which he was joined by the rest. Gildor looked up at them for a moment without interest, then went back to his concubine.

"By the Ancestors, my Lady, I think you have the right of it!" said Lord Arentiellan with admiration. "My miserable brat is certainly welcome to all the burned rabbit and rain he can stand."

"What of the army, Kyndreth?" asked Vandrien. "If it were up to me, I'd disband them."

To Triana's veiled joy, the rest murmured agreement.

"It's up to the full Council, of course," Kyndreth demurred. "And there are the Wizards to think of."

"True ..." Vandrien mused.

"Who we will, inevitably, outlive," Triana pointed out quietly. "With half their blood coming from slave-stock, I cannot see that they would have our years. With no more of the full blood, they will dilute their stock to the point that they are no more long-lived than mere slaves. Assuming that they don't kill each other off in their own quarrels."

"Once again, my Lady, you surprise and delight me." Lord Vandrien sat up enough to give her the full bow of respect. "I am in your debt for such reasoned observations."

"Thank you." She lowered her gaze modestly.

"Still, the Wizards ... the question is, whether it is possible that they could pose a threat to us, simply by existing and serving as a temptation to the slaves to revolt." Kyndreth raised an eyebrow. "After all, our own offspring did."

"And slaves would have no difficulty with the notion of— of—living like wild humans." Arentiellan nodded. "Still, I don't know—"

"If you disbanded the army, there is a question of what Lord Kyrtian would do with himself," Triana suggested gently.

"If you ask me, he ought to be on the Council!" Arentiellan said immediately—but Triana saw Lord Kyndreth exchange a pointed glance with one of the others. She strove to catch his eye, and nodded slightly.

Lord Kyndreth looked surprised, then speculative, then returned her nod.

She leaned back into her couch, secure in the certainty that her message had been read and understood.

When the last honeyed grape had been eaten, and the last pleasantry exchanged, the Great Lords took their leave of their hostess, one by one. Lord Kyndreth sent his son and the concubine back through the Portal and made as if to follow, but found a sudden excuse to remain until all of the others had left but himself. Triana had accompanied them to the Portal herself to bid them a polite farewell, and now found herself, as she had hoped, alone with the Great Lord.

"So, my lady," Kyndreth said, when the last haze of energy had died from the Portal mouth. "You seem to have some notions about Lord Kyrtian."

"You are coming to the point with unaccustomed abruptness, if I may say so, Lord Kyndreth," Triana demurred.

"I am—somewhat concerned about Lord Kyrtian," the Great Lord replied, shifting his weight restlessly from his left foot to his right. "I may have awakened sleeping ambition in him, and if now he finds no outlet for it, he may be—distressed."

"He may use his new-won reputation within the Council to the disadvantage of others," Triana retorted, coming to the point just as directly as Lord Kyndreth had. "The strategies of war and politics are not unalike. On the other hand—"

"Yes?" Kyndreth prompted.

"His energies could be turned elsewhere, by someone who is clever enough to devise a channel for them." She looked up at him from beneath her long lashes, and smiled.

"And what would this distraction cost me, if I may ask, my lady?" Kyndreth was wasting no time; it occurred to Triana that he might be more worried about Kyrtian's ambitions than she had thought.

She decided to risk all on a single throw of the dice. "The Council Seat once held by my father."

His mouth pursed, but he didn't look as if he particularly objected to the notion. "It could be done ... there have been females on the Council before now."

But he hadn't committed to the bargain either. "The same

clever person who found one outlet for his energies could turn them back to a more—unfortunate—direction, if bargains made are not kept."

Now he smiled, wryly. "You have a way with words, my lady. The bargain will be kept—and I believe that you will find our young Commander at the estate of his Aunt, the Lady Morthena."

She smiled radiantly at him. "Thank you, my lord. That is all I need."

He gave her a full court bow. "And all I require, as well." He stepped towards the Portal, which began to glow with energy in response to his proximity. Then he paused on the threshold, to look back over his shoulder at her. "Good hunting, my Lady," he said.

"And to you, my lord—" she replied. And he was gone.

₂₃

Shana hadn't seen Kelyan and Haldor in ages—and she would have been hard-pressed to recognize them now. Rena had been right to take action; perhaps the change in the two "young" Elvenlords had been so gradual that it had passed relatively unnoticed by the people who saw them every day, but to Shana's eyes the change was something of a shock. Elvenlords were rarely "robust" by human or halfblood standards, but Kelyan and Haldor were wraith-thin, bones showing through skin gone quite translucent. Their silver-gilt hair was lank and brittle, and they bruised badly and easily. The dragons had brought them to the Citadel in a stupor induced by Mero; after waking them only enough to stuff them full of food and drink and clean them up after their journey, Shana had put them back to sleep again.

Two elven captives summarily dumped on their doorstep— one more problem to try and fix.

This time she was at a loss; this was not her area of expertise! If it hadn't been for Lorryn coming in and volunteering to find a group to help her with them, she wouldn't have known where to start.

Now Shana and the group of young wizards Lorryn had called together stared down at their pair of captives as they slept in a magic-induced fog, illuminated by a pair of mage-lights. And it wasn't just wizards that Lorryn had asked for help, either; the group included some of the strongest of the human mages that Shana had ever met as well.

I wouldn 't have thought of that—stupid of me. Humans are the ones with the magic that works on thoughts. There were several of them now, living among the Wizards, drawn down out of the hills by the promise of a place where they could live without fear of being captured by elven-led slave-hunting expeditions. They stayed because Caellach had been very quiet ever since he had been defeated in the war of words with Shana. She was not altogether certain just how long he would remain quiet, but for now she was going to take the gift and not worry about him.

One of these human magicians was a middle-aged man called Narshy, whose ability to create illusions within the minds of those who were not adept at the Iron Peoples' mind-wall technique was nothing short of boggling. It was he, evidently, that Lorryn had first thought of when Mero had first suggested that the Wizards take over where Mero and Rena had been forced to leave off. Narshy could sometimes even get past the mind-wall—and because of that, Shana considered it a good thing he was on their side.

It made Shana wonder—before she dismissed the idea, appalled that she'd even considered it—if Narshy could be used to manipulate Caellach Gwain. A base and immoral idea—but oh, so tempting! It had taken a distinct effort of will to put the idea firmly aside.

It was just a good thing that Caellach regarded the full hu-

mans with so much disdain, though. She wouldn't have put it past him to use the weapon that she discarded as immoral.

For that matter, was it immoral to be tinkering with the minds of the two Elvenlords?

Probably. But they were already mad. We 'd either have to kill them or fix them in such a way that they can't either betray us or the Iron People. She was caught between two equally distasteful solutions—but had no real choice, since Mero and Rena had already meddled with the situation past mending.

Both Elvenlords lay on pallets in the middle of a small, disused room, with their human and halfblooded—"physicians"— clustered around them. "Well, it shouldn't be too difficult for ten or twenty of us together to concoct whatever memories of being held you want us to," Narshy told Shana with such supreme self-confidence that Shana felt a kind of grudging admiration. Whether he was right or wrong here, it would be nice to be able to feel, just once, that same sort of self-confidence. "With that many of us working at once, we can just—engrave the new memories in place within a few days. So, where do you want these two to have been held?"

"Umm—" she hadn't thought that far, to tell the truth, but if she admitted that, would she lose authority in their eyes? They were all looking at her as if they expected her to present them with everything they needed, ready to go. "What about the old Citadel?" she suggested, unable to think of anything more clever on such non-existent notice. "That way we won't have to make anything up—wouldn't real memories be better than ones we concocted?"

"But the Elvenlords know about the old Citadel," someone protested. "Wouldn't they have found these two?"

Before Shana could answer that, someone else did it for her, with glee in their voice. "No! Because we can use our memories of the old Citadel, but we don't have to have them think that the place they were kept was the old Citadel. If we don't leave these two where the old Citadel actually is, whoever finds them will think that their prison was somewhere near where they were found! Let the Elvenlords think that there's another hidden Citadel somewhere."

"What about the forest on the edge of Lord Cheynar's estate?" Lorryn suggested, from the rear of the group. "It's got a bad reputation anyway. Ancestors only know what's in there; plenty of hunters have gone in and never come out again. Chey-nar won't even send his own men in there after escaped slaves anymore."

"That's true enough," Shana said thoughtfully. "I remember that Mero told me about some spooky sort of invisible thing that got his horse in there and nearly got him, when he and Va-lyn were escaping." She couldn't help it; she caught herself smiling grimly. There were plenty of things in those hills that were more than a match for Elvenlords.

"Good enough," Narshy said, taking the decision as made. "That's what we'll do—the lot of you that lived in the old Citadel, let's pry some of those memories out of your skulls and get them shared around so we can stuff these two full of them."

Shana was pleased and amazed at the way he managed to take control of the little group and herd them off to a corner where they could work undisturbed. With a sense of relief that was quite palpable, she realized that this time, for once, someone else was going to take care of a problem.

Unbelievable. "Where did you find him?" she asked Lorryn. "He acts as if he's been in charge of people, mages even, before this—"

"He has been—that's why I asked him to take charge of this group of yours," Lorryn replied, then suddenly looked anxious. "You don't mind—I hope—here I've gone and usurped your authority and now so has Narshy. Please tell me you aren't upset!"

"Mind? I should think not!" She shook her head and smiled, tiredly. "I don't know how you just do this, find the right people and get them to take over this or that job—I can't seem to find the right way to get people to think for themselves—or find the ones that can take the initiative on their own." She bit her lip as the all-too-familiar frustration arose.

"Maybe it's because you can't believe that you don't have to do everything," Lorryn said gently. "That's all I do; I find the people who are good at something, I ask them to do the job—

and I believe that they can. Then I get out of the way and let them do it, in their own way, at their own pace."

There was no graceful way to reply to that, and she just sat down on a stone ledge, feeling totally inadequate and utterly deflated. "I never wanted to be a leader," she said, forlornly. "If anybody had asked me, I could have had the chance to say no."

"I know." He sat down beside her. "I'd rather you were free to do what you're good at; planning, thinking, coming up with solutions. You're all bogged down with trying to get people to see that your solutions are sensible—or to come up with better ones. You spend half your time trying to convince people, and the other half trying to herd them into working on the solution rather than sitting around and arguing about it. I'd rather you -didn't have to worry about all that."

"So would I." Suddenly she felt like weeping, and swallowed the lump in her throat, blinking rapidly. "But—"

He interrupted her. "Would you trust me to take what you aren't good at off your plate?" he asked, looking earnestly into her eyes. "I'm beginning to think that I am a leader, that it's in my nature—people listen to me, and I'm good at getting them to cooperate. But would you trust me to do what I'm good at so that you can do what you're good at?"

It took her a moment to work out what he was getting at, and he probably wasn't entirely certain of it himself. Would she put him in the position that Caellach Gwain wanted so badly, trust him to carry out what she could see were the right plans and decisions for her? Shouldn't she have someone older, someone from the original Wizards of the Citadel?

But neither Denelor nor Parth Agon—who should have been the leaders, and who Shana had expected would act as the leaders—seemed to be up to the job. Instead they had been delegating more and more authority to her, regardless of how she felt about it. Denelor never had cared to stir himself more than he had to, after all—she already knew that his besetting sin was sloth—and Parth—

Parth, she suddenly realized, was old. How old, she didn't actually know, not in years—but once they had gotten settled here and it seemed that she and her young wizards had the situ-

ation well in hand, he'd started taking a back seat, letting her fight with Caellach and his cronies, waiting for her to make the decisions. From vague hints over the years, she realized that he must be at least a century old, and perhaps more.

He's too old and tired to lead anymore, especially now that the Wizards are doing things and not just hiding. He doesn 't want the leadership position either. It's too much for him now.

