are for duelists. Lord Edres wanted about a dozen for assassins, but I told him we had nothing suitable.’
‘Rightly,’ Dyran replied with a frown. ‘I’m a better mage than he is, but that doesn’t rule out the chance of him allying with someone who’s as good as I am and breaking my geas. It would be a sad state of affairs to find assassins with my brand on them making collops of my best human servants.’
‘Exactly so, my lord,’ the overseer replied. ‘Did you sense any resistance? I didn’t specify an exact number to Lord Edres, only a round figure. I weeded out what I could, but I’m not the mage you are.’
Dyran looked out over the sea of rapt young faces. ‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘No, I don’t think so. These should do very well. Excellent work, Keloc. You’re getting better results with these than with the horses.’
The overseer smiled a little. ‘It’s easier to breed humans, my lord. So long as you keep an eye on them, damage during breeding is minimal, and they’re always in season. And you’ve always had good stock, my lord.’
Dyran chuckled, with satisfied pride. ‘I like to think so. Carry on, Keloc.’
The overseer clapped his helm back on and saluted. ‘Very well, my lord.’
Alara was disappointed, though not by the clarity of the woman’s memories. It wasn’t going to be possible to pose as either a bodyguard or a concubine, she decided. That was really too bad; either position would have been ideal for gathering more information than the Kin had access to at the moment. At least one thing was explained: it looked as if the elven lords encouraged rivalry among their humans, while maintaining control over them with spells – or at least, that was what happened with the humans they allowed close to them. So they kept the humans at odds with each other, while looking to their lord with complete loyalty.
He had spoken of a geas; Alara wondered what it was they really did, how it was set. Was it just to keep the humans from being disloyal to their lord? Or was it more complicated than that? The father and mother kept saying that ‘everything comes from the Lord.’ She wondered if that was part of it too?
But it couldn’t be foolproof; Dyran had said something about ‘resistance.’ Which had to mean the geas could be fought, or even broken, by the human himself …
She wondered if one of the Kin could break it, too …
Well, even if they couldn’t get into the ranks of the fighters, Alara could at least see one of the duels through the woman’s memory.
It could be very enlightening.
Serina drifted on clouds of light, too overcome with lassitude to wonder at anything. A few moments later, she found herself standing behind Dyran, in her place behind his seat in the arena. He was not alone.
The arena was alive with color and light, and buzzing with conversation. Serina replaced a red velvet cushion that had fallen from Lord Dyran’s couch, trying to remain inconspicuous and very much aware that she was the only other human in the audience.
She had followed Dyran out to the arena, even though it meant crossing under that horrid open sky to do so, and he had made no move to stop her. Nor had anyone barred her from his side when he took his place in his private box with his guests, V’Tarn Sandar Lord Festin and V’Kal Alinor Lady Auraen. The Lady had given her a very sharp and penetrating look when Serina entered behind Dyran, but when she made no move to seat herself, but rather, remained standing in a posture of humility, the Lady evidently made up her mind to ignore the human interloper.
All three elven lords were in high formal garb, in their house colors, wearing elaborate surcoats stiff with bullion, embroidery in gold and silver thread, and bright gemstones, all in motifs that reflected their Clan crests. Dyran sported gold and vermilion sunbursts, Lord Sandar wore emerald and sapphire delphins, and Lady Alinor pale green and silver cranes.
The occasion for all this finery was the settling of a disagreement between Lord Vossinor and Lord Jertain. Serina wasn’t entirely sure what, exactly, the disagreement was about. It did involve a disputed trade route, and a series of insults traded in Council – and it was by the ruling of the Council itself that the duel was to take place.
‘… and I, for one, am heartily sick of it,’ Lady Alinor murmured to Dyran as she dropped gracefully into her seat. ‘Jertain might actually be in the right this time, but he has lied so often that how can one know for certain? I truly believe that he doesn’t know the truth of the matter anymore.’
‘The Council is exceedingly grateful to you and Edres for providing the means of settling the damned situation once and for all,’ Sandar said, with just the faintest hint of annoyance.
Dyran only smiled graciously. ‘I am always happy to be of service to the Council,’ he said smoothly, handing Lady Alinor a rosy plum from the dish Serina held out to him.
He’s been working toward this for months, Serina thought smugly, offering the dish to Lord Sandar as well. This way the Council owes him for getting a nuisance out of their hair, and neither side can expect him to take a side. No matter who wins, he wins. Not to mention the favors owed for providing a neutral place, and fighters matched to a hair.
‘And what about the dispute between Hellebore and Ondine?’ Sandar asked Alinor. ‘Is there any word on that?’
‘Oh, it’s to be war, as I told you,’ she replied offhandedly. ‘The Board is going to meet in a few days to decide on the size of the armies and where they’ll meet. After that it will be up to the two of them. I told you they’d never settle an inheritance dispute with anything less than a war.’
‘So you did, my lady,’ Dyran replied, leaning toward her with an odd gleam in his eye. ‘And once again, you were correct. Tell me, which of the two of them do you think likely to be the better commander?’
He’s been so – strange – about Lady Alinor. She’s challenged him in Council, and he doesn’t like it. But he’s been challenged before, and he never acted like he is with her. It’s almost as if he wants her, wants to possess her, and she keeps rejecting him in ways that only make him more determined to have her. Serina shivered, and did her best not to show it. Dyran had never been this obsessive about anything before. She wasn’t sure what to do about it – or even if she dared to try.
Lady Alinor laughed, laughter with a delicate hint of mockery in it. ‘Ondine, of course –’ she began.
A single, brazen gong-note split the air, silencing the chatter, and causing every head to turn towards the entrance to the sands. A pair of fighters, one bearing a mace and shield, the other, the unusual weapon of single-stick, walked side-by-side into the center of the arena. The mace-wielder, with shield colors and helm ribbons in Lord Jertain’s indigo-and-white, turned smartly to the left, to end his march below Jertain’s box. The other, with helm ribbons and armbands in Vossinor’s cinnabar-and-brown, turned at the same moment to the right, to salute Vossinor’s box.
Both elven lords acknowledged their fighters with a lifted hand. The gong sounded again. The two men turned to face each other, and waited with the patience of automata.
Dyran rose slowly, a vermilion scarf in his hand. Every eye in the arena was now on him; as host to the conflict, it was his privilege to signal the start of the duel. He smiled graciously, and dropped the square of silk.
It fluttered to the sand, ignored, as the carnage began.
In the end, even a few of the elven spectators excused themselves, and Serina found herself averting her eyes. She’d had no idea how much damage two blunt instruments could do.
But Dyran watched on; not eagerly, as Lady Alinor, who sat forward in her seat, punctuating each blow with little coos of delight – nor with bored patience, as Sandar. But with casual amusement, a little, pleased smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and a light in his eyes when he looked at Alinor that Serina could not read.
And when it was over – as it was, quickly,