"And getting them clipped, Elder," Shana reminded him. "These bits of nail are one of our most valuable weapons, and everyone knows it, sir. Don't worry, we should have enough nail-clippings as soon as I finish with you two. We can only make so many arrows-and frankly, if we use all of them, this thing will have gone on longer than any of us thought it would."

"Well, child, there's little enough we can do at the moment, it's true." Thunder rumbled again overhead, and the stone beneath them vibrated with it.

"It's not as if you haven't already done plenty," Shana told him. "We wouldn't have lasted a day under siege if it hadn't been for what you did to this fortress. Now, I'm beginning to believe we're going to win this one-or at least make it too costly for them to pry us out."

"True enough." Liana sighed, and extended her left claw to be clipped.

The dragons had wasted no time in implementing their newly won resolution to help. After landing-and eating hugely, which drove the provisioners briefly to despair, until they realized that it would be possible for the dragons to hunt on their own after this-the fourteen draconic allies had turned their abilities and powers to the transformation of the fortress into something siegeworthy.

This was even Shana's first look at the dragons' magic, other than shape-shifting. She still still didn't know how they accomplished what they did; it seemed to involve the same kind of bone-deep understanding of-of didn't know how they accomplished what they did; it seemed to involve the same kind of bone-deep understanding of-of matter matter -that enabled them to change to the forms of such nonliving substances as rocks. All she did know was that they distributed themselves fairly evenly about the fortress, after chasing all the halfbloods and human children out, and began sculpting the place, forming the stone into the shapes they wanted. -that enabled them to change to the forms of such nonliving substances as rocks. All she did know was that they distributed themselves fairly evenly about the fortress, after chasing all the halfbloods and human children out, and began sculpting the place, forming the stone into the shapes they wanted.

When they finished, the fortress was a wonder. The tops of the walls had bulwarked walkways and covered, arched roofs, with view- and arrow-slits, and the tops bulged outward, angled steeply towards the outside-so watchers could see right down to the foot of the walls and so that anything that struck them was likely to bounce out rather than in-and all corners were rounded so that grappling instruments would be unable to get a purchase on them. There was a perfectly clear s.p.a.ce between the walls and the single inner building. Catwalks connected the building to the walls at a height of three stories above the ground, and it had no openings at all below the second story, other than the single door on the ground floor. It too had a dome-shaped, rounded roof, to a.s.sist in deflecting projectiles. Inside, each floor was a single, enormous room. There wasn't a seam, a crack, or a join-line anywhere. The entire place looked to have been carved from a single flawless piece of rock. Which meant, of course, that there were no weak points for the siegers to attack-something that probably frustrated the elven lords no end.

The only defects anyone could find in the design were the lack of fireplaces-quickly remedied by rigging stoves with chimneys going out the windows-and the fact that there were no rooms for individuals. And that second problem would only be be a problem if they had to spend a very long time living here. a problem if they had to spend a very long time living here.

For now, however, the transformation of their shelter was nothing less than miraculous, and many of the wizards were soon proclaiming it enthusiastically to be superior to the Citadel.

Shana wasn't willing to go quite that far-the sanitary facilities at the Citadel were suited for humans, where the draconically designed facilities here were sketchy and primitive, to say the least-but it was far and away the best place she'd ever seen to wait out a siege.

And a siege was exactly what they were under. Dyran had moved in his troops two days after the dragons had completed their alterations, and more elven lords were joining him with every day. The thefts had brought it home to every elven lord with any size estate at all that distance was no guarantee of invulnerability and the losses Dyran had incurred and the size and scope of the Citadel when it was found had convinced everyone that the menace was real, and much more serious than they had thought.

