* * *
Maliar shucked her tunic as soon as she entered the house. The half-healed scars itched horribly under it, and when Brigit had clapped her on the back she had thought she would scream.
Mortals who thought any elf was kind were too foolish to live.
She turned abrubtly and snatched her staff off of its resting place. She shoved herself out the door again, unmindful of the tunic lying on the floor. Outside, she retreated to her back garden and began to weave a pattern dance with her staff. Her anger slowly faded as she lost herself in the rhythm of staff-fighting.
She had always preferred the staff to her brothers' blades. Perhaps that was why Mother had urged her to join the mages. At times, she thought that was a pity. Her trainers had told her to give up her love of the staff, for it would do her little good as a mage. Aye, and they were correct. When the glamour poured off of her as spells, a staff felt too annoyingly unwieldy to be worth using.
Maliar idly conjured three balls of glamour for targets. Deftly, she struck at them as they wove around her. One of them flicked over the scars on her back and she stumbled.
Brigit had been far subtler in her displeasure than the Queen. Her Most Terrible Majesty had merely ordered her flogged and refused her healing. Brigit, Seelie Brigit, ordered her into the realm war.
Maliar dispelled the glamour balls and returned to her pattern dance. There were plans to be made, a thrall to be fetched - she did not have time for the realm war.
It was a terrible thing that she needed Brigit's protection to accomplish her goals. An annoyed Brigit was worse than useless to her, so she would battle in the realm war. But she could not let it interfere with-
"Maliar?"
The End