Elvenblood (30 page)

"It matches what I know also," Kalamadea added. "I would not call Jamal 'rash,' precisely, but he would much rather control something directly, and that means conquering it if he can, whether it is the power over his own Clan, or the means of obtaining grain and metals, both of which are in short supply among these Iron People."

Keman groaned, and massaged his temple as if he had a headache. "This is not fair! I
hate
being stuck in the middle of a power struggle at any time, but why must I be stuck in the middle of one that hasn't got anything to do with me?"

"How do you think I feel?" Shana retorted. "I've been in the center of power struggles since before I was born! No one ever asked me if I wanted any part of this!"

"You have great
hamenleai
, Lashana," Kalamadea said, with one of his inscrutable smiles. "I said so when Alara brought you to the Kin. Since you are such a center of great change, you can hardly be anything but the focus of power struggles."

"Oh, thank you," she replied sarcastically.
Sometimes I wish Father Dragon would take his position as Chief Shaman and
—
ah, never mind. Foster mother is like that too; she just doesn't get quite so pompous about it
.

"Oh, you are welcome," he replied, with equal irony, but more humor. "I merely point out the facts, Lashana; I am not responsible for them."

She only snorted. "Fact or not, we
are
here and I would like to do something to get us
out
of here. So has anyone got any ideas about approaching Diric?"

There had been some disturbance outside; Shana had been ignoring it. There were often disturbances outside the tent: quarrels between young warriors, noisy games by mobs of children, the occasional cow taking it into her head to charge through the center of camp. Such disturbances usually faded after a while.

This one did not. In fact, the crowd noise had increased over the past few moments.

"What is going on out there?" she wondered aloud, getting to her feet. She coiled the loose end of her chain around her waist and walked over to the entrance, followed by the other three and the two elves.

They emerged into the bright light and heat of midafternoon-noon; the sun struck her like a blow to the head, and she shaded her eyes with her hand as she peered in the direction of all the noise.

Now
, now that Haldor had been coaxed to work something the elves called a "spell of tongues" upon them all, and had imparted to all four of them all of the knowledge of the language of the Iron People that either he or Kelyan had, she could understand the shouting.

"Are they saying something about 'Corn People' ?" she asked Kalamadea in puzzlement.

He nodded, frowning furiously. "They are," he replied, "and that is an impossibility. They were a tribe that allied with the grel-riders in their struggle against the elves, but unfortunately, they were handicapped by being farmers rather than nomads. They would not leave their land, and they had not really acquired the skills of war—they had always relied on their allies to protect them. The Corn People were slaughtered long before the first Wizard War, and their children made into slaves. There
are
no more Corn People."

He seemed so certain of it that she could not doubt him, but that was certainly the gist of what the shouting was all about. So if there were no Com People, then what—

The shouting neared; clearly the crowd was headed in this direction.

A moment later the chaotic mob surged through the gap between the tent-wagons. In the middle of it all was a group of Iron Priests, escorting a pair of golden-haired, pale-skinned humans, who stood out among the dark Iron People like daisies blooming in a freshly turned field. The two newcomers clearly
were
being escorted and were not prisoners; the Priests gave them all the deference of honored guests, the folk crowding around them were excited at the sight of them, and most telling of all, they were
not
wearing collars and chains.

The entire crowd pushed and shoved their way past without anyone paying the slightest bit of attention to the prisoners.

Except
for one of the newcomers.

The male of the pair looked up, catching first Shana's eyes, then Mero's—and
his
eyes widened in shock. His mouth opened, as if he meant to shout something.

But it was too late, he was already past, carried by the crowd heading for Diric's tent.

Lorryn could not have been more surprised if he had seen Lord Tylar disporting himself among these nomads. There had been two
elves
back there, with collars on their necks and chains around their waists—and beside them, what could only have been four wizards in like condition!

How had
that
come about? And why?

I
don't have time to worry about that now
, he reminded himself, casting a nervous glance around the crowd. He prided himself on being able to read people, and he did not like what he sensed. While he and Rena in their guise of "allies" might be an exciting new novelty, it was obvious from some of the subtler signals that the Corn People had been considered somewhat inferior to the Iron Clans. There was an air of amused superiority about the Priests, for instance, now that they had gotten over the initial shock of the discovery. And Lorryn thought he knew
why;
the Corn People had been farmers and not nomadic herdsmen. They had not been particularly good fighters, though they had held their ground valiantly to protect the retreat of their allies into the South. In the histories
he
had read, the Com People had always relied on the Iron People to protect them from enemies, paying for the protection in the grain and goods only a settled population could produce.

That meant it was all the more imperative that he hold his illusion of full humanity over himself and Rena. It also meant that once everyone got over the novelty of seeing the blond

Com People in their midst, he and Rena would be here on bare and wary sufferance. After all, what did they bring with them? Nothing. No grain, no hope of grain, no skills of war. Only the ability to tame alicorns, animals the bulls would not tolerate. That wasn't exactly useful—and a demonstration of any
other
talents might well get them in more trouble than it got them out of.

The Priests that had "welcomed" the two of them wanted to take them directly to their Chief Priest—and Lorryn agreed, even though he sensed there was something that they were not telling him about, that request. It was somewhat unnerving to realize that he could not touch their minds, no matter how hard he tried; he was so used to being able to read people's thoughts as well as their expressions that he felt curiously half-deaf or half-blind. Was this how Rena felt? Or the more ordinary human slaves without wizard-powers? If so, he felt terribly sorry for them.

They were ushered into a large tent-wagon, redolent with fragrant smoke, and once the flap dropped behind them, seemingly empty. As Lorryn's eyes adjusted to the darkness, something moved at the far end of the tent.

"I think you are not what you seem, tamer of one-horns," a deep and amused voice said, quietly, from out of the shadows there.

