Shana nodded, slowly. “So the reason our magic is blocked might be something that they are each doing for themselves, and not the effect of the collar at all?”
“Except in that our magic can’t be used on the collar, yes,” Keman told her. “That is my best guess, at any rate.”
“Which would be the reason why the elves can continue to cast their illusions, even though they wear similar collars,” Kalamadea mused aloud. “That is logical. But why can we not shift?’
“Have you tried shifting to a form the same size as a halfblood?” Mero asked, suddenly intent. “Or did you try something larger or smaller?”
“This is the smallest form we can shift to,” Kalamadea told him. “And—no, the only thing I have tried is to shift to one of the oxen, and I did not actually try to shift back to my draconic form until last night.”
“Which is bigger, much bigger. So is the ox.” Mero’s eyes narrowed. “It could be that the reason you can’t shift is because your body knows very well that you won’t break the collar before it strangles you in a larger form. It isn’t magic that stops you at all, it’s instinct, to keep you from choking to death.”
Kalamadea and Keman looked at one another, startled. After a moment, Kalamadea nodded.
“That makes even more sense,” he said, slowly. “No matter what new form I shifted to, if the ‘neck’ is even a hair larger than my neck in this form, that is precisely what will happen. I will have to think about this, and perhaps between us, Keman and I can arrive at a form wherein this will not be a problem.” He frowned. “The trouble is, we have never learned to shift into anything that we did not have the pattern for in nature. I am not certain that we could learn how to do so now.”
“I wish I could pry more out of Diric,” Shana said after a long silence. “I have the feeling that I would be able to figure this out, if only I knew the right questions to ask.” She toyed with a lock of her hair. “I think he’s feeling me out—trying to decide if he can trust us. There is something going on here that none of us are privy to between him and Jamal, but it’s something that is going to cause us trouble. I think they’re in the middle of a very subtle and covert struggle for power.”
“Huh,” Mero said. “That actually makes sense, and matches what I’ve been seeing and hearing.”
“It matches what I know also,” Kalamadea added. “I would not call Jamal ‘rash,’ precisely, but he would much rather control something directly, and that means conquering it if he can, whether it is the power over his own Clan, or the means of obtaining grain and metals, both of which are in short supply among these Iron People.”
Keman groaned, and massaged his temple as if he had a headache. “This is not fair! I hate being stuck in the middle of a power struggle at any time, but why must I be stuck in the middle of one that hasn’t got anything to do with me?”
“How do you think I feel?” Shana retorted. “I’ve been in the center of power struggles since before I was born! No one ever asked me if I wanted any part of this!”
“You have great hamenleai, Lashana,” Kalamadea said, with one of his inscrutable smiles. “I said so when Alara brought you to the Kin. Since you are such a center of great change, you can hardly be anything but the focus of power struggles.”
“Oh, thank you,” she replied sarcastically. Sometimes I wish Father Dragon would take his position as Chief Shaman and—ah, never mind. Foster mother is like that too; she just doesn’t get quite so pompous about it.
“Oh, you are welcome,” he replied, with equal irony, but more humor. “I merely point out the facts, Lashana; I am not responsible for them.”
She only snorted. “Fact or not, we are here and I would like to do something to get us out of here. So has anyone got any ideas about approaching Diric?”
There had been some disturbance outside; Shana had been ignoring it. There were often disturbances outside the tent: quarrels between young warriors, noisy games by mobs of children, the occasional cow taking it into her head to charge through the center of camp. Such disturbances usually faded after a while.
This one did not. In fact, the crowd noise had increased over the past few moments.
“What is going on out there?” she wondered aloud, getting to her feet. She coiled the loose end of her chain around her waist and walked over to the entrance, followed by the other three and the two elves.
They emerged into the bright light and heat of midafternoon-noon; the sun struck her like a blow to the head, and she shaded her eyes with her hand as she peered in the direction of all the noise.
Now, now that Haldor had been coaxed to work something the elves called a “spell of tongues” upon them all, and had imparted to all four of them all of the knowledge of the language of the Iron People that either he or Kelyan had, she could understand the shouting.
“Are they saying something about ‘Corn People’ ?” she asked Kalamadea in puzzlement.
He nodded, frowning furiously. “They are,” he replied, “and that is an impossibility. They were a tribe that allied with the grel-riders in their struggle against the elves, but unfortunately, they were handicapped by being farmers rather than nomads. They would not leave their land, and they had not really acquired the skills of war—they had always relied on their allies to protect them. The Corn People were slaughtered long before the first Wizard War, and their children made into slaves. There are no more Corn People.”
He seemed so certain of it that she could not doubt him, but that was certainly the gist of what the shouting was all about. So if there were no Com People, then what—
The shouting neared; clearly the crowd was headed in this direction.
A moment later the chaotic mob surged through the gap between the tent-wagons. In the middle of it all was a group of Iron Priests, escorting a pair of golden-haired, pale-skinned humans, who stood out among the dark Iron People like daisies blooming in a freshly turned field. The two newcomers clearly were being escorted and were not prisoners; the Priests gave them all the deference of honored guests, the folk crowding around them were excited at the sight of them, and most telling of all, they were not wearing collars and chains.
The entire crowd pushed and shoved their way past without anyone paying the slightest bit of attention to the prisoners.
Except for one of the newcomers.
The male of the pair looked up, catching first Shana’s eyes, then Mero’s—and his eyes widened in shock. His mouth opened, as if he meant to shout something.
But it was too late, he was already past, carried by the crowd heading for Diric’s tent.
Lorryn could not have been more surprised if he had seen Lord Tylar disporting himself among these nomads. There had been two elves back there, with collars on their necks and chains around their waists—and beside them, what could only have been four wizards in like condition!
How had that come about? And why?
I don’t have time to worry about that now, he reminded himself, casting a nervous glance around the crowd. He prided himself on being able to read people, and he did not like what he sensed. While he and Rena in their guise of “allies” might be an exciting new novelty, it was obvious from some of the subtler signals that the Corn People had been considered somewhat inferior to the Iron Clans. There was an air of amused superiority about the Priests, for instance, now that they had gotten over the initial shock of the discovery. And Lorryn thought he knew why; the Corn People had been farmers and not nomadic herdsmen. They had not been particularly good fighters, though they had held their ground valiantly to protect the retreat of their allies into the South. In the histories he had read, the Com People had always relied on the Iron People to protect them from enemies, paying for the protection in the grain and goods only a settled population could produce.
That meant it was all the more imperative that he hold his illusion of full humanity over himself and Rena. It also meant that once everyone got over the novelty of seeing the blond
Com People in their midst, he and Rena would be here on bare and wary sufferance. After all, what did they bring with them? Nothing. No grain, no hope of grain, no skills of war. Only the ability to tame alicorns, animals the bulls would not tolerate. That wasn’t exactly useful—and a demonstration of any other talents might well get them in more trouble than it got them out of.