Maybe that was the case with Denelor, too.

But could she hand over that much authority to Lorryn? It would make her terribly vulnerable.

As vulnerable as if he truly is my lover, the way everyone seems to think he is—and this is the sort of thing they'd expect me to do, start making him my—my—ruling consort. This will only make them more certain that we're lovers even though we 're not—even though I—

She flushed as that thought came, unbidden, and she must have forgotten to shield it, for suddenly he flushed, too. "I can't help what other people think," he said, defensively. "I can't help it that we—that I—"

She flushed again, fumbled for words, and couldn't find any.

"This isn't a very nice position for you," he said at last. "Even my own sister thinks we're—you know. No matter what we do, people are going to make up their own minds about your personal life and there's nothing you can say or do that will change what they think. But that doesn't make things easy for you, when there's nothing going on between us."

"Nor for you," she managed. "I mean, here I've been dumping all these things on you, and people are making all these assumptions, and you aren't even getting—" Now her face reddened so it felt as if she were inches from a fire.

"Assumptions! I don't mind, but I'm not in the same position that you are. It's got to be intolerable for you!" he exclaimed. "I—Shana—I wish—"

Suddenly, everything fell beautifully into place, as if the broken shards of a vase flew back together again before her eyes. She knew what he wished; he didn't need to say it, he was projecting it so forcefully that he was almost shouting the words in her head. He wanted those assumptions to be true, but

he had been afraid that if he tried to push himself onto her, she would react by sending him away. He—he loved her. He really did! And—

Fire and Rain! I feel the same way!

Lorryn wasn't just a supportive and clever friend anymore. It wasn't just his friendship she needed and wanted. How long had she been feeling this about him? When did she stop feeling mere attraction, just enjoying his company, and suddenly start needing his presence the way she needed to breathe?

"I didn't—I don't want to force you into anything," he was saying, a little wildly. "I knew how you'd felt about Valyn and I didn't want you to think I thought I could replace him! I wanted us to be friends, really good friends, and I wanted it to be that we could depend on each other, and then after a while, when things started to get calmed down, and we had the leisure to think about ourselves we could—I mean I know that—I don't know—"

"Oh, hush," she said, suddenly full of a half-mad joy, and kissed him, putting everything she felt behind it just so she could get it all past the wild tide of his feelings.

:oh: she heard in her mind.

And then, for some timeless time, there was no room in either of their minds for words at all. Finally, for that one moment, no matter what would come after, everything was perfectly, completely, right. And she knew that she could trust Lorryn more than she could even trust herself.

"This isn't exactly the choicest spot—" he said, finally, into her hair. "We're rather out in public, not to mention our audience."

"I suppose they could wake up." Shana sighed and reluctantly broke the embrace.

She smoothed down her hair, self-consciously. He brushed a strand or two out of her eyes and tucked it behind her ear for her. "Have you any time to spare?" he asked wistfully.

No—there's this, and the forges, and the slave-collars, and the defenses and—

"I'll make some," she replied.

The irony of the situation was that the only people affected by this sea-change in their relationship were Lorryn and Shana themselves. But oh, the difference for them!

No one seemed to have noticed that Lorryn's quarters had been stripped and converted into a storage area. Spiteful comments from Caellach Gwain as reported by Shana's sharp-eared observers among the children were in no wise changed. And yet—the difference to her!

But the world outside their chamber was not going to go away.

A plan—a large and complicated plan to safeguard the Citadel forever—was beginning to take shape between the two of them. When news came from Keman that Lord Kyrtian had either given or been ordered to give the command of the army to someone else while the Council debated its future, the need for that plan took on a new sense of urgency.

The old Citadel had defenses that this one didn't; it was time to put them in place. Alara and Kalamadea were the chief architects of the Citadel, and it was time to consult with them.

She and Lorryn, Alara and Father Dragon sat together over a three-dimensional "map" of the Citadel, sculpted in removable layers, trying to plan what next needed to be molded out of the rocks of their mountain. One grim consideration—escape tunnels. Just in case the Great Lords decided to send the formidable Lord Kyrtian after them. Another, a duplicate of the Citadel far enough away to flee to, but near enough that an evacuation could take place by means of the transportation spell. There were enough Wizards able to use it now that the entire population could be evacuated within hours, and the advantage of the spell was that there would be no tracks to trace them by.

The existence of this duplicate—which was near enough to Zed's iron-mines to provide extra protection, but at this point hardly more than a few chambers molded out of the rock by some of the youngest dragons—was for now a closely-kept secret. Even from the dragons working on it. Alara had told them it was nothing more than a new set of lairs.

Which we also need, Shana thought, wondering just how

thin their resources could be stretched before things started snapping.

"The prisoners—how goes the memory-making?" Father Dragon asked. He and Alara were in halfblood form at the moment, or they would never have fit into the map-chamber. "I do not wish to alarm you unduly, but the sooner we can drop those two where they can be found, the better."

"Narshy's sorted out who's the best at planting the new memories, and he's got them stuffed with about a year's worth," Shana replied, tracing a possible exit tunnel from the lowest storage chamber onto the model with a wax pencil. "We decided to make the memories confused and foggy, as if they'd been kept drugged."

"We nominated Caellach as the Chief Wizard of this imaginary lot," Lorryn put in, getting a grin from Father Dragon and a head shake from Alara. "We had to have somebody, and at least he's memorable."

"Narshy says we should be able to plant them in a few days. He took the real memories of being captured, put new faces on the people doing the capture, then took it from there." Shana brooded over the model. "He's using as much of their real memories as he can, just changing the faces to Wizards, the tents to rock walls—and eliminating the iron collars. He's making those into something like slave-collars, so that the Elven-lords will think that this new lot of concocted Wizards are actually better at using elven magic than the Elvenlords themselves are."

"A good touch," Father Dragon Said, admiringly.

"Now if only I could figure out a way to be in two places at the same time," Shana said, staring down at the map.

Keman and Dora had not been able to get any nearer to Lord Kyrtian without revealing themselves, thanks in no small part to the suspicious Sargeant Gel. Shana had not dared ask them to take that final, irrevocable step. I need desperately to see Lord Kyrtian for myself! Only then would she know whether or not he was truly to be trusted—and if trusted, to be approached. But if she was gone from here, there was no telling

what mischief Caellach might not get up to. If she was delayed—if something happened—could Lorryn control the old troublemaker for long? Or would Caellach manage to regain his hold over his old faction and set this entire warren seething with so many quarrels and bad feelings that it would all fall to pieces?

"Your mind or your body?" Kalamadea asked, suddenly, with an odd birdlike twist of his head.

"What do you mean?" she replied, wondering what had prompted that sort of reply.

"Well—if it's your mind that needs to be in two places at once—that is, if you feel that you have to be able to see and make decisions yourself about things going on in two different places at the same time, then we can't help you," Kalamadea said. "But if it's your body that needs to be seen in two places— if, for instance, you wanted to leave, and had confidence in someone enough to let him make decisions for you but you needed a sort of figurehead or puppet of yourself so that certain people wouldn't decide to make trouble while you were gone—

"A certain person whose name rhymes with drain," Alara put in, with a sly wink.

"Exactly—and if that's what's concerning you, well, that's entirely different. And it's something Alara and I can help you with." Father Dragon looked particularly smug, and it didn't take long for Shana to realize why, what he meant, and she wanted to smack herself in the head for not thinking of it sooner.

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "Oh, Mother—there's no reason why you can't shape-shift into me, is there? You know me well enough to counterfeit me for everybody—" She flushed, as Lorryn laughed and made a face. "—well, practically everybody!"

"No reason at all," Alara said agreeably. "And I don't know why we didn't think of this before, when You-Know-Who became so interfering and disagreeable. Unless it was because we were too worried about what had happened to you to think of it."

Already her mind was racing; if Alara could do this, and was willing, then she could go in person to see this Lord Kyrtian

and make a decision about whether or not she should try to make an ally of him.

She exchanged a glance with Lorryn. "Lord Kyrtian," he said simply, their minds following the same track.

"I can't make a decision about him without seeing him myself," she replied, nodding.

"Nor should you," Kalamadea said firmly. "Keman and Dora are good children, but if they make a poor choice, they have the option of flying away from Wizards and Citadel and all. Not—" he added hastily "—that I believe that they would, but the option is there, lurking behind their thoughts, and it could make them a bit less cautious." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I believe that same option might have made me too cavalier in my own decisions at the time of the First War."

Since Shana had occasionally wondered that herself, there was no good answer she could make to that.

Since she couldn't, she held her tongue. "Lorryn can control Caellach better than I can," she said, with complete confidence and a wink to him. "And Lorryn is someone the rest will listen to."

They listen to him more than they do to me, actually. Maybe because he never was a wizard's apprentice. There were some profound disadvantages to having been the rawest of raw beginners within the old Citadel and the old regime itself, and that was one of them. "There's only one difficulty, and that's—well, if anyone looks into Alara's mind, they're going to know she isn't me."

"But the troublemakers are not the ones who are at all adept with the powers of human magic," Lorryn pointed out logically.

Alara just shrugged off the difficulty. "How often is anyone likely to snoop on the thoughts of the Elvenbane anyway?" she asked. "I shouldn't think it happens often, and besides, I can probably learn mind-wall well enough to keep them out."

Perhaps. Perhaps not. Dragon minds aren't like ours. But Alara was right that in all this time, Shana had very seldom felt the touch of another's mind on hers, and even then it was someone wanting to communicate, not snoop.

"I can take you to where Keman and Dora are," Kalamadea continued serenely. "Now that Lord Kyrtian has taken leave of his command while the Great Lords debate whether or not to disband the greater part of the army, Keman and Dora have just today followed him to Lady Morthena's estate."

"Lady Moth?" Lorryn's exclamation made them all turn to look at him—and this news must have come as a surprise to him. "But that's where my mother is! Lady Moth is one of her oldest friends!"

"Really?" That was interesting, but not overly so, and it didn't seem particularly important to their current situation. But Lorryn was continuing.

"You remember, we've been getting some communications from mother—irregular letters," he continued. "Lady Moth isn't just any elven lady. She has never mistreated her humans— they're servants, not slaves, to her. In fact, when we left mother with her, just at the start of the revolt, she was riding the bounds of her estate with armed human men who called her 'Little Mother' and treated her—well, with affection."

That got her attention. The only Elvenlord that she had ever seen treated with affection by humans had been Valyn. "Really?" And Lord Kyrtian had gone there—why? "I wonder—"

"Don't wonder, go and find out," Father Dragon urged her. "Do it before the Great Lords make up their minds what to do about him. Because if they don't decide to use him, you can be sure that they'll try to destroy him."

"Would that be so bad?" Shana countered, knowing that she sounded heartless—but she had to bring up the point, because others would. If it came down to it, her authority rested on one thing, and that was the ability of the rest to trust her decisions. With some rare exceptions, the humans and Wizards of the Citadel would see Elvenlords taking down other Elvenlords as a step in the right direction, and not trouble themselves as to what might follow.

"It could be." That was Lorryn, looking troubled. "For one thing, Shana, if we can make him an ally, he'd be better than anyone here at the art of war. For another—he has to be one of

the rare ones, like Lady Moth. If he's removed, all the humans on his estate will be in deadly danger from whoever they put in his place. You can't want that!"

She groaned, but had to agree; if all that was true, even if they managed to rescue all of Lord Kyrtian's slaves, it would strain the capacity of the Citadel to support them. Why was it that every turn of fate brought more and more people for whom she had to be responsible into her purview?

"He may not realize just how treacherous the Great Lords are, Shana," Kalamadea said quietly. "He may not dream he's in danger. If nothing else, he deserves to be warned."

