position in the first place. He swore and kicked at her; she fell back, avoiding the kick. He aimed another at her, but before his foot connected, the sound of the door slamming open and an angry shout froze him where he stood.
'What is the meaning of this?'
Lord Tylar stood framed in his own marble doorway, glaring down at the guards gathered there. They moved aside, quickly, revealing a trembling and miserable Sheyrena huddled at the feet of one of their number.
Lord Tylar's face turned a lush crimson, which went very badly with his pale gold hair and green eyes. 'You!' he spat. 'How dare you show up here again?'
'F-f-father?' she faltered, ready tears springing to her eyes, for she really did feel entirely awful. 'F-f-father? I—Lorryn fell asleep, and I hit him on the head and stole his boots and—'
He gestured, and the words froze in her mouth; now she was glad that she had insisted the iron jewelry be swathed in silk so that none of its protection would reach her. The success of her ruse depended entirely on her vulnerability to Lord Tylar's initial spells.
'You dare to claim to be the daughter of my body?' he spat. 'We will see about that!' And with those words, he cast his second spell, which she assumed must be the one that broke illusions.
Of course, she remained precisely as she was, a huddled, wretched mess in a torn gown, dirty, tear-stained, and sick, but entirely, completely, indisputably elven.
And Lord Tylar, who had assumed right up to this very moment that his daughter was a halfblood just as his 'son' was, stared with his mouth falling open.
But only for a moment; he recovered quickly from his shock. He had not become the kind of power he was by being a complete dolt, after all.
And now he turned his anger on another target: the guards. 'You!' he raged, although his face was no longer scarlet 'You imbeciles! How dare you treat my daughter like this! I'll see you broken to sweeping stables for this!'
And before the guards could react, he himself was down the steps and stooping to help Rena to her feet; cutting the ropes that bound her hands and feet with his own belt-dagger.
'Oh, Father?' she sobbed, and flung herself at his feet, to cling to them and weep into the leather of his boots. 'Father, it was so horrible Lorryn was—Lorryn is—'
As she had expected, since any display of emotion horrified him, and hysteria made him desert the scene of the uncomfortable outpouring immediately, he backed hastily away. 'You—you—' he said, pointing at two of the guards as Rena watched covertly through her lowered eyelashes. 'Take my daughter to her chamber. Instruct the slaves to attend to her every need, and gown her according to her station. Now, you fools!'
And he turned and fled back into the hall, leaving the poor, bewildered guards to help her to her feet again— very gingerly this time, as if they were afraid to touch her—and guide her to her own rooms.
The maids were already waiting—all new ones, which somehow didn't surprise her much—and the guards released her into their hands with ill-concealed relief. As they undressed her, Rena found the opportunity to slip the packets of iron jewelry into the old hiding place in her bed where she used to keep books. Within a few moments, Rena was sinking back into that longed-for tub of hot water, with a maid attending to each hand and two more to each foot, and another to wash and untangle her artistically tangled and dirtied hair.
It was altogether lovely, and she gave herself up into their hands with a sigh of bliss. The maids twittered to each other like a flock of her little birds, exclaiming over her roughened hands and sore feet, and the state of her hair.
'My lady!' one kept saying, as she mended the damaged nails as best she could. 'My lady, how could you do this to your pretty white hands?'
As if I had nothing to worry about in the howling wilderness except care for my nails! She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.
Eventually they finished with her, dressed her in a gown of a soft rose color, and sent her on her way to her father's study. They had offered her a drink that she suspected was meant to tranquilize her; she accepted it, and surreptitiously poured it into a vase after pretending to drink from it. Their expressions of satisfaction confirmed her suspicion, and she took care to act relaxed and just a bit giddy when she made her way between two much- chastised guards to the study.
But as the door opened, she discovered that her father was not alone, and she was very glad that she did not have the jewelry on her person. She did not know these lords by name, but their faces told her all that she needed to know about them. Such arrogance only came with the greatest of power.
She made a deep, though unsteady, curtsy, and did not rise until her father gave her leave, in a voice that betrayed his pleasure at her action.
'These are two High Lords from the Council, Sheyrena,' he said, speaking slowly, as if she were a child, or feebleminded. Or both! 'Tell us all what happened to you at the hands of the monster that stole you away.'
One of the High Lords brought her a chair, which she sank into gratefully; in a trembling and hesitant voice, she told her story, beginning with Lorryn supposedly coming to her room with her maid to take her on a sunrise picnic, and ending with her 'escape' from the terrible halfblood, stealing his boots so that he could not pursue her, and retracing the path she had memorized even in her terror.
'He was going to sell me to the wizards, Father,' she cried, her voice shaking, not with suppressed tears as they supposed, but with suppressed laughter. 'He told me that he was going to sell me to the wizards, to feed to their dragons! He told me that dragons would only eat maidens, and—'
She couldn't stand it anymore; she hid her face in her hands, and her shoulders shook as she laughed silently. The three lords conversed among themselves as she strove to get herself under control again.
Finally she raised her head from her hands, and, sniffing bravely, she faced them again.
'It all fits,' she heard one of them say in an undertone; her father and the other one nodded.
'You have been a good and a brave child, Sheyrena,' said the one who had spoken, in a voice as unctuous as massage-oil and as sweet as treacle. 'You are a credit to your father and to the name of your House.'
She bowed her head submissively, and the unctuous one turned back to Lord Tylar. 'By your leave, my lord, we will return to the Council with these tidings.'
He nodded; they turned and left through the Portal door.
As soon as they were gone, he chuckled. Sheyrena raised her eyes, feigning shyness.
'You have done very well, Sheyrena,' he said, and studied her. He blinked once or twice, as if in surprise. 'I do believe that your ordeal has actually improved your looks, girl!' he exclaimed, in a voice full of astonishment. 'By the Ancestors, you actually are attractive^'
'Thank you, Father,' she replied meekly; she flushed with anger, but dropped her eyes so that he would assume that it was a blush of embarrassment.
'This—this all puts a new complexion on things,' he muttered, and drummed his fingers on his desk. 'You are of full elven blood, and now my only heir—your value as a marriage-piece is a great deal higher than when you were stolen. Hmm.'
He got up from his desk, came around to her side, and put a finger under her chin, tilting it up so that he could study her face. 'Hmm,' he repeated, as she veiled her eyes with her lashes to hide her anger. 'Add to that the fact that you're no longer a little cream-faced loon, but a handsome little thing—your value is even greater.'
He allowed her to drop her head again, and stood beside her chair. She didn't reply, but he didn't seem to expect her to.
'You may go,' he finally said, abruptly.
She took him at his word, rose unsteadily, curtsied, and fled. And once she was back in the safety of her own chamber, she took the packets of jewelry from their hiding places, and quickly 'concealed' them in the best of all hiding places, and the one place no man would ever look—
—in the midst of all the other jewelry in her valuables chest.
Then, and only then, did she strip off her gown without calling for her maids, slip into her bed in her petticoat, and fall into an exhausted sleep.
Her father woke her—or rather, her maids did, fluttering about, agitated beyond measure that he was waiting outside and she was in no state to receive him! In something of a fog, she let them gown her again, and brush out her hair; the very instant she was 'decent,' he swept in with all the high drama of a state entrance.
'Have your maids pack up your things, Sheyrena,' he said to her. 'You are moving to the bower.'
She stared at him stupidly; he smiled, the smile of someone who is doing what he wants and thinks he is
