Mercedes Lackey - Elvenbane

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."

But when the visitor entered Dyran's tent, his face shrouded in the hood of a cloak, Dyran frowned. There was a glow of magic about him, the faint hint of illusion. If this was some kind of a trick...

With a single word, he overpowered and broke the spell, and the man chuckled, and put back his hood, allowing the golden glow of a mage-born light to shine on his face.

There was no mistaking those features.

Halfblood ! Dyran raised his shields immediately, and his hand stole beneath the table to grasp the knife hidden there.