"And the best person to warn him is me, I suppose." She tried to sound resigned, but aside from the pressure and burden of apparently additional responsibilities, she didn't really feel resigned at all. She felt excited—this was the sort of thing she was good at.

But Lorryn—to separate, even temporarily, now that they were together—

Once again, he read her feelings as well as her thoughts.

"You go," he said, softly, before she even looked at him. "You have to go. I'll see no one makes trouble here, and you'll be there and back again before you know it. It can't take more than a few days at most, can it?"

"I wouldn't think so, but—" Now she looked at him.

:I'll miss you every moment, but this is something only you can do. He might not trust a dragon. He won't trust that some strange wizard has the authority to speak for all of us. Rena can't get here soon enough to talk to him, even if she'd be willing to leave Mew. But you're the Elvenbane. If you make him an offer, he'll believe you.:

And there, after all, was the heart of the matter. She was distinctive; no one could mistake her for anything other than what she was. Her description had circulated to every part of the El-venlords' domain now, and once Lord Kyrtian set eyes on her, he would know who she was.

:Just promise to come back to me.:

That was the easiest promise she had ever made.

₂₄

Kyrtian's nose tickled, and he rubbed it absently. Why is it that in spite of decades of practice, the Ancestors had handwriting that was uniformly atrocious? The tiny words not only looked as though they had been written with the aid of a lens, they conformed to no school of calligraphy he 'd ever seen.

Kyrtian labored his way through yet another personal journal, making notes on sheets of foolscap for later transcription in his own neat (and extremely legible) hand. This business of concocting a "personal" script-style must have been a common affectation among the bored. But why they should choose to also write as if paper was more valuable than gold was beyond his comprehension.

Here in Lady Moth's library, it was so quiet he could almost hear dust motes falling out of the air to add to the accumulation on the books. Lady Moth had brought back all the volumes that she had extracted during the time that the Young Lords were using the place as their headquarters. The situation was reversed now, and she commanded her late husband's estate and holdings as she should have done some time past. With no army to command and no war to fight, the Young Lords were hardly in need of a command-post, although they were still full of an impotent defiance.

Kyrtian reached for a glass of water and absently took a sip.

For the moment, the Young Lords were living on the grounds of the dowager-estate, Lady Moth's Tower, hiding in the one place where no one was likely to come looking for them. Wearing illusory disguises to make them look like human slaves, it was unlikely that even if a search was made there for them that they would be found.

As long as they can hold together, and not have someone get a change of heart and defect, they should do all right.

He'd talked to them all, and at the moment, he didn't think that likely. Not while they were safe and not having to suffer any serious hardships.

Not even Moth's own slaves knew who they were—the story was that they had been part of the Young Lord's army, and that Moth was sheltering them to keep them from being punished for having been conscripted in the first place.

It was a situation that made it hard for Kyrtian to keep a straight face whenever he thought about it. Living among the slaves was going to do them a world of good.

Already he'd seen signs of a change in attitude towards the humans from some of them. He had every confidence that if— or when—the Revolt started again, it would be on a very different footing.

If it happened, they already counted on it having a very different ending. Their plans called for him to either join them openly or permit the Great Lords to place him back in command of the army and proceed to actually do as little as possible. Then, at the right moment, he could turn the Council's army against the Great Lords themselves.

But I don't want to do that if I can help it. Such a war—because it would be a war, and not a revolt—would be bloody. Most of the casualties would be human; there was just no getting around that. And although—if the Young Lords had changed their attitude towards slave-owning by then—the humans on their side would have an active stake in the outcome, they would still be the ones taking the full force of the fighting. There were far more of them than there were Elves, and as physical fighters—well, the Young Lords were not very good.

Kyrtian's plan, which he hoped to talk the Young Lords into, was more subtle. He wanted them to creep back to their august fathers one at a time, in secret, and grovel. They would still have the iron jewelry that kept their fathers from working magic on them; that was key.

After they returned, and once they managed to regain some freedom of movement, he hoped they could work their own

way back up through the hierarchy, and attrition among the Great Lords would eventually put them in the seats of power.

Such a plan, however, did have a number of drawbacks, not the least of" which was that there were plenty of the Great Lords who would quite readily slay their rebellious sons and underlings out of hand if they ever so much as showed their faces. And once back in a father's good graces, there was always the chance that someone would turn traitor. That would be ... awkward.

So for now, they were in hiding, and if they weren't accomplishing anything, at least they weren't getting into trouble either.

Meanwhile—as the Council debated the next use they were going to make of him, and his erstwhile enemies cooled their heels in circumstances he hoped would teach them some empathy, he was using his enforced leisure to get back to the search for his father.

The answer to his father's whereabouts was in this room, somewhere, he was sure. The trouble was that there was so much to wade through, and none of it had ever been properly cataloged. Personal journals were crammed in next to the sort of romantic novels considered appropriate for ladies to while away their hours with—books on flora and fauna were piled atop maps and volumes on magic.

His nose tickled again, and he unsuccessfully tried to suppress a sneeze. Moth or her friend Viridina were in here a dozen times a day, trying to clean out the dust magically, but every time he opened a volume more of it flew up into the air in clouds.

Moth's family had a mania of their own—for collecting. Most of this library had come to her from various family members. They were, however, indiscriminate in their mania. In the case of the ones who'd acquired books and manuscripts, the definition of a "book" seemed to be "any collection of paper with covers on it" and the definition of "manuscript" was "any collection of handwritten paper." As far as he could tell, there was no method in what they'd selected, no categories, no attempt to place a value on anything.

Perhaps, if he'd been in here before the Young Lords took residence, he'd have been able to find the things his father had studied that had given him his real clue. But they had simply shoveled everything they found to the side in heaps so that they could use the room for their own purposes, and Moth hadn't helped when she extracted the books that she thought were important. Moth, bless her, had been under the impression that she had kept some order and cleanliness to the library.

Yes, well, that was before we found the boxes in the storage-chamber. Moth's husband had maintained a "show" library, with things he thought worth keeping attractively shelved. The rest—which amounted to four or five times the volume of works on show—had gotten packed into boxes and stacked up in a storeroom behind the library itself. Moth had thought that the storeroom was empty until they'd opened the door. In their search for maps they could use to plan their campaign and the plans of manors and estate-houses, the Young Lords had rummaged through it all, bringing some things into the library and leaving them, removing other things to make room for what they brought in. Whatever order had once been here was gone completely. Now the storeroom had shelves, and so did the unused office next to it, and the unused reception-room next to that, and Kyrtian was trying to bring some order to the chaos.

Kyrtian, however, was fast becoming convinced that his answer lay, not in printed books or illuminated manuscripts, interesting as those might be, but in the personal journals kept often by elven ladies, and infrequently by their lords.

His father had almost certainly divined the location of the Portal from something in here. That location was lost, and what was more, there seemed to be evidence that the Ancestors who had built the thing had engaged in an active effort to hide that location from their descendants—and even from some of their own who had come through the Portal.

Why? That was a good question. Perhaps they feared a traitor in their midst who would re-open the Portal to their enemies. The Portal itself had cooperated in erasing memories; it was fairly clear that the Crossing was such a traumatic ordeal in and of itself that a substantial number of those who Crossed could

not remember a great deal of what happened immediately thereafter.

And perhaps some of those folk were "helped" to forget.

None, not one, of the Great Lords that had created the Portal and survived the Crossing left any substantive records about it. That much was fact. Nor did any of the historians—another fact. So with no official records, he was left with only one other source, the unofficial ones—and of those, the best would be the records of those who were considered too insignificant to matter.

The ladies . .. ah yes, the ladies.

And the eccentrics.

Some of those journals were attractively bound and might at one time have been shelved in the main room—and that might be where Kyrtian's father had gotten his information.

Or he might have found something in official records that Kyrtian had somehow completely overlooked.

Kyrtian ran a dusty hand through his hair in frustration, then told himself sternly not to get so impatient. After all, his father had been hunting for the Portal for decades before Kyrtian was born; by the time he found what he was looking for, he had probably gotten to the point that he was so familiar with the Ancestors and the way their minds worked that he was able to intuit things that weren't obvious.

So he was wading through everything handwritten that Moth had in this library, with the Great Book of Ancestors beside him. Before he could eliminate any manuscript or journal, he first had to figure out who wrote it, or at least who the author's contemporaries were, then discover whether or not the author lived far enough back to have made the Crossing.

Since it was almost a guarantee that most of the manuscripts he found would be from too late a period to mention the Crossing except in passing, he would then try to find every other manuscript that could be attributed to that person. Most people who were addicted to journal-writing had produced multiple volumes over the course of their very long lives. If the author was of too late a period, well, it helped to be able to weed out everything that could be attributed to her pen.

It was a painfully logical and methodical plan of dealing with the situation. It was also very tedious, very time-consuming, and very, very dusty.

Kyrtian had two helpers at least—Gel, and that little female concubine that Lady Triana had been so considerate in planting on him. He'd sent for her a-purpose once he'd turned over his commission to Lord Kyndreth while the Council debated. If Triana was so interested in what he was doing, he was inclined to allow her more information than she could comfortably digest. He had a notion that she was working with Aelmarkin, at least for the moment. Lady Moth had been very helpful in presenting him with a summary of her past behavior, and from that he'd formed the opinion that whatever game she played, whatever alliances she made, her ultimate goal would serve no one but herself.

Now, to his mind, the best possible way to handle her was to give her the information he wanted her to have. Gel had examined the girl himself, interrogating her to the point of exhaustion and even tears, and it was his opinion that Lydiell had succeeded in "turning" her. Whenever she reported to Triana— and Triana had been very interested to learn just where he was and what he was doing right now—Gel was there, making certain she stuck to the script they'd agreed on.

Nevertheless, she didn't know exactly what it was he was doing in Moth's library; what she didn't know, she couldn't be forced to reveal if Triana or Aelmarkin ever got their hands on her. She knew only what she saw—which was that he had ordered all the books down off the shelves to be sorted—that Moth's slaves had then reshelved and cataloged all of the printed material. While they worked, he examined the handwritten stuff, creating a second catalog, and she and Gel shelved what he was done with. She couldn't read elven hand-script; she didn't know what he was keeping and what he was rejecting. So although she now had a wealth of information about his movements, none of it was likely to do Triana any good.

He actually expected the infamous Triana to put in an appearance before too very much longer. He couldn't see how she could possibly resist trying to pry into his affairs in person. She

would probably also try to seduce him; that was her pattern in the past. He had heard, even from Moth, that she was a great beauty, and not a passive, statuesque creature either, but lively, witty, aggressive, and not afraid to show her intelligence. Such a woman had learned how to turn her looks and fascination into a weapon long ago. She might even have approached Lord Kyndreth as well as Aelmarkin, prepared to use anyone and anything in her quest for personal power. If that was the case, she might well have met her match in Lord Kyndreth, who had been playing deep games for far longer than little Lady Triana.

Ancestors—I've turned into such a cynic—

There were times when he longed for what he had been— when the worst of his worries was working out little battle-plans and conspiring with Lydiell to keep Aelmarkin at a distance. To think that he had actually looked up to people like Lord Kyndreth!

Well, I know better now.

It hadn't just been his own experiences that had enlightened him, nor the night-long, acid-washed "frank talk" that Moth had had with him when he first arrived. It was the testament of these very manuscripts beneath his hands, that outlined the machinations and betrayals, the abuse of power and the use of it, from the point of view of those that the powerful considered too insignificant to monitor. Mind, some of them were no prizes, either, acting like chickens in the hen yard, turning, when pecked, to hammer on those beneath them. But it had been an enlightening, if distasteful education, wading through the pages they probably thought no one else would ever read.

