proposal of marriage! What’s wrong with your house when mere females –’
Rathekrel’s voice rose steadily as his anger increased, and it was obvious that he was building into a fine froth of rage. But the angrier he became, the more humans around Alara relaxed, and several of them sighed with relief. She knew what was on their minds, for all that she could not read their actual thoughts. The Lord had found a way to blame his humiliation on someone else. Oh, humans would die, no doubt of it, but it would be the fighters and gladiators in challenge, not the house-slaves. They were safe.
‘Where is she?’ Rathekrel thundered, standing up suddenly and pounding the desk with his fist. ‘Where have you hidden her? She couldn’t have gotten off this estate without magic aid, and we both know it!’ He remained standing over the mage-crafted construct, staring down into it in self-righteous wrath. He did not expect the answer he received.
‘My lord,’ came the stiff reply, ‘I do not have a daughter of an age that a normal-minded man would consider nubile. My children number three: two boys, of thirteen and six, and a girl of ten. Kevan, Shandar, and Yssandra.’
Rathekrel froze, his fist halting in midair above the desktop. Alara controlled her face as he realized that he had never bothered to check on the age of ‘Yssandra,’ only that the Lord in question did, indeed, have a daughter of that name. He had not wanted to advertise the fact that he was considered a less-than-desirable mate by actively seeking a spouse among his inferiors; he had been hoping one would offer so that he would be able to look ‘gracious.’ When ‘Yssandra’ had appeared at his door, he thought his prayers had been answered, and had been so busy sweeping her off her feet he had neither chance nor time for anything else. Alara’s credentials had been perfect; the message she bore plausible. They should have been; Alara had stolen them from an excellent source.
‘I would suggest, my lord,’ continued the other, a certain smug, self-assured arrogance creeping into his tone, ‘that you have been the victim of a very poor joke. And if I were you, I should be grateful that the joke never went so far as wedlock. I –’
But that was too much.
‘A joke? Is this your idea of a joke?’ Rathekrel exploded with anger, backing a single pace and destroying teleson, desk, and all with a single mage-bolt.
The slaves scattered to the corners of the library, ducking to avoid the shower of debris. Difficult though elven thoughts were for a dragon to decipher, his rage made them clear enough to Alara, and they were everything she could have wanted. The unfortunate choice of the word ‘joke’ had triggered a set of assumptions and reactions Lord Myen never intended.
There were any number of people who would profit by Rathekrel’s embarrassment, and Lord Myen was high on the list. Furthermore, Myen could argue that he, too, had been injured by this unknown prankster, since his name had been stolen for the ruse.
But the last time someone had played a double-dealing trick on Rathekrel – and apparently upon another lord as well – the perpetrator turned out to be the same person who claimed equal injury …
Therefore, by Rathekrel’s logic, Myen was the guilty party.
And since he was the perpetrator, Rathekrel would see him punished for it. Lord Myen would regret this ‘joke.’ Lord Myen would pay, in ways he had not even imagined.
It was truly amazing how a few, ill- (or well-) chosen words could set a spark to the dry tinder of Rathekrel’s uncertain temper.
He whirled, and only then noticed the humans, as one of the youngest shrank back, cowering in his corner, and whimpered.
‘OUT!’ he screamed, his face white, his pupils dilated so that his eyes were black holes of rage, rimmed by a thin line of emerald.
The slaves sprinted for the door, only too happy to obey, Alara with them. And as she slipped into the corridor, she heard a rumble, followed by a tremendous crash. It sounded like a great block of stone being ripped up from the floor, and flung across the room.
She did not stay to investigate.
But for the moment, she also could not leave. There were limits to her powers and abilities, and she was reaching them. The perimeter of the estate was still sealed off, and there were guards on all of the entrances to the manor itself. While she would have no trouble passing the perimeter, there was still the matter of getting outside to do so. She didn’t particularly want to shift into something the size of, say, a house cat. She was already pushing her resources to stay human-sized. She planned to leave on the wing, but in the form of a Great Kite, a bird with a wingspan rivaled only by the ice-eagles, and massing about the same as a human male. And a bird that was particularly ill omened. That should set Rathekrel on his pointed ears, and confirm in most minds that Rathekrel was losing his luck, and quickly.
So while she waited for an opportunity to reach the roof, she decided to create another episode in a long-running ploy most of the Kin had played with at one time or another –
The Prophecy of the Savior of Humanity, the Elvenbane.
She found a pile of bags in the corner of the kitchen, filled one with the rest, and headed down into the cellar.
She had discovered some time ago, that if she acted as if she had business in a place and was under orders, humans tended to leave her alone. She had only to avoid elven overseers, who questioned everyone and everything out of the ordinary. This time was no exception; she carried the overstuffed burlap bag right past the cook and the kitchen overseer – who was, fortunately, human – and opened the cellar door without ever being challenged.
Since there was quite a bit of traffic up and down the cellar stairs, the staircase was well lit, as were most of the areas where common things were stored. Cool, damp air, fragrant with onions, garlic, sausage, and the earthy smell of vegetables, struck her in the face as she hurried down the steps.
She waited a few moments to ensure that she was alone, then she shifted form again, this time into that of an old, seemingly blind human woman. She could see perfectly well through what looked to be milky cataracts, but no one looking at her would know that. Clothing herself roughly in the burlap sacks, and hiding her white-and-silver tunic, she seated herself just under the light at the bottom of the cellar staircase, and waited for the next servant to be sent after something.
In fact, the next slave down the stairs was as near to perfect a victim as she could have asked for; young, female, and so burdened with a stack of empty boxes that she couldn’t see and was having to check for each stair with a cautiously outstretched bare toe. Alara waited until the girl had reached the bottom of the staircase, then spoke, in a voice like a rusty hinge.
‘Hast thou heard the Word, child?’
The girl shrieked in startlement and jumped, boxes flying in all directions. She wound up with her back to the wall, her eyes round with fear and surprise, her hair straggling over one eye in untidy curls. Alara sat like a statue, white-flamed eyes staring straight ahead.
‘Gods’ teeth, ol’ mam!’ The girl panted, one hand at her throat. ‘Ye ’bout frighted me t’death!’
Alara said nothing.
The girl pushed away from the wall, and peered at Alara, her eyes still round with alarm. ‘How ye get down here, anyways? Ye don’ b’long t’ th’ Lor’ Rathekrel –’
Alara raised one hand, and pointed upwards; the girl looked up involuntarily, then dropped her gaze to Alara’s ‘sightless’ eyes. ‘The Voice of Prophecy belongs to no one, mortal or immortal,’ Alara intoned, doing her best to sound mysterious. ‘Only to the ages.’
The girl’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. ‘I don’t know no Lor’ Ages.’ She started to edge away, and cast longing looks up the stairs. ‘Belike I better get th’ cook –’
‘Hear the Prophecy!’ Alara cried, forestalling the girl by standing up with a swiftness at odds with her apparent age, interposing herself between the slave and the staircase. ‘Hear