That was the signal that she could escape; she murmured something appropriate, and took her chance to flee.
Her escort met her outside the door, and ushered her toward the Portal with what would have been unseemly haste if she had not wanted to be out of there as quickly as possible. She wanted to fling the horrid tube away from her, but before she even entered the Portal, the chief of her guards took it from her nerveless fingers, then sent her through with a none-too-gentle shove.
Attendants swarmed her on the other side, a display of special attentions she had never been granted before, and which was probably due entirely to a message from Lord Lyon that she had been a good and obedient little girl, doing precisely as she had been told. They hurried her off to her rooms, and once there, fussed over her as if she were some kind of prize object.
She let them; exhausted by the tension and the need to keep her own emotions in check, she was too tired to think clearly.
It’s over. That was all that was important, for now.
They bathed her, not permitting her to do anything for herself, in a bath foaming with perfumed oils. They dressed her in a silken nightgown she had never seen before, a gown luxurious enough to wear as a dress. They combed out her hair, shining each strand with soft cloths lightly moistened with scent. They rubbed scented creams into her hands, her feet, and her legs. They gave her tiny dainties to eat—just as well, since she hadn’t had more than two bites of dinner to hold off the effects of all that wine. They handed her an exotic drink to soothe her throat and her nerves, foaming, sweet, and warm. That was the only thought in her mind, as they pampered and preened her, and finally put her to bed. It’s over.
She fell asleep immediately, before the lights went out, while they were still crowding the room, putting things away.
But when she woke, with dawn still an hour away, alone in her room, it was with cold dread. It wasn’t over. She had been sealed to Lord Gildor, and last night signaled the preparation of the sacrifice. That was why all the pampering. There would be more such, an attempt to make her into as comely a creature as possible without an actual Change. There would be less in the way of freedom, not more.
She had been maneuvered into precisely the position she was most afraid of.
And this was only the beginning; after the wedding it would be worse. She had deceived herself, with her thoughts of greater freedom as the er-Lord’s lady.
If living under her father’s roof had been difficult, living under Lord Lyon’s would be harder still. There would be no Lorryn to whisk her away on occasional escapes. Lord Lyon would have her watched, every moment, to make certain that she was the obedient little fool he thought she was. Every book she read would be scrutinized, every exercise of her powers weighed and measured. Every hour of her day would be spied upon. She would have no secrets, for Lord Lyon would be certain that a secret meant a secret plot against himself. There was only one ruler in that House, and Lord Lyon would permit no other.
If she wanted to survive, she had only one choice: She must conform completely. She must become a copy of her mother, serene, obedient, and dead inside.
There was only one person who could possibly help her—
Lorryn! He’s clever, he’ll think of something!
Just as she thought that, there came a faint tapping on her door. Three taps, a pause, then two, then one.
She flung herself out of bed and ran to let her brother in.
For one joyful moment she was certain he had heard of what had happened and had come to tell her how to extricate herself from her plight. But as he slipped inside and shut the door quickly behind him, he turned toward her with a face as pale and as fearful as her own.
“Rena, you have to help me,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice choked with tension, his eyes huge and dark-circled in his white face. “I don’t have anyone else to turn to!”
The shock was worse than being plunged into ice-cold water. Lorryn? Helpless? With no one to turn to?
And I do? She thought, and shook her head. “I was—Lorryn, what on earth could I do to help you? What’s happened to you?” Possibilities swarmed her mind. Had he been indiscreet with someone who had a powerful father? Had he gambled disastrously and lost? Had he gotten into a quarrel with another er-Lord—oh, dear Ancestors, had he quarreled, fought, and the fight ended fatally? She blurted the first words that came to her lips. “Did you get in trouble with—
He shook his head violently. “It isn’t anything you can guess,” he replied, and seized both her hands to pull her over to a seat on the couch opposite the bed. ‘Trust me, it isn’t anything you can even imagine. I’m in terrible danger—I’m—”
He swallowed audibly, and passed the back of his hand across his forehead. “Something was supposed to happen at Lord Ardeyn’s fete. The High Lords of the Council were testing everyone under a certain age as they arrived to see if they were halfbloods in a disguise of illusion.”
She nodded, remembering that tingle of spell-casting she had felt as she arrived, and remembering, too, that she had wondered why her father had ordered cosmetics for her instead of an illusion of better looks.
“Well, I didn’t go to the fete, and late last night three members of the Council arrived here with orders to test me for illusion,” he went on, beads of sweat starting out on his forehead.
She shook her head. “I don’t understand,” she said, bewildered. “What could be so bad about that?”
She couldn’t help thinking about her own plight—how could anything Lorryn faced in the way of some kind of test be worse than the trap she was in?
“They can’t test me!” he said hoarsely, his hands clenching on hers until she made a sound of pain in protest and he released his hold. “Rena, they can’t test me! If they do, they’ll find out I am halfblood!”
She stared at him, the words refusing to make sense. “How can you be a halfblood?” she asked stupidly. “Mother—”
“Lady Viridina is my mother,” he said woodenly. “But Lord Tylar is not my father. My father was a human slave, master of her household. She kept the illusion on me until I was old enough to hold it on myself. I am a halfblood, a wizard, and when the Council finds that out—”
Once again, shock—and the fact that this time she might be able to do something—gave her mind speed and clarity.
“They’ll kill you,” she breathed. “Oh, Ancestors! Lorryn, how—we have to do something! Can’t Mother help you?”
He took her hands in that crushing grip again, but this time she hardly noticed. Despair had turned his features into a mask of pain. “Mother can’t save me this time; Father locked her in the bower until the testing is over. You are the only person I can turn to. Can’t you hide me among your servants or something? Can you—”
“I have a better idea,” she replied quickly, as she made, then discarded, a dozen plans in a heartbeat. He couldn’t hide here; he had to run away. And if he ran—
He had to take her with him.
She calculated, quickly. “At least, I think I do. One of my maids always seems to have all kinds of information about the dragons and wizards—it’s reliable, too; I’ve checked it against all the things you’ve found out.”
“What has that—” he began, then blinked. “Oh. Oh, of course! If she has a way of getting information, she may have a way back to the source!” A glint of hope entered his eyes. “Do you think she’s an agent of the wizards?”
Rena shrugged; the idea had never occurred to her before, but it certainly made complete sense. “What else could she be? She’s terribly forward, not much like any slave I’ve ever seen. She’s not one of Father’s castoffs, and anyway, they have a different kind of insolence. The wizards must have spies among the slaves, right? Or how else would they know what we were doing? And how else would they know who the halfbloods among the slaves were, to rescue them? She told me that the wizards were always rescuing halfblood children from the slave pens. Didn’t they rescue the Elvenbane that way?”
He nodded, and his face took on a grave intensity. “They couldn’t have known about me, because I wasn’t a slave—unless this Myre of yours was sent here because they thought that either you or me might have had human blood.”