Is it any better among the Wizards and free humans, I wonder? With most of his illusions gone, he had to guess that it was probably more a matter of degree. The Great Lords were so powerful and those who aspired to their power were so fixated on achieving it, that the very power they all held or craved corrupted them. It was inevitable unless, like Moth, they were acutely aware of just how dangerous that much power was. The fact that they lived such very long lives only meant that the corruption and selfishness was etched deeper than it could ever possibly go with a mere human.

But there are the others. Like Moth, Lydiell—and myself, I hope. Power didn't have to corrupt, if you knew just how dangerous it was, and were well aware that it came burdened with incredible responsibilities. He hoped that there were those among the Wizards and free humans who knew that.

Perhaps that was the key to those among the Elvenlords who did treat the humans who had come under their protection with the same consideration that they would have given an elven underling; and those elven underlings who treated humans as equals. They were the ones who had felt the boot of the Evelon overlords on their backs, and had learned from the experience— or who, at least, had determined never to treat one with less power as they themselves had been treated. And those Ancestors, in their turn, had passed their attitude down to their offspring.

Were there more such households as his.and Lady Moth's? Possibly—for a moment, he dared to hope that there were, hiding their nature just as he and his father and grandfather had. They were probably just like his family—remaining quietly, self-sufficiently in the background, permitting the Great Lords to believe that they were hopelessly provincial and not worth troubling with. Ancestors knew that if Aelmarkin hadn't been such a thorn in their side, their household would never have come under the scrutiny of Kyndreth, and he would never have been forced into the "open" to find himself recruited as a military expert.

He realized at that moment that he'd been staring at the same page for quite some time, and hadn't deciphered a word of it.

Gah. I'm a scholar, not a philosopher! He bent over the closely-written page again.

Whispers from the rear of the library intruded on his attention— because one of the whisperers was Gel, and there was a tone in the man's voice he'd never heard before.

He took a quick glance over the top of the manuscript. Sure enough, there wasn't a great deal of shelving going on, but Gel and the pretty little concubine certainly had their heads close together.

Well, well, well! The granite crag cracks at last!

He didn't know whether to laugh or be annoyed. Not that he wanted the girl; oh, she was attractive and talented enough, but so were the two other girls his mother had purchased for him. But of all the times for his tough-minded partner to pick to go soft over a woman, this had to be the worst!

On the other hand, this was Gel he was talking about. Gel, who had taught him the business of war and fighting, Gel who stuck by his side like a faithful dog, Gel who had never asked for anything for himself. How could he possibly be annoyed that Gel had finally found someone who touched his heart?

Oh, Ancestors.

Now how was he going to juggle all this? Hidden rebels, possible treachery from his superiors, the hunt for his father— and now Gel in love? What next?

As he stared at the not-so-young lover, he felt a tap on his shoulder. Lady Moth had come into the library without his noticing, and she wore her mask-face, the one that generally meant that she was—well, up to something.

"We have a visitor that I believe you will want to meet yourself," she whispered, after a glance at Gel and the girl who were completely oblivious to anything else going on around them.

Oh no—not Triana—

"You may tell Lady Triana that—" he began.

But Moth's eyebrows shot up, and she interrupted him. "I don't know why you should be expecting her," Moth replied, "but it's not Lady Triana. And I do think you should put down that stupid journal written by an equally stupid blockhead and come with me. Now."

Seeing that she was not to be denied, Kyrtian sighed, marked the place where he was leaving off, and stood up.

The lovers never noticed that he was leaving. That in itself was an indication of just how hard Gel had fallen.

Oh, Ancestors, I only hope that Triana didn 't place that girl with me to get at Gel rather than me. . . .

With his thoughts flitting between amusement and concern, he wasn't paying a great deal of attention when Moth brought him into a tiny chamber kitted out as a sitting-room, where a

young woman waited, pacing up and down in front of the windows, displaying no great patience herself. All he noticed at first was that she was red-haired and green-eyed, clothed in the same sort of tunic, boots, and trews as a common laborer, with the physique of someone who was athletic and very much used to taking care of herself in any and all circumstances. He couldn't imagine why Moth had insisted he meet this person— unless, perhaps, she was one of Moth's human servants and had information about the Young Lords?

"Lord Kyrtian," Moth said formally, "I believe that you have many things to discuss with Lashana." She tipped her head to the side as he sighed with exasperation, still wondering what she was getting at. She pursed her lips, but her green eyes held the ghost of amusement in them. "I believe you might know her by another name. Elvenbane."

WHAT?

He lost every vestige of exasperation, annoyance, impatience in that moment. He stared at the woman, who stood poised like a deer about to flee, trying to make his mind believe what his ears had just heard.

Red hair—but elven eyes. And the ears. Wizard blood, unless it's an illusion—

But Moth would never have been fooled by an illusion. Moth had met Wizards. Moth's friend Viridina—her son was a wizard.

"Lashana arrived bearing a letter from Viridina's halfblood son, verifying her identity," Moth said, as if divining his thoughts.

She probably is, the old schemer! She doesn 't need to read thoughts, she knows me like her favorite sonnet!

"I am—fascinated to meet you, Lashana," he said carefully. "Or should I call you 'Elvenbane?'"

"Please don't," the young woman said firmly. She was still tense and very ill-at-ease. "It's not a name I ever claimed for myself."

Both of them stood so awkwardly, so stiffly, that Moth began to chuckle. "Kyrtian, Lashana, for Ancestors' sake, sit down! You look like a pair of bad carvings, I do swear!"

Kyrtian relaxed marginally, and gestured to Lashana to take a seat on the cushioned bench nearest her. She did so, moving as if she was an old creature with frozen joints. He selected a slightly lower seat on a stool, to put his eyes a little lower than hers.

"I don't have much time," she said, finally. "And I'm not certain how to begin."

"I can tell you that," he offered, and tried a smile. "Begin with why you knew you could trust me not to kill you on sight."

As he had hoped, such a direct and blunt approach was precisely the right way to approach her, and she began telling him the most amazing story that he had ever heard in his life. He listened and had to work not to allow his mouth to fall open with shock more than once. To think that two of her people had gotten close enough to him to stand guard on his very tent so that they could spy on him! He would have to have a word with Gel about that, later.

At some point his capacity for sheer astonishment was exhausted, and he could only listen to her in a sort of trance. It was all too impossible to believe, and yet he had to believe in it. The things she told him fit too well with what he already knew.

Then, after talking until she was hoarse, she paused, and exchanged a significant look with Lady Moth. "So," she said. "Now you tell me to take myself off. Or—"

"Or I ask you if your Wizards would dare accept the Elven-lord Commander as an ally," he finished, having already come to the conclusion that this, and only this, could be the reason why she had come to him. Brilliant—audacious—and completely logical. And on the other hand, completely illogical that she should ever trust a fullblood.

She stared at him, and suddenly every bit of tension ran out of her, just like water running out of a cracked jar. "Fire and Rain!" she exclaimed weakly. "You're just as Keman claimed you are!"

He wondered if she had read his thoughts, using the same human magic that some of his own people had—and Moth's.

"Only the surface," she replied instantly. "I don't pry; none

of us would. And if you want, I can teach you a method to keep even the surface thoughts private."

He looked deeply into her emerald eyes, so like and unlike a fullblood's, and saw only sincerity in them. He'd been around human mages too often to feel unnerved by her instant response to his thought. "I'd appreciate that," he replied. "But it can wait. So, now I assume you know about my own people?" A sudden, blinding idea occurred to him at that moment, the way that he could, finally, safeguard his own people and his mother no matter what happened to him, and he saw that she saw it in his thoughts by the surprise that flashed into her eyes.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "Oh, indeed yes, Lord Kyrtian, we can, and we will, take your folk if they must be evacuated! Portals—the transportation magic—whatever is needed; between your people and mine we can do whatever it takes to get them to safety. And you needn't fear for your mother and the other Elves of your house, either—we have Lorryn's half-sister with us and she is as welcome now among us as he is!"

Now it was his turn to feel relief that made him sag. "Blessed Ancestors," he murmured, passing a hand over his brow. "If you knew what it meant to me to hear that—" Then he smiled weakly. "What am I saying? Of course you know."

But relief from one problem didn't help much with the others, and if this young woman did not have much time, they needed to make plans, urgently. "Bless you, Lashana. Now— let's decide between us what I can do for you and yours."

Gel was not happy with him.

"Next time—" Gel muttered under his breath. "The next time you go making hare-brained meetings without me, with women you've never seen and don't know anything about, I'll take you to the horse-trough and hold your head under till you come to your senses, I swear!"

Kyrtian sagged against the back of his chair, but was not going to back down this time. He didn't blame his old friend—but something had told him that Lashana and Gel shouldn't meet, yet. There wasn't enough time to negotiate all of Gel's suspi-

cions, not and come to an understanding before she had to leave. Ancestors! The danger she had put herself in by coming to him directly! And the danger had increased with every moment that passed; there was no telling who could have discovered her there.

Gel's dinner sat uneaten in front of him; he had already stuffed his meal down his own throat as he'd explained the miracle that had happened in that incongruously ordinary room this afternoon. "Gel, Morthena was there the entire time—and what could one little wizard-girl possibly do to me?" he asked, reasonably.

Gel only growled. "I suppose you know she could have been talking things she's got no authority to promise?"

"Morthena says she has the authority, and that's good enough for me." His mind was too full of plans now to be put off by Gel's irritation. His old friend was mostly just annoyed that, for the first time, he had made plans and forged a pact without Gel's supervision. "I know what I'm doing, Gel," he said, with perfect conviction.

Gel looked at him with one eyebrow raised, then slowly and grudgingly nodded. And his expression changed completely. He went from anger—to defeat.

"I guess you do," he said slowly. "I guess you don't need me anymore."

Now it was his turn to feel exasperated, and he tossed his fork down on his plate. "Oh for—don't be ridiculous. I'd as soon cut off my right hand! Now, look—we need to try and think of all possible contingencies here, and have some sort of skeleton in place if—"

There was a tap on the door, and Lady Moth poked her head into the library. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you were a wizard, or else you somehow conjured the baggage by saying her name," she said sourly. "I seem to be attracting all manner of visitors today."

This time, Kyrtian knew that the name that sprang into his mind was the right one. "Oh, no—" he said, grimacing. "Lady Triana. Just what we need."

₂₅

Moth! Can you keep the b—Lady Triana occupied for a little?" Kyrtian asked, a little desperately. He ran both his hands through his hair frantically. "I can't see her just yet—"

"Oh, probably." Moth's annoyance was turning to amusement. "In fact, I'll take it as a challenge. Obviously you'd better talk to Gel; I'm sure he can advise you. Besides, you're in no state to entertain a lady—the least you can do is clean yourself up." Moth eyed him with disfavor. "Believe me, you'd better have your wits about you and present a marble facade to Lady Triana. I'll go and insist she tell me every tiny detail of every affair, quarrel, and inconsequential bit of maneuvering among the Great Households while you do so. I've been isolated for some time—and everyone knows what a terrible old busybody I am. If I can't engage her, Viridina can."

"You are not old," he protested, earning a smile. "Thank you."

Moth was right; he needed time to get his wits about him. While Lady Moth left the library to keep her visitor busy with a flood of gossip-—under the excuse that she needed to be caught up on all the news she had missed while surrounded by the Young Lords—Kyrtian had a lot of work to do. And first on his list was to warn the girl that Triana was here.

But when Kyrtian got up from the table, Gel finally broke off the conversation with his young woman. Renna? Reanna? Ren-nati, that was it. Both of them looked up as he approached.