Dyran was still the commander-he had held on to that position by sheer force of will. Shana had prayed for his overthrow, but had no real belief that he would lose the position-really, only death or incompetence would remove him, and they were not likely to see the latter. Insofar as magic attacks went, most of those were counteracted after the first attempt, as the wizards deduced what had been done and how to counteract it. The rest had been effectively shielded against. So far, casualties were light-though they had had lost about ten, and there were twice that number wounded. Worst was exhaustion; they were keeping a day-and-night watch on the camp, in hopes of avoiding being surprised, and another day-and-night watch on the elven lords. lost about ten, and there were twice that number wounded. Worst was exhaustion; they were keeping a day-and-night watch on the camp, in hopes of avoiding being surprised, and another day-and-night watch on the elven lords.

That was Father Dragon's doing; he was in charge of the halfbloods' side, as Dyran was commander of the elven lords'. Shana hadn't even needed to say anything about those old journals-the wizards themselves had deferred to the dragon, on the grounds that he was already a leader, and he had seen this all before. Father Dragon had seemed taken aback, and reluctant at first to take such a leadership role, but he wasn't given much choice. The other dragons were disinclined to obey the orders of two-leggers, and once the last of the work on the fortress had been completed, things threatened to become very chaotic unless he took a hand.

As in this watch on the elven lords' minds. The elves guarded their thoughts, but sometimes things leaked through, and every slip on the elves' part meant another bit of possibly important information.

On the positive side, the elves had no idea they were facing more than one dragon. The Kin flew out by night to feed, and returned before dawn, careful not to show themselves. In the case where the shamans needed to see the sky to work weather-magic-like now-they left with the others and simply did not return, taking cover somewhere nearby.

The elves dabbled in weather-magic. This was their first taste of the real thing; a full-scale Storm-calling at shamanic hands. Or rather, claws.

There were no wizards outside the walls right now. Pouring rain that drenched everything in sight, and pounded unprotected heads into a stupor, kept everyone under shelter. The elven camps were not so fortunate; the humans, when not fighting, huddled miserably under what shelters they could contrive, under sc.r.a.ps of canvas or under trees-fully half the tents were down and the rest threatened to collapse at any moment. Tent stakes would not hold in the soaked and muddy ground, and violent wind gusts uprooted canvas tents and turned them inside-out in a heartbeat. Nor were the elven lords entirely immune; many of them were sharing quarters, since the feebler magics of elves like Cheynar were not proof against the wind and weather, and their their luxurious tents were also lying ruined and flat under the pounding rain. luxurious tents were also lying ruined and flat under the pounding rain.

The wizards' respite was only partial, however. Despite rain, despite lightning licking the ground around the fortress, Dyran was pressing the attack. And word had come from those watching the camp that this was a different man than the Dyran they had watched for so long. This Dyran was implacable, admitting no setbacks, permitting nothing to discommode him for long-a driven man, even an obsessed man. Valyn had grown very quiet when the watcher had told them that-and Shana wondered why. But when he wouldn't confide anything, either in her, or in Shadow, she dismissed it from her mind. Valyn had been growing more and more distant these days; withdrawn and introspective, and not even Denelor could pry him out of his sh.e.l.l. He was probably feeling rather useless; most of the older wizards knew as much or more combative magic than he did, and he was too softhearted to join the marksmen on the walls. Shadow, on the other hand, was a great deal more help-full of ideas, and the first one to volunteer for any task. He'd been blossoming since the Triana affair, and Shana was relying on him more and more as time went by-for as the liaison with the dragons, and the only one of them who had anything like real fighting experience, she had become the de facto leader of this little revolt.

"There," Shana said, finishing Liana's claws. "That should be enough, really. It's useless to tip every arrow in the fort with dragon-claw, it really doesn't do anything more against humans than ordinary steel would."

"So what are you doing, might I ask?" Keoke said absently, then transformed to a halfblood shape, teetering for a moment before he caught his two-legged balance. Liana followed his example, more slowly.

Shana swept the nail-clippings carefully into a basket for the wizards acting as fletchers. "We're giving the arrows to our three or four best marksmen, and every time one of the elves comes within range, he gets targeted. It's making them nervous, at the least."

