"And so you shall, but no more this night," Diric interrupted. Now he yawned. "These words of yours have stilled some of my anxieties, and now my own body is demanding the rest I denied it."
Shana tried to hold back her own yawn, and failed; when Lorryn added his, it was obvious that none of them were going to be able to work or speak with unclouded minds.
"I shall devise a meeting for you and yours, Shana, and Lorryn and his sister," Diric promised. "And I think—I think I shall facilitate that by granting the Corn People a great honor in the morning."
He arched a brow at Lorryn, who smiled, and asked the expected question. "And what honor will that be. Iron Priest?"
"Why, I shall invite you to be of my household and share my tent," Diric replied. "And you, of course, will agree immediately, conscious of the enormity of the honor and the protection my rank will give you."
"Of course," Lorryn said, with an ironic bow. "And being as we are only Com People, not warriors, with nothing of value to Jamal, he will see this as no more than your desperate scrambling for a success to equal his taking of four green-eyed demons as prisoners."
Diric grinned broadly, his white teeth shining in the darkness of his face. He motioned to them to rise, and did so himself. Shana heard his joints popping as he did so, and wondered, not for the first time, just how old he was. "Why, I could almost believe you to be as crafty as an Iron Priest yourself, oh wizard."
"And I," Lorryn said, with a chuckle that Shana echoed as they both stood to leave, "could almost believe you to be as crafty as a halfblood, oh Priest!"
Myre flew lazy circles in the sky above the encampment full of those strange, black-skinned people, and watched everything that was going on below her. It was no great task to sharpen her eyesight until an eagle would be myopic by comparison; though she flew so high that she was scarcely visible even as a dot to those below her, she could count the rings on a woman's fingers, the number of rattles on a baby's toy.
And after dark, there would be one more warrior prowling the pathways between the tents. It was easy enough to counterfeit the iron jewelry so long as it didn't need to bear close inspection or the light of day.
She had learned a great deal this way. Not as much as she had in the elven trade-cities, however.
She'd been dividing her time between the wizards' Citadel, generally disguised as a rock formation in Caellach Gwain's favorite cavern for meeting with his band of conspirators, and the trade-cities in several guises, all of them rather clever. But the best and most entertaining spying she'd done had come when she chose another shape and another household to infiltrate: that of a male slave in the house of Rena's would-be husband.
She stayed there longer than she would have liked—but what she learned made up for the danger.
From there she once again took wing and returned to the new Citadel of the wizards. It was easy enough to slip into the cave complex and hide herself among the rocks of the unfinished portions to eavesdrop. That, too, took longer than she wished, but was well rewarded.
She learned that Shana and Keman were not with the wizards; she learned what direction they had gone in. That was how she had found them; following their track to its logical conclusion.
And she learned firsthand that the wizards themselves were spending far too much time debating who should be in charge, and far too little time on their own defenses.
Nothing that she had learned was going to be pleasant news for her big brother, now that she had found him, but she intended to deliver that news at a particularly bad time for him…
She was watching one tent in particular, there was someone in it that she wished to have a chat with.
There. Good. As she had hoped, Jamal strode out of his tent with a stiff-legged gait that bespoke a fair amount of temper held firmly in check. When he was in a temper, he always went out hunting, and he always went alone.
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."