"I've been telling Rennati that you had a visitor," Gel began, and Kyrtian felt a surge of panic, which eased as Gel went on, with a lift of an eyebrow, "It's a rather good thing that those poor misused slaves that the Young Lords commandeered have

realized that no blame is going to be attached to them and sent one of their number to talk to you."

Thank the Ancestors he didn't give her the real story yet! Kyrtian thought, relieved. "Yes, well, you can't blame them for wanting to send a sort of delegate to me to plead their case," he replied, mendaciously. "They can't have realized that Lady Moth would treat her human servants exactly the way we treat ours. But we've got another visitor, it seems. Lady Moth tells me that Lady Triana has come calling."

Rennati's face went dead white; that alone would have been a giveaway that she had been covertly serving Triana, even if Kyrtian hadn't already known the whole story. Triana had chosen her tool very poorly, on the whole, if she so readily betrayed herself by her mere expressions.

But Triana never really thought of humans much, except as cat's-paws. She probably never once considered that he or Gel—or anyone that mattered!—would be around to see her reaction if Triana's name was mentioned.

But Gel immediately put his weathered paw over her slim hand, and said gruffly, "Now, Rennati—she needn't even know you're here—"

"On the contrary," Kyrtian said firmly, "I want Triana to know she's here. In fact, I have something in mind—it might be a little humiliating for you," he continued, turning to the girl, "but if you can weather a bit of humiliation, I think we can turn her attention away from you completely and for all time, if you'll cooperate."

He explained what he wanted her to do, and although the girl flushed with embarrassment, and Gel growled over the plan, they both eventually agreed it was the only possible solution. "She'll probably corner you at some point this evening, if only to get her teleson-ring back," he cautioned. "I think we can manage to interrupt that confrontation before she can do anything to you, but you know, if she does take back the ring, it will effectively sever all contact with you and show that she's got no more interest in you."

And if what Lashana told me is true, we can also expect to

have a device to completely neutralize the collar she placed on you in a day or so, he thought, but did not say aloud. That was a secret he wished to keep to himself until Lady Triana was long gone.

Rennati nodded, and licked her lips. "I think that would be best, my lord," she whispered, as Gel squeezed her hand comfortingly. "I'll go to my quarters and prepare."

"And I'd better go to mine," Kyrtian said, stifling a groan. He left the two of them alone; no doubt Gel, who had delivered encouraging speeches to fighters in the past, could find the words to put courage into this little dancer's heart.

He didn't have a great deal of clothing with him suitable for formal occasions but he had the run of Lady Moth's mansion, and asked her servants to rummage through the closets of her late husband's wardrobe and select something appropriate. He worked a little judicious use of magic to adjust the fit of the sober, black silk and silver outfit they brought him, and it made him presentable enough. He descended from the second-floor guest quarters to Lady Moth's drawing room looking (he hoped) like the successful, but no-nonsense, military commander he was.

The ladies broke off their conversation as he entered the spacious, pale-pink and gold chamber; Lady Viridina and Lady Moth flanked Lady Triana, perched on delicate chairs on either side of the sofa that Triana occupied.

If women's clothing served as a weapon—and given all that Kyrtian knew about Triana, there was no doubt in his mind that for her, it did—then Lady Triana had come armed to the teeth. Nothing about her costume was excessive, there was nothing about it that any other lady could take exception to—except that the flesh-colored silk of her gown, though it covered her literally from neck to knee, could not have revealed more of her unless she'd been stark naked. But the effect was oh! so subtle; the silk was heavy, not thin, and her charms were disclosed by imperceptible degrees as she moved. The color contributed to the effect, and knowing what he knew now about the lady, Kyrtian couldn't help but admire her tactical expertise on her own battlefield.

That did not, however, mean he intended to fall victim to it.

He half-bowed to all three ladies, then took a step forward and made a more formal bow over Triana's hand. "Lady Triana, I have heard a great deal in praise of you," he said, keeping the irony out of his voice.

"Likewise, Lord Kyrtian," she replied. "Most especially from my friend, Lord Kyndreth. So much so that when I heard you were here with Lady Morthena, I thought I would trespass on her hospitality and come to see you myself."

Very nice. Drop Kyndreth's name so that I know I can't just dismiss you out of hand, then turn on your charm. She was certainly doing all of that, and the amazing part was that it was not at all blatant. If he'd been the naive fellow he was when he'd first taken on command of the army, he probably would have fallen directly for her. Kyrtian had always been inclined to give people the benefit of the doubt until he met them himself; if he'd done that with Triana he would have been certain that she could not be as bad as she'd been painted.

So, let me think, what should my reaction be? He really didn't want very much except to see the back of her; he doubted that there was very much he could learn from her, and frankly, there was far too much that she could learn from, or about him if she stayed very long. "I do hope that I am not a bitter disappointment to you, but I fear that most people find me quite boring," he said bluntly. "And they generally tell me so to my face. I don't cultivate any interests outside of the battlefield, my lady, and at the moment, I can't afford to."

That took her aback for a moment; he watched her as she tried to think of something flattering to say that wouldn't sound like flattery. "Well, since I haven't heard you speak more than a few sentences, I'm not in any position to judge!" she replied, with a throaty laugh that probably stole the breath of many an impressionable lad.

"It won't take you very long to verify," was his reply, brusque to the point of rudeness. Then he was saved from further pleasantries by the servant come to announce dinner—to which, of course, Triana was of necessity invited. She would have to stay the night as well, since she had come the way any

uninvited guest would have—overland, from the nearest point to which she had a Portal key. Possibly Kyndreth himself had gotten her as far as the army camp, which was quite near enough for an easy day's ride. If she was on any kind of terms with Kyndreth, he would have found that an easy thing to do.

Which meant that it could be Kyndreth, and not Aelmarkin, that she was working with.

Or both. Given what the Elvenbane had told him about Kyndreth, there was very little doubt in his mind that the moment his erstwhile benefactor saw him as a possible rival, he would be eliminated—and that, of course, played right into Ael-markin's plans. So, it didn't matter whether she was working for his cousin or the Great Lord, what he had to do was to paint himself as utterly unlikely to engage in politics—the bluff soldier, happiest when on the battlefield.

Very well; now he had his course of action. Moth had ordered dinner in an intimate setting; that suited him very well. Over the course of the meal, he worked hard to establish himself as a monomaniac, obsessed with war and tactics primarily—and secondarily with discovering the whereabouts of his father, or at least, his father's fate. Every hint that he might— once the Council had decided they needed his services as a commander no longer—seek a Council seat was rebuffed. "Never!" he said at last when she stopped hinting and suggested it outright. "It'd drive me mad in a day. I'd rather take up flower-sculpting! At least the flowers wouldn't argue with me!" And that was very much to Triana's surprise, though interestingly enough, not to her discomfiture. In fact, once he established that course, she encouraged it.

"In that case—well, your training methods certainly work wonders with the gladiatorial slaves," she said smoothly. "Perhaps, if you aren't interested in breeding them yourself, you could establish a training school in concert with a breeder."

"I might." Then he threw her another mental puzzle to chew on. "Of course," he continued pompously, "as long as those wretched Wizards are in existence, the Council will require the army to exterminate them, and they'll need me to lead that

army. They may have been clever tacticians compared to— well, I won't mention names—but I'm better."

Thanks to Lashana, he knew what she didn't—that two long-held Elvenlords had just been turned loose in the vicinity of Lord Cheynar's estate, with false memories of being held by a second, entirely unknown group of Wizards hidden in the strange hills and forests somewhere near there. He knew that once the Council learned of these specious Wizards so near them, there would be panic. And he would be called on to find them.

Especially if Triana brought word of his hubris to Kyndreth or Aelmarkin or both. For Kyndreth, sending him on a hunt for these Wizards was a winning strategy all around. If they defeated him, he would almost certainly die—in the past the Wizards had made killing the Elven commanders a key part of their strategy, and that wasn't likely to change. If he defeated them, Kyndreth would get the credit, and he could be deflected back into the hunt for his father's fate. For Aelmarkin, well, doubtless his cousin would hope for his defeat, and bide his time.

When Kyndreth heard his plan for finding the imaginary Wizards, he'd be doubly pleased....

"Pardon, my lord," said one of Moth's "slaves" in as formal and stiff a manner as even the most protocol-obsessed Elven-lord could have wished, "but the matter you wished to attend to—the slaves you requested have been brought, and are awaiting your pleasure."

The lad almost gave himself away; Kyrtian caught the twinkle in his eye, but his own sober expression, only barely lightened with dour pleasure, kept the liveried servant from losing his composure. "I beg your pardon, my lady," he said to Triana, "but I had arranged for a certain matter to be dealt with at dinner this evening, and I didn't think to cancel my orders. I am sure you won't mind my attending to it."

"What—a chastisement?" For just a moment there was an avidity in her eyes that made him sick. Thank the Ancestors I was warned against her—

"No, my lady—a reward, actually." He turned to Moth's slave, stiff in his formal livery. "Have them brought in."

The lad bowed; a moment later, in came Gel, escorted by two of the fighters, followed by Rennati, escorted by a pair of Moth's handmaidens. All humans, of course—

Kyrtian allowed himself a smile. "Sargeant Gel," he said, in the most overbearing manner possible, "you have distinguished yourself in my service for years, but in this campaign against the rebels, you truly have outshone any other slave in my possession. I am loath to lose you; however, I am even more loath to lose such a patently excellent bloodline. I have decided to retire you—and to ensure that your line continues, and provides me with more outstanding fighters and tacticians in the future, I am presenting you with this handsome wench as your mate." He gestured, and the two handmaidens ushered Rennati forward. The poor child was blushing furiously, casting her eyes down. Gel had managed to contrive an expression of utter dumbfoundedness. "She's quite a little athlete in her own right—" he laughed coarsely "—which should complement your own attributes, and I'm sure that providing me with more of your stock will be a pleasure to you, given her expertise and accomplishments."

Gel dropped his eyes, and went stiffly to one knee, and from the way that his neck had reddened, Kyrtian knew that it was only the full knowledge that this insulting speech was meant for Triana's benefit alone that kept his old friend from exploding with rage. "Thank you, my gracious lord," Gel got out through clenched teeth. Fortunately, with his head bowed, it sounded sincere and humble. "I can never be worthy of this honor—"

"Well, go take the girl and see about rewarding my generosity as quickly as possible," Kyrtian said airily, waving a dismissive hand. Gel got up, took Rennati's limp and unresisting hand in his own, and rather abruptly hauled her away, followed by the rest of the "slaves."

Oh, I'm going to pay for this the next time we practice.

He turned to Triana, whose face was a study in shock. "Nice little dancer my mother bought for me," he said dismissively. "Knows her business. Perfect to make sure the old fellow can do his duty by her and by me—I can guarantee she's been well trained. On top of that, she's got a fantastic physique and re-

flexes. If I don't get a set of unbelievable bodyguards out of those two, I'll eat my boots without sauce." Then he pretended belatedly to see Triana's stunned expression. "Oh, your pardon,' my lady—I hope I didn't shock you by being so frank, but I understood you were a breeder of some note—"

She quickly got hold of herself, and smiled falsely. "Oh, you didn't shock me in the least, my lord," she replied. "I was just contemplating what the results of that mating are likely to be. Splendid bodyguards, no doubt—but forgive me for hoping that the stock takes after her looks, rather than his!" She produced another of those low, breathy laughs. "You will recall that I breed for esthetics!"

"Of course, of course." He then turned the conversation to something else, and eventually the dinner ground its way to its finale.

He left the ladies, as was the custom, to conclude their evening together over sweet wines and conversation, blessing the custom for allowing him to escape the table before Triana.

She would, without a shadow of a doubt, try to get at Ren-nati. But it wouldn't happen tonight, and it wouldn't happen on her terms. It would be tomorrow—at the time and place that Kyrtian had picked.