"After seeing what happened to that flunky of Dyran's, I should think it would," Liana replied, peering out one of the window-slits. "That was not a pretty way to die. Shana, the storm is beginning to break up. I think the elves are getting control back."

Shana stifled a groan. "It had to happen sooner or later, I guess. I was just hoping it would be later. I wonder what they're going to do next."

She found out in very short order, as Shadow came flying up the stairs, all out of breath. "It's Dyran." He panted, as the unmistakable sounds of combat came from the walls. "He's started another attack. Only this time-this time he's got a lot of unarmed slaves, kids mostly, and he's herding them in front of the fighters, like a shield. We have to hit them to get to his fighters."

Shana's gorge rose, and for a moment she thought she was going to be sick. "Does Valyn know?" she asked, knowing that the young elven lord's reaction was going to be worse than hers.

"He was was on the walls," Shadow said pityingly. on the walls," Shadow said pityingly.

Shana shook her head; she felt sorry for him, but feeling sorry wasn't going to make the army outside their gates go away. Nor was being too incapacitated by the horror of the situation to fight back.

"Anyway, they want you out there," Shadow said, dismissing his cousin even as Shana had. "Father Dragon, that is. Me, too. And the rest of the dragons. He thinks we ought to see if we can figure out some way of getting around the slaves, or getting them out of the way first."

"Right," she said, without wasting another thought on Valyn. "Let's move."

The Kin shifted to halfblood shape, and followed Shadow out to the walls. It was easy to spot Father Dragon; he was the center of a little swarm of activity, as messengers came and went from all parts of the walls.

Shana thought he looked terribly strained, with a kind of haunted expression, especially around the eyes.

Recalling some of the entries in his journals, she suddenly knew why. This wasn't the first time Dyran had used this particular ploy.

And the last time, the wizards hadn't been able to save the slaves either.

"I don't know," he was saying to Denelor as the little group approached, lines of strain around his mouth. "None of our weapons can get to them without killing children. If the Kin shifted, we could fly in and use our shocking ability-"

Denelor shook his head emphatically. "No, no, we need to keep your existence secret as long as possible. Besides, that would put you you within range of the elves' magic. Dyran hasn't used some of the worst weapons he has, but that's because they have no effect on stone. On flesh and blood, even protected by scale, it may well be a different story." within range of the elves' magic. Dyran hasn't used some of the worst weapons he has, but that's because they have no effect on stone. On flesh and blood, even protected by scale, it may well be a different story."

"What are we worried about?" Shana wanted to know. "They can fire all the arrows they want, and they aren't going to do us any damage behind all this stone."

"It's getting up to the walls we're worried about," Parth Agon replied absently. "It's that they could get close enough to get ladders up on the walls, or put siege engines to work on them."

"What about getting rid of the ladders and engines?" Shana suggested. "After all, we can all call fire. That should buy us some time."

Father Dragon's face cleared as both Denelor and Parth nodded. "That should buy us quite a bit of time," he said. "Possibly enough to get the rain started again. Can you gentlemen organize that?"

"Immediately," Denelor replied. Parth was already on his way, stopping to talk to each of the wizards on the wall in turn. Denelor hurried below. As Shana shaded her eyes to peer out over the walls, wisps of smoke began rising where the siege equipment stood. Slaves rushed to put the fires out, but with relatively few pieces of siege equipment, and many wizards, several were able to concentrate on each piece. Before long, the fires were burning with fierce flames and thick, black smoke.

"Thank you, little one," Father Dragon said quietly. Shana turned to him with surprise.

He was looking at the rising flames but clearly not watching them. "This-brings back many memories. Most, not pleasant. I feared that history would repeat itself here-so many dead-"

"Only if we're too stupid not to learn from the past," she said fiercely. "We won't let that happen, not any of us, not even Parth Agon. Haven't you seen what he's been doing? When a personal quarrel breaks out, he's right there right there . If it can't be patched up-and so far, he's been able to do that-he sees that the people involved are separated and given someone to watch them so they don't stir up trouble. All the water and food is being purified before we use it, so they can't sneak a plague in on us. And we are all working together." . If it can't be patched up-and so far, he's been able to do that-he sees that the people involved are separated and given someone to watch them so they don't stir up trouble. All the water and food is being purified before we use it, so they can't sneak a plague in on us. And we are all working together."

