iron Priest Diric. The two Com People. And—" She paused significantly. "The so-called demons, Shana and Keman. Who are not demons, but something else."

"Like you?" Jamal said, quickly, and she gave him a mental accolade for his quickness.

"One of them," she told him. "Which—I will tell you later. But for now, you and I have plans to lay. Between them, we will both have our revenge, and you—you will have the leadership of the Iron People to share with no one."

Jamal smiled, and stood up, now completely relaxed. He saluted her, recognizing a kindred spirit in a strange body. She returned his salute, and smiled her own smile. Things were going precisely as she had planned.

Life—was very, very good.

Chapter 8

DIRIC ISSUED THE promised "invitation" in the morning, and Lorryn and his sister arrived promptly on the heels of his messenger, with all their belongings. Not that they had any real possessions to pack up and move! Even by the standards of a nomad, they had been traveling lightly burdened. When they presented themselves so promptly, with shy smiles and their feet in boots that were wet with dew, he wondered what Shana was going to think when she learned that Lorryn's sister was not another wizard…

He welcomed them himself, as was proper for people he had taken into his household, and then left their disposition among his tents to Kala, his wife. He would not usurp even a particle of her authority, and where the management of tents and living arrangements was concerned, tradition declared that the wife's word was the only word.

"You are certain you do not wish to see them disposed?" she replied, with a quizzical lift of her eyebrow.

"So long as you do not put them in our bed, I shall be content with your wise judgment," he told her.

She kept that eyebrow raised. "Many men do not see it that way" was her comment.

Diric snorted. "And that is both a shame and a disgrace; what, must they prove themselves men by giving no responsibility whatsoever to the women in their lives? Can their pride not bear it, that their woman would dictate even the disposition of a pot or a rug?"

"The young warriors must needs be the masters in their tents," was all she said, as she left with the youngsters in tow. "Before long, I fear they must be such masters that they will admit no woman to their ranks."

Diric could only shake his bead, but it occurred to him that this was just another symptom of how Jamal was undermining even the traditions of Forge Clan. Even the First Smith had beside Him the First Wife, who gave Him the fire for His forges from the hearth that She guarded, and taught Him every secret that flame and coals held! Had She not constructed the bellows Herself, and tended them while He forged out the world? While He created the sky, the sun, and the moon. She caught the sparks of the forge and set them in the night sky as stars, the smoke from the fire and placed it there as clouds. While He forged the earth and the seas. She created the delicate filigree of plants to clothe it. When He turned His attention to filling it with life, She added the ornamental touches of Her own—song and bright feathers for the birds, horns and antlers for the grazing beasts, scales and fur and hair in all the colors of water, earth, and sky.

The man who forgot all that was not only impious, but a fool, depriving himself of good counsel and a good friend…

Whoever fails to honor his help and mate by honoring all her due authority has no sense and little judgment.

And besides—why would anyone want to take on more work, when there was someone there to share it?

Hmm. Well, it is not the work such fools are taking on, but the power. The women still must do the work, handicapped by the fact that it is a fool who ordered it.

Well, that was but one more place where he differed from Jamal, and it was small wonder that the War Chief could not find a single maiden willing to enter his tent as a wife, given his well-known feelings on the subject of "a woman's place." Perhaps that accounted for his preoccupation with conflict—

He scolded himself for allowing his mind to wander as Kala led them away, smiling. Their children were all grown, and she often found time hanging heavily on her hands with only the tasks for two to occupy her. She was never happier than when they had guests, and this long trek so far from other clans had made the possibility of guests unlikely. Kala knew everything that was in his mind, and he could not have trusted the security of these two pale-skinned strangers into more certain and capable hands. Before long, she would have seduced their trust out of them, and it would be trust well placed. Kala could answer every question they had, and surely they had many.

Kala will also gleefully take it upon herself to clothe the maiden properly, and it is just as well that she seems pliant and cooperative, for Kala will not be denied!

Now he had another facet of his plot to think on: how to manufacture an excuse to see the captives frequently. They were, technically, under the jurisdiction of Jamal, and Jamal would take it askance if he called on them too many more times. The First Smith did not send portents that often that Diric would be able to use a portent as an excuse, either.