The pale pink marble hallway outside Lady Triana's guest-suite looked, Kyrtian reflected with no little amusement, as if they had planned an ambush for the elven lady. In a sense, they had. Rennati waited in a marble-paneled niche close to the door. A little farther along, behind a second bronze door left just the tiniest bit open, Lady Viridina waited. And farther still, watching from the end of the hallway, behind the paneled door to one of the sitting-rooms, was Kyrtian himself. If Triana gave the little dancer too much trouble, Lady Viridina would appear—and if Viridina's presence didn't give Rennati a chance to escape, he would put in an appearance and claim "his" slave.

The doors made no sound as they opened, of course, and the only clue he had that Triana had finally emerged was the soft patter of Rennati's footsteps on the heavy carpet.

"My lady, I beg your favor!" Rennati's high, clear voice,

with a hint of desperation in it, rang down the hallway. A little judicious magic allowed him to hear every word as she ap-' proached the elven lady.

"My lady," Rennati repeated, as she flung herself to her knees beside the waiting Triana, who had paused beside the open door. "My lady, forgive me—I failed you—I know I have failed you—"

"Indeed you have," Triana said, in a level voice. "The information you gave to me was of little use. You were near Lord Kyrtian only once, and that briefly. And now he has turned you into a mere breeder, which will remove you from the household altogether and occupy your time with things of no interest to me. I am not pleased."

Kyrtian peeked through a crack where the door met the frame. Rennati bent her head, trembling with fear. The poor child wasn't acting, she really was afraid of Triana. It was terribly brave of her to take this step, but it was the only possible way for her to escape Triana's toils, and both she and Kyrtian knew it. "I had no choice, my lady," Rennati replied humbly. "I am only a slave; I have no control over how I am disposed of."

"Hmph." Kyrtian took another cautious peek; Triana stood over Rennati looking down at the girl with a measure of disgust. "If you'd had an ounce or two more of ambition—" She shook her head. "I do not reward incompetence, girl. A good part of your failure is your own fault. You did not make yourself indispensable to Lord Kyrtian."

"Yes, my lady." Rennati couldn't have gotten any lower to the ground without prostrating herself.

Triana prodded at the dancer with her foot. "You've managed to maneuver yourself into your own punishment, fool. You'll be nothing more than a breeder for the rest of your life. And bred to that hideous old man! You can expect to be beaten when you don't please him, and taken like an animal when you do. On the whole, I must say I couldn't have contrived anything better as chastisement." She laughed, a cruel laugh that made even Kyrtian shiver. "I trust he'll make you suitably miserable. Now, you have something of mine, I believe?" She put out her hand.

Rennati, shaking like a willow in a windstorm, pulled the

teleson-ring from her finger and managed to place it in Triana's palm. Triana slipped the ring on her own finger, spurned the dancer with her foot, pushing her off-balance so that she sprawled clumsily onto the carpet. With a final, nasty chuckle, Triana stalked off.

Rennati lay where she'd fallen, shaking violently, until Triana was out of sight; Kyrtian and Viridina remained in hiding as well. Once they were both sure she was gone, they both rushed out into the hall—

Only to find that Rennati was shaking, not with fear or in tears, but with the weak laughter of relief. Kyrtian helped her to her feet, and Viridina fussed over her for a moment—a strange sight, that; an elven lady seeing to the welfare of a mere human!

"I'm all right, really I am," Rennati protested at last. "Thank you, my lady, thank you for being so close—but I am all right. I was only afraid that if either of you had to intervene, she would sense something wasn't quite right."

"You did wonderfully well, young lady," Kyrtian told her approvingly. "Wonderfully well. I couldn't have asked for better. I must say that you've shown an ability to play-act that I hadn't expected."

"I was afraid I was going to start laughing when she described poor Gel," Rennati told him, dimpling and coloring prettily. "She couldn't have been more wrong about him—"

"And it's just as well that she doesn't know that. It's my turn to apologize for putting you through all that embarrassment now, and last night," he continued, "and I hope you'll forgive me for it."

"Only if you—" she colored more deeply. "Only if you— don't take back what you said—about me and Gel—"

"My dear child, that is between you and Gel!" he exclaimed, holding up both hands in mock-defense, as both Rennati and Viridina giggled like a pair of young girls. "I have nothing to do with it! If you have the audacity to collar and tame that wretched man, you may have joy of him!"

Stifling their laughter in their hands, Viridina and Rennati retreated into Viridina's suite—for some womanish reason, he had no doubt, perhaps to plan the conquest of poor Gel! Ah,

Gel, you wretched man, you haven't a prayer against them! Whatever it was, the important mission had been accomplished; Triana no longer had a spy in his household, and it was vanishingly likely that she'd get another in there. Now he could continue with his own library search, and wait for the two "lost" Elvenlords to be found, for the Council to learn of the "new Wizards" and for the panic to begin.

Triana left that very day, and no one, least of all Kyrtian, was sorry to see her leave, although Lady Moth managed to convey the opposite. With Triana's departure, everything went back to "normal."

Kyrtian, however, gave up trying to use Rennati and Gel as his helpers. Instead, he commandeered a couple of the slaves that had been liberated from the Young Lords, a pair of remarkably intelligent twins. Bred and trained to be household slaves, not handsome enough to be put to "front of the house" duties, they had been wasted both on the menial tasks they'd been assigned and as the fighters that the Young Lords wanted them to be. They quickly learned what he wanted of them, and as they had been taught to read and write, were soon actually helping him with his hunt for information. Once he had identified the author of journals that were too late to be of any interest to him, the boys could pick through the remaining volumes and eliminate any more by the same author. As they shelved these books, the task in front of him began to look a bit less daunting.

Meanwhile Rennati had evidently taken him at his word; she was the "aggressor" in this courtship, and in Kyrtian's opinion, Gel might just as well run up the flag of surrender, because he hadn't a chance in the world. Not that he seemed to be unhappy about the prospect. But it was certainly an odd thing to see tough old Gel wandering about the gardens, eyes faintly clouded with bemusement, holding a basket for the flowers Rennati was selecting to grace the vases of Lady Moth's chambers.

Three days passed, then four, and there was no sign that the two "lost Lords" had yet been discovered. On the one hand, Kyrtian was perfectly happy with this, since it gave him more time among the books.

On the other hand, he grew more anxious with every day that passed, for there was no telling what Lord Kyndreth and the Council were up to, what they were thinking, and perhaps most importantly of all, whether Triana had been convinced that he was not ambitious for a place on the Grand Council as a Great Lord. Only if she was convinced would she in turn convince Kyndreth.

There was no further sign from the Elvenbane, either, but Kyrtian didn't truly expect anything. It had been terribly risky for her to come to him; it would be better for the next meeting to take place somewhere in the wilderness, perhaps while he pursued the false Wizards.

Then, on the fourth day after Triana left, came the summons to the teleson that he had been waiting for. It took all of his self-control to maintain a curious, but calm expression when he greeted Lord Kyndreth's image in the flat glass.

"Something entirely unexpected has come up, my Lord," Kyndreth said, in tones of controlled urgency. "Two minor El-venlords that we thought had somehow been killed on a hunting expedition decades ago have turned up. They were found by two of Lord Cheynar's slaves and brought straight to his manor, and their story—well, it's terrifying."

Ancestors! They managed to walk all the way from the forest to the estate? They must have been exhausted!

"Where were they all this time?" Kyrtian asked, carefully assuming an expression of concern. "I know that forest has an evil reputation, but how could they have been lost for decades?"

"They say that they were held as prisoners by Wizards," Kyndreth continued, "and the accident of a rockfall in the caves where they were held is what allowed them to escape. There is only one problem—the Wizards that held them are not the Wizards with whom we fought!"

"Ancestors!" Kyrtian exclaimed, falling back a little in feigned shock. "But—that's terrible!"

"It is, and the Council was in an uproar about it," Kyndreth replied with visible unhappiness. "We have to find these creatures and eliminate them. If they are laired up somewhere within striking distance of Cheynar's estate—"

"Then they are too close, however few in number they may be," Kyrtian said firmly. "I will deal with the matter, my Lord. This is precisely the sort of thing my personal slaves are trained for. We will take a small force into the forest to find the place, then return with a larger one and wipe them out."

"I knew I could rely on you," Kyndreth said, with evident relief, and broke the connection.

With a laugh, Kyrtian leapt to his feet, feeling very like a racehorse finally let loose—now he could show what he was really made of; this might have been what he had been training for all of his life.

And let Kyndreth and the others scheme as they would, for he was finally on the right side.

₂₆

Kyrtian’s own estate was roughly halfway between Moth s property and Lord Cheynar's, around the perimeter of the ragged circle defined by the outermost Elvenlord estates. Although it might have been shorter to cut through the heart of elven lands, it was quicker to take Moth's Portal to his own property, select the men he wanted, and go from there to the nearest estate with a Portal that he could get access to. In this case, it was the estate of the late unlamented Lord Dyran, which had eventually wound up in the hands of Lord Kyndreth. Dyran's estate bordered on the desert; Cheynar's, between Dyran's land and the rest of the elven-held world, was in well-watered hills that ran up to low, forested mountains that were equally well watered. So much water, in fact, that the estate spent most of the winter shrouded in grey clouds that drizzled continuously. There could not have been a greater contrast in territory, but that wasn't the most interesting part. The interest-

ing part was, beneath those hills and mountains—caves, and a great many of them.

Going home first also allowed him to take Rennati back to the estate. That took one burden off his mind and would give him an excuse to leave Gel as well. Not that he didn't want Gel along—but this would not be a mission where Gel's expertise was needed. Given that he could not be at home, he wanted someone he trusted to be there. Lady Lydiell was clever and cunning, but she was no soldier. If soldiers were needed, Gel could command as well, if not better, than Kyrtian.

As for his own troops, those who were left were by this time heartily tired of real warfare and ready to go back to the farm, field, and household positions they had left. It was time to take them home, too—and by the greatest of good fortune, he would be taking all of them home. There had been only minor casualties among his own people, no deaths at all, and those injuries they sustained were neither crippling nor incapacitating. That was not by accident or entirely by good fortune alone; Kyrtian's men, with their greater expertise in fighting than the Young Lords' conscripts, had shown their clear superiority in the field in all ways.

He was terribly proud of them. The point was, they weren't professional, trained fighters; they were fanners, house-servants, herders. But they had applied themselves with will and enthusiasm to his training, and when called on to use that training, they had done so with all the dedication he could have asked for.

He didn't quite know how to reward them; the kind of great feast he usually held for a successful "campaign" was woefully inadequate as a recompense. And as he shepherded the last of his people through Moth's Portal, he made a mental note to ask his mother her opinion. Of all people, she surely should have some notion.

Finally there were only the three of them left to cross—himself, Gel, and Rennati. And as he watched the other two waiting patiently for the Portal to clear, with Gel's arm openly and protectively around the apprehensive little dancer, he knew with

considerable amusement that there was at least one person he had had no difficulty in fitting a reward to. There had been a grain of truth in that pompous and incredibly insulting little speech he'd made in front of Lady Triana; he really did hope that Gel would have a son—or several—to train to take the father's place at Kyrtian's side. No one could have had a better bodyguard—or friend—and Kyrtian was not looking forward to the day when he would have to tell Gel to stand down and let another take his place. But like it or not, the fact was that unless something happened to him, Kyrtian would likely be served by Gel's great-great-great-great-grandchildren. Near-immortality came with its own costs.

He shook off the melancholy thought, and brought his mind back to the present. Lady Lydiell would be very amused, he was sure, when she realized what had happened between Ren-nati and Gel. An inveterate matchmaker, she had been trying to pair Gel off for years. She'd find the current situation entirely to her liking.