Father Dragon turned a little, and smiled at her. "So you are."

"What we need is someone who knows warfare," she pointed out. "That's you. That's why we need you and made you the leader." Then she grinned a little. "Besides, old Parth himself said that no one was going to argue with a leader who had teeth as big as he was tall!"

Father Dragon actually chuckled a little. "An astute observation. Well then, I suppose I had better do my my part. I doubt there is anyone here who knows more about Lord Dyran-and part. I doubt there is anyone here who knows more about Lord Dyran-and he he is our most implacable enemy..." is our most implacable enemy..."

He turned his eyes back towards the enemy army, but Shana saw that the expression of strain he wore had been replaced by one of thought-and the set of his jaw argued his renewed determination that this this conflict not end as the last had. conflict not end as the last had.

There was pain there, still, from those old memories. But pain could be dealt with. And now he had decided to do so.

She smiled, and trotted off to join one of the others fighting to keep a battering ram ablaze.

Valyn wiped his mouth with the back of a trembling hand and staggered away from the jakes. His first reaction, on seeing the helpless, weeping children herded before the fighters in a human shield, had been horror. The second, as they tried to turn and run, and as the fighters behind them slaughtered those who would not cooperate in their own peril, was to be suddenly, violently, sick.

Valyn had hunted all his life, but he had never seen another thinking creature die. He had never seen the violent death of another adult until this conflict, much less that of a child.

He'd run from the walls to the safety and shelter of the fortress, and once there, had succ.u.mbed to his own weakness.

Outside, m.u.f.fled by several thicknesses of stone, the sounds of the conflict continued, and increased as the elven lords regained control over the weather and cleared away the storm that had hampered them.

He leaned his back and head against the cold stone wall, wrapped his arms around himself, and shook-because he alone, of all the people here, truly knew his father. This atrocity was only the beginning.

He'd seen this before-there was even an elven term for it, the strange fixation on some object or cause that came after living centuries. Shi maladia Shi maladia . He'd known that Dyran had fallen into that fixation when the others had described his father's changed behavior. Dyran was not sane, as the halfbloods knew the meaning of the term. . He'd known that Dyran had fallen into that fixation when the others had described his father's changed behavior. Dyran was not sane, as the halfbloods knew the meaning of the term.

He was sane enough by elven standards, but he had no balance when something triggered the malady, and no sense of proportion. There would be worse to follow, horror piled atop horror, until, even if they were in a position to win the fight, the wizards would surrender. And then, no matter what terms Dyran agreed to, he would violate them, and kill them all as remorselessly as the dragons killed a deer for dinner. Shana kept talking about achieving a truce, he thought in despair, but there wasn't anything that would hold Dyran to truce terms. He simply didn't care. The others might hold to a sworn truce, even Cheynar. But not Father. Not now.

Valyn had seen his father twice in a mood like this-both times when he had run into unexpected opposition. Once, in the process of getting an ally onto the Council, and once when negotiating an alliance marriage for himself. In both cases, he had not given up on the task until the opposition was not only eliminated, but buried. In the second case, where the girl herself had pulled the unexpected maneuver of running off with someone else, he had not rested until both the girl and her lover were dead.

No one had suspected anything at the time. Elves did not connive in the deaths of other elves-and both deaths were accepted as tragic accidents... but Valyn wondered. There had been unsettling signs-and just before each "accident," his father had trained and sent away a particular "bodyguard." A bodyguard who had returned after the accidents, to be retired.

Human life was hardly worth commenting on to an elven lord. Halfbloods were less than vermin. And there was no vow strong enough to hold Dyran to a treaty with either. He would see that they were all utterly destroyed.

Unless Dyran was somehow stopped.