Lorryn started. "I?" he replied innocently. "How can I be something other than what you see?" Rena clutched at his hand, bewildered by the strange tongue and clearly ill at ease. He peered into the shadows, trying to make out the form of the speaker, it was hardly fair that these people were so
dark;
that made it hard to see them in this half-light.

Someone stood up; a human form detached itself from the shadowy form of a chair and moved forward. "I say you are not what you seem," the deep voice continued, "because what you
seem
to be is one of the Com People—yet beneath that
seeming
I see something else. Something I would have been tempted to name a green-eyed demon, had I not had four creatures like unto you brought to me within the fortnight."

A tall, powerfully built man with closely cropped, tightly curling gray-white hair stepped into the shaft of light from the smoke hole in the tent roof above, and stood before Lorryn, arms crossed over his chest. He leveled a challenging gaze at Lorryn, who froze.

"So tell me what it is that you
are
, tamer of one-horns," he demanded. 'Tell me why it is that you and four of my captives share a semblance, while this you call your sister looks all too clearly like the other twain I hold in chains."

He knows what we are! He can see through the illusions
! Lorryn thought in panic.
Oh, Ancestors
, now
what do I do
?

Well, there was no real choice.
Tell the truth? It seems the only way out
.

"It's a very long story," he began, tentatively.

For the first time, the man who must be the Chief Priest cracked a slow, cautious smile.

"There is always the time for a long story," he responded.

So Lorryn began at the beginning; the priest interrupted him often to ask very pointed questions, and by the time he reached the end of his narrative, the light from the smoke hole had crawled halfway up the wall of the tent, and he was hoarse.

"I can't think of anything else to tell you," he concluded. "Two of the people you have
are
elves, what you call green-eyed demons; the other four are obviously halfbloods like me. It seems to me that the wizards
would
be very interested in opening up trade with you, just as they claim. They probably need all the allies they can get against the elves."

"Interesting." The man stroked his chin and stared quite through Lorryn. "I am inclined to believe you. I must think on all of this you have told me; clearly things have greatly changed since my people fled into the South." His eyes focused again, and he gave Lorryn a look that made the halfblood quiver inside; in all of his life he had never met someone with so powerful a personality. "Hold to your illusion; I think perhaps I am the only one to have seen through it, since I was consciously disposing myself to doubt it as soon as word of your coming reached my ears. The rest will see you both for Corn People. You will be on sufferance until I say otherwise."

Oh, just what I wanted to hear
, Lorryn thought, suppressing a shiver.

"The War Chief will find you of no interest," the Chief Priest continued. "The Corn People were never of any use in warfare, and it is logical that he will dismiss you to my care. Be glad; if he penetrated your illusion, you would fare much worse than with me. And I think your illusion would not last beyond his desire to taste the strangeness of your sister."

The Priest's arched eyebrows left no doubt in Lorryn's mind about what
that
had meant. He fought down mingled fear and anger at the very idea; the Priest chuckled at his expression.

"Have no fear that she shall be subject to my whims, boy; my taste is for my life partner and wife, which is just as well. Had she not chosen me, she would have become a Man-Hearted Woman, I think, and gone running with the warriors—and she does not brook that I should look elsewhere than her." He chuckled again, as if the idea amused him. "Stay you in the dwelling to which I shall send you while I ponder upon the problem you have presented, and speak with the spirits of our fathers and with the First Smith."

Since they really didn't have any other choice, Lorryn nodded his agreement. The Priest went to the door of the tent and called out a soft summons; another, younger Priest came at his call, and ushered them out into the fading sunset, taking them to a small tent-wagon in the midst of many such. All of the people here were attired like the Priest, with the same iron torque with the flame-filigree pendant

The tent itself was plain enough, just a few cushions and some colorful blankets, with a cold brazier set under the smoke hole. As soon as they were alone, Lorryn quickly explained to Rena everything that had happened. He halfway expected her to react badly to the news that they had been unmasked, but she heard him out without making a single comment until the end.

"It could be worse," she pointed out. "If he's a Priest, he could have gotten quite a bit of prestige out of revealing us for what we are. He didn't; I don't think he will. I think there's some kind of power-playing going on between him and the War Chief. I think he might be holding us in reserve, to be used against this man."

Lorryn blinked in surprise; where had she come up with
that!
Not that it wasn't logical; in fact, it made altogether too much sense. But how had
she
seen it so quickly?

She might not be able to read thoughts, but she could certainly read his expressions like one of her romances. "Mother and I were subject to every shift in politics that Lord Tylar made," she commented ironically. "We learned to read the state of things very quickly and from very small hints. We had to; we had no choice. We had to be certain that if we said something complimentary about last week's ally, he was
still
an ally and not an enemy."

"Ah," he replied, at a loss for an answer.

Then he was saved from having to give one by the arrival of a woman with a basket of food: a soft white cheese and strips of dried meat the consistency of leather, together with fresh water. Rena frowned as she surveyed their limited meal.

"I could get very tired of that, very quickly," she said, gingerly picking up a meat strip and nibbling on it. "I think perhaps I'd better work a bit of magic on a handful of grass or two every day."

"I wouldn't argue with that," Lorryn agreed—although to his mind, the meat and cheese made a wonderful change from handfuls of grass. He'd begun to feel rather like a goat these past few days. He yawned hugely, only now becoming aware of how tired he was. "Meanwhile, maybe we ought to rest while we've been given the chance?"

Rena echoed his yawn as if she couldn't help herself. "I—1 would have thought I'd never be able to sleep under a circumstance like this one—but—"

"But we might as well; the circumstance isn't going to change, whether we sleep or not." He took up a meat strip and began to work his way through it, valiantly. "The same goes for making the most of these meals—"