She'll have them tucked up in a little cottage or suite of their own in the manor before the two of them get a chance to turn around.

"Go on through, you two," he said, waving at them. He turned to Moth, as they stepped into the utter blackness within the Portal.

"Are you going to be all right?" he asked. "Can you keep those idiot children from trying to start the rebellion all over again, or somehow getting caught?"

She laughed. "The day I can't keep an unruly pack of puppies like that under my thumb, now that they've had a good scare, is the day you might as well start planning my funeral-games. You and your boys showed them that everything they'd won against their fathers was due to their incredible good luck, the Wizards' iron, and the Great Lords' incompetence. They're happy enough to be escaping the hounds, and I imagine they'll stay that way for some little while."

He had to smile at that. "I should have known better than to ask; I should be asking them if they think they'll be safe from you."

"Indeed you should." Moth smiled, and winked. "Two or three of those lads are rather toothsome, and still young enough to train properly. I'm not too old to remarry." She grinned as he laughed. "Now, get on with you. By now, poor Lydiell is probably wondering if the Portal's broken down."

He embraced her, then stepped across the threshold.

As soon as he recovered from the shock of crossing, which was always disorienting, he saw that his mother had already sorted out the new relationship between Gel and Rennati. And much to Gel's surprise and bemusement, she had taken it all in stride and with considerable aplomb—and from the sound of things, had begun making plans for them without waiting for Kyrtian.

Heh. I wonder if he expected Mother to be shocked or outraged that Rennati has managed to capture him? He should have known better than that—given all the matchmaking she's done all over the estate! He's just lucky she never seriously took it into her head to find a woman for him, or he 'd have been tied up long before this.

"Our people will expect a wedding-ceremony and a feast, of course," she was explaining to a bewildered Rennati. "Our Gel is a person of great importance here, and if we did anything less, people would feel cheated. We'll have to have all of the fighters and their families, of course—I wonder if we could have the whole thing in the open air? I can't think of any building on the estate large enough to fit everyone inside—"

"But—" Rennati said, feebly, looking alarmed.

"Oh, I know you've no idea what to do, child," Lydiell continued calmly. "But our people never had their traditions wrenched from them and buried past retrieval. They have their priests and their rituals exactly as they did before we came on the scene. Don't concern yourself with it; they know what to do, and if you can learn a clever dance, you can certainly learn a simple wedding ceremony. Now, this could fit in very nicely with the general homecoming; your wedding can be the start of a week of festivities and—"

"Mother, my love," Kyrtian interrupted her. "Don't forget, with all your planning, I have to be off with a select crew on

Lord Kyndreth's Wizard-hunt as soon as may be. This will have to look as if I consider it to be as urgent as he does."

"So Gel tells me," Lydiell said serenely. "All the more reason to have the wedding as soon as possible. I have been planning these homecoming celebrations for a fortnight, and you will be here for at least the first day and night of them! And if Kyndreth gets impatient, I will tell him that you needed the time to select exactly the right group of scouts and hunters."

Kyrtian bowed to the inevitable. "Yes, Mother," he said obediently, and beat a hasty retreat to his own suite, leaving Gel and Rennati to face his formidable mother and all her plans alone.

A coward's ploy, and he would surely hear all about it from Gel once the Sargeant got away. But in the meanwhile—

He can take care of himself. At least for a while. Once Rennati gets over being dazed, she 'II probably join forces with mother, the females against the poor, helpless male. I've never seen a woman that could resist an opportunity for a celebration and a new gown. Gel won't have a chance.

But oh, the more he thought about it, the more he hoped that his own time to wed wouldn't arrive anytime soon.

I think I'll run off and have Moth take care of everything. I'll hide in her library until the very last moment, so no one can swarm over me.

He pushed open the doors to his own rooms and sighed; it seemed an age since he'd been here, and the sight of his own quarters was very welcome.

But more welcome still was the bathroom, the ready tub, and the smiling servants waiting to help him.

He didn't stop for their help; he threw off his clothes and plunged into the hot water, relaxing completely in the penetrating heat, as he had not been able to do since he left. Much as he loved and trusted Lady Moth, she had all those Young Lords still lurking on her premises, and Lady Triana's unexpected arrival only proved that even the formidable Lady Morthena could be surprised by unexpected visitors. Furthermore, she admitted later that she had no notion how many keys to her Portal her late husband had handed about. It could be many, it could

be few, but the fact was they probably existed. And if anyone was likely to ferret those keys out, it would be Kyndreth, Tri-ana, or Aelmarkin. As a result, he had not really been able to relax, even while on her estate.

And, of course, while on campaign he'd had no such luxuries as this. Just the thought of all the times he'd gone to bed aching and bruised and bathless made this all the more pleasurable.

It might be a while before I get to enjoy it again. Although his hunt for the non-existent Wizards was by its very nature a wild-goose chase, he would have to conduct it as if it was serious. The bare essentials for camping, no more than six men, and they would have to keep themselves fed off the land as much as possible. There would be no hot, soaking baths out there in the forests.

He was, however, too energetic by nature to relax for too long in a hot bath when he wasn't bone-tired and wasn't currently aching and bruised. Soon enough he was out and dressed, and went looking for his father's notes. They were still where he had left them, in the library. A quick glance through them told him everything he needed to know.

He sent his bodyservant Lynder to find Gel. Just about now, Gel should be frantic for a way to escape the two females who were planning a wedding around him, will-he, nill-he.

Sure enough, within moments Lynder and Gel were back, Lynder's eyes dancing with merriment, Gel looking distinctly harried. "Before everyone gets wrapped up in this festival business, I want you to help me pick out six of our trackers for this pseudo Wizard-hunt," he told Gel. "I want men who didn't go out as fighters, but who can still be spared. It's getting close to the first hay-harvest, and I don't want to leave Mother short-handed even by a trifle."

"I can tell you who without even thinking about it," Gel replied immediately. "Kar, Tem, Shalvan, Resso, Halean and Noet. They're all the junior foresters; they don't help with the harvest and their da's can live without 'em for a bit. Why so many? You plan on actually doing anything in there?"

"It's dangerous; it isn't going to be a pleasure trip," Kyrtian warned. "Even if the new Wizards are a fabrication, there are

still a lot of deadly creatures in that area. And you aren't going to be along."

Gel's face fell, but he also looked resigned. "I was afraid you were going to decide that," he grumbled. "Damn it all, Kyrtian—"

"Gel, you're a fighter, a tactician; you're neither a hunter nor a forester," Kyrtian pointed out. "You'd be of less use to me than one of those boys. You'll be of more user here to me—and Mother—on the bare chance that Aelmarkin tries something while I'm gone. Mother is many things—but not a soldier."

Gel's mouth tightened. "You're not thinking he'd convince Kyndreth to put this place under siege?"

"I'm not thinking anything," he lied with a straight face—because that was precisely what he was thinking. He didn't trust Aelmarkin—and he didn't trust Kyndreth, either. Maybe he was still useful to the Great Lord—but maybe he wasn't, anymore. "Kyndreth still needs me as long as he thinks there's a tribe of Wizards hiding right on our borders. I'm more worried about what Aelmarkin might do—or try. But between you and Mother, with Moth to feed you gossip, you'll see through anything he tries before he's done more than make a tentative probe." He clapped Gel on the shoulder. "I am not trying to put you out to stud like my favorite warhorse, although I suggest you make that charming little dancer into a very happy wife! I am allocating my resources where they'll do the most good. I need you and Mother here, watching for trouble, while I go into the forest and wait for the Elvenbane to contact me again— which she will, since the forest is the most logical place for that." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "There's one other thing—before we had to leave Moth's, I was reading some personal journals, and something I ran into reminded me of some of Father's notes that he left behind. It's possible we've been looking for the Great Portal in the wrong place. I think it's underground, and the area around Cheynar's estate has a lot in common with the forest our ancestors fled through when they first arrived."

Gel knew exactly what he was hinting. "Those hills are riddled with caves!" he exclaimed. "Come to think of it, if your

ancestors found that their Portal dropped 'em into a cave, they wouldn't have been displeased about that, I wouldn't think; coming into a strange world in a protected spot."

"It's one possible place to look," Kyrtian agreed. He didn't tell Gel the one thing that concerned him deeply—the Ancestors had fled the vicinity of the Great Portal in terror, but why? That was the very last thing he wanted Gel thinking about when he was gone. "That's why I want your hunters and trackers. As long as I have to pretend I'm hunting for Wizards living in caves, I have every excuse to check every cave we come across."

"Then you don't want hunters and trackers—or, at least, not all hunters and trackers," Gel said decisively. "You'll need men that can keep all of you fed, but you'll also need men who're used to clambering around underground. Instead of Kar and Tem, I want you to take Kar's brother Hobie, and your laddy Lynder, there."

"Lynder?" Kyrtian turned to his bodyservant in surprise. "Lynder? Why Lynder?"

"Because Lynder and Hobie have been trying to kill themselves climbing down holes in the ground on their spare time ever since they were in their teens," Gel replied, wryly, as Lynder flushed a brilliant scarlet. "If you're going to be doing the same, I suggest you take people who've had the experience of nearly drowning when a cloudburst outside flooded the cave they were in."

"We got out ahead of the flood!" Lynder protested, turning redder. "We heard it coming!"

"And it would be useful if you had a couple of lads who'd been stuck in a passage they realized a bit too late was too small for them." Gel was clearly enjoying himself.

"It wasn't too small originally," Lynder muttered. "The rock shifted."

"I can see Lynder has plenty of experience," Kyrtian interrupted, trying not to laugh, although he also felt very sorry for the poor young man. "Haven't you told me, time and time again, that the best teacher is experience?"

"Hobie and I have been cave-exploring for three years now

without a single serious mishap," Lynder said, getting his blushing under control and trying to gather the scattered shards of his shattered dignity. "And the kinds of minor injuries we've had could happen scouting through a forest or doing some heavy work on the farm." He didn't glare at Gel, who was still clearly amused, but Kyrtian sensed that he wanted to.

Gel finally took pity on the lad. "Kyrtian, I wouldn't have recommended young Lynder if I didn't think he could guard your steps as well in his world as I can in mine," he said generously, and now Lynder flushed with pleasure rather than embarrassment.

Kyrtian nodded. "In that case—Lynder, I want you to get the cave-exploring gear together for seven. Gel and I will take care of the rest of the supplies we'll need. I'd like everything ready by—" He thought, and impishly decided to tease Gel a little more. "I'd like to leave tomorrow, but—"

Gel turned white. Lynder shook his head. "Gear for seven— we'll need some special climbing equipment and we don't have anything like that here. I'll have to get straight to the blacksmith, and he and his helpers will have to work the rest of today and all tomorrow. The rest will take a bit of hunting among the stores."

"But you can have it by the day after tomorrow?" Kyrtian persisted.

"If you dare leave before this wedding folderol—" Gel growled under his breath, glowering.

Kyrtian couldn't hold back his laughter—and then he had to run, for Sargeant Gel lunged for him, and he knew that if Gel got his hands on his master, the "master" would wind up in the bathtub again, but this time fully clothed.

They couldn't get away in less than three days, after all.

On the evening of the second day, Gel and Rennati were wed at sunset in an open-air ceremony, presided over by an old man wearing a long, black robe. So incredibly dignified was this individual, and so full of solemnity, Kyrtian had a difficult time in recognizing Hobie's father Rand, the manor's chief stablehand, who always had a joke for everyone, usually ribald.

Rand first wafted smoke over the couple, then, while chanting under his breath, sprinkled them with water, waved a lighted taper around them, and blew dust at them. Then he drew a wobbly circle around all three of them with the pointed end of a staff. Still droning a chant that Kyrtian couldn't make head or tail of, he conducted a long ritual that involved an amazing amount of sprinkling of herbs and water and salt on the part of the happy couple, a great deal of walking in circles and figure-eights, and the sharing of bread and salt.

