ing, and journals she had idly leafed through in moments of boredom. Putting Kyrtian's sudden fascination with the journals in Morthena's library together with his father's lifelong obsession with finding the Gate, and she knew, she knew, that he expected to find, at long last, some trace of his father.
But as important, given Lord Kyrtian's new-found importance as a military leader to the Great Lords, were the weapons supposedly left behind as useless. With those weapons, Lord Kyrtian would not need an army to impose the will of the Great Lords. With those weapons, he could become a Great Lord himself. Perhaps more than that. Perhaps—their first king?
Perhaps. That dull exterior might conceal a great deal of ambition.
Unless someone else got there at the same time. Someone who could bring accurate information back to—say—Lord Kyndreth.
Or someone who could use that information for herself.
Triana liked to keep her plans fluid. Which was why her slaves were putting together the gear that she and two male slaves—men who knew how to hunt and track—would take through the nearest Gate and on to the thrice-bedamned rain-soaked forest that Lord Cheynar's estate bordered.
Lord Cheynar did not approve of Triana. No matter. She didn't need his approval, and she didn't need his help. She didn't even need to get onto his lands; she had only to journey to his estate and follow the fences and walls around it, entering the forest where she pleased. Her men were good enough to find Kyrtian's track and follow it.
Even if that meant she did have to camp in a wretched forest in the constant rain. Just because Triana loved her comforts, that didn't mean she wasn't perfectly prepared to sacrifice them without hesitation for the right incentive.
Without hesitation.
Not without complaint. She kicked savagely at her train.
Aelmarkin brooded over the injustice of the world from the comfort of a favorite lounge, staring at a delicate stone sculpture of a dancer as if it had offended him personally.
Aelmarkin did not trust his cousin. There was more, much more, to this business of pursuing stupid Wizards in a half-inaccessible forest than appeared on the surface. Kyrtian might be dull, he might be obsessive, but he wasn't stupid.
Aelmarkin traced a circle in the upholstery with his fingernail. Kyrtian was not going on what Aelmarkin would consider a "military expedition." He wasn't taking any other Elvenlords with him, nor was he taking a very large party. In fact, he wasn't taking any slaves other than those from his own household; either he was ridiculously sure of himself, or...
... or he thought there was something in that forest that he could use for himself. What could it be?
There had to be something. There was no reason to take that sort of risk, unless there was a powerful reason for it. Something to do with the Wizards themselves? Aelmarkin hadn't heard anything that made them sound different from the ones that had already been driven out into the wilderness. Quite to the contrary, in fact, it seemed very much as if they were fewer.
Except. . .
Except that they also had that curious ability to nullify magic that the Young Lords had somehow acquired!
Aelmarkin slapped the arm of his lounge with a feeling of angry triumph. Of course that was it! So far, no one had managed to catch any of the ringleaders, so no one knew just what the trick was—but if Kyrtian could capture a Wizard and get the answer that way, he'd be in a position to demand, and get, anything he wanted from the Council, including a Council seat even if there were no vacancies!
And if that happened—Aelmarkin's chances of getting the estate dropped to less than zero. For all their bickering, no Council member had ever been known to back a move to oust another Council member from his lands, position, or seat, and not just because it "wasn't done." They guarded their primacy jealously, and when an outsider threatened one, he threatened all, and they closed ranks against him.
For a moment, Aelmarkin despaired, and began pounding the arm of his lounge with frustrated fury. He broke the underlying
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.