Unless he could be calmed, broken out of the obsessive-compulsive cycle, and convinced that he, personally, would lose too much by continuing the fight. Unless he could be brought out of his... state... to a point where he was able to think rationally again.

There was perhaps one person valuable enough to him to convince him to give up the fight as futile. One person he would not slay out of hand.

Or so I tell myself, Valyn thought. He pushed away from the stone wall, no longer shaking, but quite thoroughly determined.

A few days ago, he had made a tentative plan, and to secure it, he'd had Shadow steal a particular beryl out of Dyran's tent. The elven lord, preoccupied as he was with the larger threats, had taken no thought to the fact that locked cabinets were not enough to stop a determined wizard. Especially one who knew exactly where a small valuable might be. Valyn felt for the stone in his pocket and found it, warm from the heat of his body. This was one of Dyran's talismanic stones, gems in which he stored some of his own power against a time of depletion. More than that, it was one of the first first of those stones, a gem he had worked with for centuries, and attuned to him as few other things were. With this in Valyn's possession, anything Dyran tried should be fed right back to him. of those stones, a gem he had worked with for centuries, and attuned to him as few other things were. With this in Valyn's possession, anything Dyran tried should be fed right back to him.

So if Dyran tried to strike him, his father would feel it too, Valyn thought, as he made up his mind, and went down to the ground floor in search of Zed. That should be enough to make Dyran think. And he might be able to use it to control his father, at least a little. It was at least worth trying.

Zed was with another of the young dragons (in halfblood form), both of them working furiously to make the last of the claw-tips into finished arrows. Zed had just finished setting the last of the claw-sc.r.a.ps into an arrow-point when Valyn found him.

"Zed?" Valyn said diffidently. "Can you do me a favor? It's a big one-"

"I think so," Zed replied, putting the last of the arrowheads on the pile beside the young dragon-fletcher-who was taking green, crooked, virtually useless branches, rolling them between his hands, and transforming them into perfectly straight, smooth, arrow-shafts, then molding a slot for the arrowhead, slipping the arrowhead into place, and pa.s.sing the result on to another wizard-child for binding and feathering. Zed stood up, wincing a little as cramped muscles protested his movement.

"What do you need, Valyn?" the wizard asked, tucking his long hair in back of his ears with a gesture that seemed to be habitual. Valyn beckoned him to follow, and once they were in a secluded corner, out of earshot, turned to face him.

"First of all," the elven lord said quietly, "I think you should know that I'm not a halfblood."

"You're not?" Zed said in surprise. "But-"

"I'm full-elven," Valyn confessed. Then, while Zed was still recovering from that revelation, he added, "Dyran's my father. I'm his heir."

Swiftly Valyn explained the reasoning that brought him to seek out Zed. "You know all the exits and entrances to this place. I have to get out-once I make it to the camp, the fact that I'm elven should keep me safe enough until I can get to my father."

"Then what?" Zed asked.

"Then I try and talk to him," Valyn said, a lot more calmly and confidently than he felt.

Zed scratched his head. "What if he doesn't want to talk? What are you going to do then? Just walk out? I don't know, Valyn; I don't think he's likely to let you."

"I-think he's likely to underestimate me, Zed." Valyn wondered how much to tell the young wizard. "I've got something of his that should give me an edge with him. I think I can neutralize him. If I can't talk reason to him."

Zed stared at Valyn for a long time before replying. "So tell me, just for curiosity's sake: If Dyran pulled out all the tricks, brought the walls down, and found you here, what would he do to you?"

"Probably kill me," Valyn replied as nonchalantly as he could.

"And if Dyran manages to bring in all the elven lords on the Council?"

"He'll be able to pull out every bit of power all the High Lords can muster, stored and internal, and tumble the walls."

"And-how likely is that?" Zed asked carefully.

"More so with every day," Valyn told him honestly. "The longer this goes on, the greater a menace we seem, the more likely it is. They can afford to keep throwing fighters at you until the last of them can climb the walls on the bodies piled underneath. They can wear you down with magic, then pull something unexpected. They can block your thieving, and starve you out."