Finally, at Rand's low-voiced order, they held out their conjoined hands, and Rand bound their hands together. Then, turning to the crowd, as the last wink of the sun descended below the horizon and the first stars came out, he spread his arms wide behind them.

"Hands are bound as hearts are bound; two are one!" he shouted.

A tremendous cheer arose from the huge crowd come to see the ceremony. Then, of course, came the celebration. There was a very great deal of wine and beer available, there was dancing and willing girls to build up a thirst, and all of Kyrtian's chosen party were young men with hard heads and the usual inability of young men to remember what a hangover felt like during the time that the drink was sliding smoothly down their throats. As a consequence, none of Kyrtian's six were good for much on the following day.

However, that was not so bad, because that was the day of some of the riskier competitions—the wrestling, the hurling of large objects, the game pitting two teams against each other in competition for an inflated bladder, with no holds barred. Nursing headaches and uncertain stomachs, it was easy to persuade the six that they should be spectators, not participants.

On the morning of the third day, a day devoted to the gentler pursuits and competitions of the women-folk—footraces, target-shooting, milking, sewing, and cooking competitions— they were in fine fettle and high spirits, and quite ready to go. So was their equipment, and Kyrtian was not going to allow the temptation of another feast, dance, and drinking soiree incapacitate them all over again. By mid-morning he had them all lined

up at the Portal, fully-laden, with still more of the servants equally burdened.

Lord Kyndreth had promised horses on the other side, and Kyrtian was going to hold him to that promise. He sent his party and all of the servants through first, and waited for the servants to return before passing through the Portal himself. There were no farewells this time. He had chosen a time when Lydiell was busy supervising and judging a contest, and as for Gel—well, he hadn't seen his old friend since the ceremony, and he hoped that Rennati was teaching him a few of the tricks she'd shown him. ...

He passed the dark and cold and disorientation of the Portal— and with a jolt, came out on the other side.

"Lord Kyrtian?"

He shook his head to clear it, and forced his eyes to focus. The person who had addressed him was a rare creature—an elderly Elvenlord, whose thinning, silver hair and faintly-lined face came as something of a shock. "Yes," he said, "I'm Lord Kyrtian."

The elderly gentleman bowed. "I am Lord Rathien. Lord Kyndreth directed me to supply whatever you require."

Well, that was pleasant. "I need enough horses to carry all of this lot," he said, waving at the supplies and equipment heaped on either side of the corridor leading to the Portal.

Lord Rathien eyed the piles with an experienced glance. "Seven riding-mounts and as many pack-mules," he said with authority. "You will find the mules can carry more than horses, and their tempers are steadier. When you camp in the forest, tether each horse to a mule before you stake out the line— should anything attack, the mules will run unfailingly away from danger, they will not plunge blindly into further danger, and they will stop when pursuit stops." He smiled then, with great charm. "I am very fond of mules, myself."

"So I see." Kyrtian smiled back, but Lord Rathien had already turned away, and was ordering a set of human slaves to pick up the piled goods and take them to the stables. All Kyrtian and his party had to do was to follow.

By noon, with the mules loaded, horses saddled, and a mule

tethered behind each rider, they were on their way. His task completed, Lord Rathien was gone by the time they rode out of the gates; Kyrtian wondered if he was one of Lord Kyndreth's underlings, or was a legacy from Lord Dyran. He was certainly efficient—and if he treated the slaves exactly as he did the mules, well, at least he didn't treat them worse. Kyrtian's own young men had been cautioned as to how to behave once they were off the estate, so they had not done anything to arouse Rathien's suspicions. Their tension had been palpable during that time; they hadn't dared to speak, lest they say something un-slavelike, or to raise their eyes above Kyrtian's knees, lest their posture or demeanor betray them.

Once they were all on the road, however, they relaxed. "Sargeant Gel told us that we were going down in caves, m'Lord," Hobie said, urging his horse up beside Kyrtian's, as Lynder did so on the other side, and the rest of the six got in as closely as they could, the better to hear what he had to say. "Why's that?"

"Well, you know that we're chasing after Wizards that don't really exist," Kyrtian began.

"Aye sir. Better than chasing ones that do!" replied Hobie. One of the men in the rear laughed.

"They're supposedly living in an underground stronghold where we're going, so we'll be exploring caves. Now, as it happens, I think my father may have been hunting these same caves when he disappeared, and I'm hoping we'll find some sign of him there." The man who had laughed sobered immediately, and there were some sympathetic murmurs from all of them.

"You—surely don't expect to find him after all this time, do you, m'Lord?" Hobie asked hesitantly.

Kyrtian sighed. "Not after all this time, no—not alive, at any rate," he said sadly. "But, you know—my claim to the estate is clouded as long as no one knows what became of him. And until Mother and I find out what really happened ..."

He let the sentence trail off. Hobie dropped his eyes for a moment. "Well, m'Lord," Lynder said into the silence, "if there's a sign to be found, we'll find it. Hobie and I have found a great many strange things in caves."

"Such as?" Kyrtian asked, to change the subject and cheer the men up again. Touching as their sympathy was, he'd far rather have laughter around him than gloom.

It was, after all, a long ride to Lord Cheynar's estate, and there was no reason to make it under a cloud of depression!

There was quite enough that was depressing about Lord Cheynar's estate to have suited a dozen funeral processions.

The manor, surrounded by pine forest, boasted nothing in the way of magical amenities; no mage-lights to illuminate the darkness, no illusions, all work done by slaves or mechanical devices. The pines were of a variety that Kyrtian was unfamiliar with—so dark a green as to be nearly black, and inhabited by flocks of crows. Cheynar, a taciturn individual with very little magic of his own, warmed slightly to Kyrtian when the latter congratulated him on some of his mechanical devices—and when Kyrtian at darkness made cheerful use of the lanterns, rather than showing off by creating his own mage-lights.

He warmed still more over dinner, and finally came out with something entirely unexpected.

"I knew your father," Cheynar offered. "I mean, I met him— he was here just before he disappeared."

That electrified Kyrtian, and he could not conceal his shock. "What?" he exclaimed. "But—why didn't you—"

"Why didn't I say something?" Cheynar asked shrewdly. "I did, to Lord Dyran. I suppose he didn't think it important enough to pass it to your Lady Mother. But then, he wasn't at all pleased with what your father was hunting."

"The old devices the Ancestors brought with them." Kyrtian was torn between excitement and despair. If his mother had known where her husband had last been seen, would it have made a difference? Could they have found him still alive?

Cheynar nodded. "One of those—your father said—would put those of us with weak magic on a par with those who are stronger," he told Kyrtian. "I don't know if Lord Dyran knew that. Your father told me, at least in part because he saw all the mechanical devices I use around here instead of magic, but he might not have said anything to Dyran." He shrugged.

"And Lord Dyran was one of the Great Lords of the Council, anyway," Kyrtian sighed. "And my father and I—well, we're nothing like the equals of any Great Lord. I doubt that Lord Dyran even paid any heed to anything father said. You know." He half-smiled at Cheynar, hoping that Cheynar would warm a little further, and see himself in the same position as Kyrtian. "When we're useful, we're equals at the feast-table, but once they don't need us anymore ..."

Cheynar took the bait. "Probably he just thought that the man was half-crazed, if he even took time for a thought at all," Cheynar said, and with some sympathy. "But I can tell you this—"

He paused significantly.

"If you are going Wizard-hunting in those caves, you'll be walking in the steps of your father. Because the last time anyone saw him—that was where he was going, too."

27

One set of items in their packs was immediately useful the moment they entered the forest: rain gear. Kyrtian had never seen so much rain in his life; he was glad that he'd checked on the climate when arranging for the supplies. And oh, the advantage of being on equal terms with one's females in an elven household! He had not realized that silk could be made so completely waterproof. Evidently that oft-derided "women's magic" used for flower-sculpting had a great many other purposes that the women themselves knew but seldom shared. He certainly didn't blame them, the "lords of creation" that Elvenlords considered themselves to be would probably greet such innovations as trivial and women kept pent up in their bowers, disregarded and discarded as toys themselves could hardly be expected to share such knowledge vol-

untarily. He could well imagine several disgruntled ladies sitting around in their bower, contemplating their dripping menfolk, and saying to each other with glee, "Well, why don't they just stop the rain?"

Rain-capes, with hoods snugged in around their faces, coats with an outer water-proofed surface beneath that, meant that what could have been a miserable situation was merely interesting. Provided that one could manage somehow to see past the gloom, this was a truly unique forest.

More waterproofed sheets—which would later serve as shelters for their three tents—covered the seven packs carried by the pack mules. This meant that their supplies and belongings were dry and would stay dry; no small consideration when, at the end of the day, they were going to be able to camp dry.

Too much water was, in the long run, better than too little. This could have been a hunt in the desert, and even Kyrtian was not entirely sure that magic would be enough to ensure water for everyone. Grels were the only option in the desert for transportation, but neither he nor anyone on his estate knew anything about grels. Their main problem here—and to some extent, in the caves—would be to prevent getting wet and cold with no way to get warm and dry again.

Game was certainly available, if not precisely plentiful. One would expect large game here, and yet the only animals that made an appearance were small game. Well, the advantage of traveling with foresters was that they didn't scorn small game in a futile search for something larger. The four foresters quickly traded their heavier bows and arrows for hand cross-bows, and took careful shots without ever seeming to aim. One by one, plump little bodies accumulated, tied to the cantles and pommels of saddles.

The rain never stopped. It let up, from time to time, decreasing to a mere drizzle, which percolated down through the trees and dripped from every limb, every needle. Then, when the rain resumed, it obscured everything in the distance, far or near, reducing visibility to a few horse-lengths ahead of the lead rider.

Which was not Kyrtian.

He knew very well that he was not a forester. That was why

he rode in the dead middle of the string, with Lynder in front of him and Hobie behind, two of the young foresters ahead and two behind. It surprised him, a little, that an entire train of fourteen animals could make so little noise, but the track that they followed, which led in the general direction of a purported cave-entrance, was ankle-deep in a layer of pine needles. They proceeded at an ambling walk, and not just to save the horses.

Up at the head of the string, Noet rode with his head slightly cocked, listening. Behind him, Shalvan concentrated on peering through the mist and rain. At the rear of the train, Halean and Resso shared the same duties.

Beyond the omnipresent sounds of rain plopping onto their capes, into the needle-bed, trickling down trunks, and dripping onto leaves, there were other sounds of life that Kyrtian took to be good signs that nothing else was stalking them. Once the crows got used to their presence, the birds stopped making alarm-calls and went back to their crow-business with only an occasional appearance as if to take note of their progress. Unexpected showers of droplets heralded the passage of small birds through the branches, and little rustles betrayed the passage of those plump little squirrels and rabbits.

By mid-afternoon, Kyrtian knew his men were looking for a place to stop and make camp for the night. Already there was a change in the quality of light under these trees, and his nerves were just a trifle on edge. He didn't know why, just that there was something ... odd....

Noet held up a hand, and the entire cavalcade stopped. Now Kyrtian knew what had him on edge—the absolute absence of any sound other than the dripping of water. Even the crows were gone.

"I don't like this," Noet said, in a low voice, but one that carried easily in the silence. "The horses and mules haven't noticed anything, but—"

"But maybe that's the point, if this is a hunter," Resso replied. "If it works by ambush and stealth."

"Should we turn back?" Kyrtian asked.

"Yes—but slowly and carefully. Just turn your horses and mules in place, people. Shalvan and I will become rear-guard.