Zed chewed on his lower lip for a moment, and seemed to come to a decision. "Come on," he said. "Let me show you the back way out."

The "back way" was a tiny trapdoor letting out on a shaft that in turn led to a tunnel that came out somewhere on the valley bottom. Presumably behind the enemy lines. The shaft was a sheer, circular drop of several stories, too wide for someone to brace himself against and inch upwards. Valyn made a light and floated it down to the bottom, and it seemed very far indeed. The only way to use the shaft was to climb down a rope-and there was one, just inside the door, attached to a ring sunken into the stone. Valyn looked at the drop, and at the rope, and sighed.

"I didn't say it was easy," Zed told him. "I just said it was the back door. You could always ask one of the better mages to transport you into the camp."

"No thank you," Valyn replied, as he rigged the rope around his waist for rappelling. "I need to get in quietly; I don't want to announce myself."

He leaned backwards over the long drop and tested the rope. It seemed firm enough.

"I'll wait for you to get down," Zed said quietly. "I have to pull the rope up when you're done." Unspoken was the obvious: He would not need the rope to return. He would either be a prisoner, or he would be the go-between in a truce negotiation.

Valyn glanced down one more time. It was a very very long drop, and the stone was slick with damp. long drop, and the stone was slick with damp.

"Well, I guess I'd better get this over with," he said. And, at the strange and worried look Zed gave him, he added, "Don't worry, I intend to be the winner in this. In fact, I intend to split a bottle of victory wine with you!"

He smiled at Zed, and stepped backwards off the edge.

The filth and misery of the camp were unbelievable. The stench alone was enough to make Valyn's stomach churn. And the plight of Dyran's slaves almost made him turn and run.

Here, among the fighters that were supposed to be earning his victory, Dyran's single-minded obsession with wiping out his enemy, the halfbloods, was even more evident.

The camp looked as if disaster had already struck, and there was no one left to set things right afterwards. No one was setting up the tents that had been knocked down by the storm. No one was cleaning the flooded jakes-pits, which had overflowed into the camp. Wounded fighters had dragged themselves into camp, but no one was tending them. Warriors too sick to fight or wounded previously lay in what little shelter they or friends had managed to contrive before Dyran ordered the current attack. Many of the wounded and ill were dying, some were already dead. No one took the bodies away.

Valyn held a handkerchief over his nose and pretended an aloof indifference to the misery around him. He picked his way through the wreckage of the camp, studiously ignoring anything not in his immediate path. No elven lord would have cared that humans were lying and dying in their own filth-except that if they were dying here here , they were obviously not dying , they were obviously not dying there there , out on the front lines, "where they belonged. , out on the front lines, "where they belonged.

Valyn wondered momentarily where the support crews for the fighters were, then decided, given the attrition rate on the walls, the support crews had probably been thrown into armor and out onto the field with the rest.

Dyran's tent was easy to spot; it was one of the few still standing, intact, and untouched by the storm. It had been pitched at the top of the slope opposite the wizards' fortress, standing level with the stone edifice, a gold-and-scarlet pavilion that had made an irresistible target. Not that it mattered; nothing the wizards or the dragons had thrown at it had touched it. Valyn could hardly believe his luck when he was able to stroll right up the stony slope to it without being stopped by anyone who knew him. It occurred to him at that point that perhaps the halfbloods had missed an excellent chance to a.s.sa.s.sinate Dyran-all anyone would have had to do was to put on an illusion of fullblood- No, that wouldn't work; there was probably an illusion-dispelling barrier at the edge of the camp. Father might be obsessed, but he wasn't stupid.

There were two guards at the tent entrance. Both of them Valyn recognized, and he braced himself. One of them knew him.

"Master Valyn?" he said-He was calm. Not surprised to see the Lord's son. Not as if the guard knew something... Hmm. It must not be general knowledge that the heir had "vanished."