Elvenborn

made of. Living among the Elvenlords as she had, Shana was familiar with the ways in which they made bronze, brass, copper, silver, and gold serve any number of purposes—but the objects she found weren't made of any of those metals. Most were constructed of

the dull grey stuff that Keman had found, very light and strong, but clearly nothing familiar. Other objects were made of some­thing equally light and thin, and looked like ceramic or glass, but whatever it had been it was brittle and shattered when flexed. It couldn't always have been that brittle; presumably age had rendered it friable.

This sad litter lay among the leaves and sticks that had blown or been carried in over the years, the mounds of dirt, of dust and cobwebs, the bones of little animals who had lived and died here or had been brought in and eaten.

But there were other bones here as well that were not of animals—and when Shana accidentally kicked a helmet and it rolled and disgorged a skull, she decided that she'd had enough of exploring and hurried back to the spot that Hobie and Lynder had cleared of debris and were making into a camp. Kyrtian had already gathered a small pile of things there, and was going through them while the other two put together a fire and the makings of a hot meal. There was certainly no shortage of fuel for the fire, anyway.

'It's a pity nothing of the books survived,' Kyrtian said, looking up, as she approached the friendly warmth of the fire. 'They've all gone utterly to bits that not even Moth could re­construct.'

'I don't think it's a pity at all,' she retorted. 'Kyrtian, it looks as if these people were running for their lives, and something made sure that not all of them got out of here. That Evelon of your ancestors must have been worse than even you thought, and I'd rather not know anything about it.'

'They're your ancestors, too, Lashana,' Kyrtian pointed out with surprising gentleness. 'Many of them were arrogant and selfish creatures who, as soon as they got away from those who were exploiting them, turned about and oppressed others—but some were like me, like my father, and like your friend Valyn. And they knew a very great deal that we would find useful, if we could rediscover it.'

'All that great learning doesn't seem to have done them much good here,' Lynder observed, looking around the cave,

and shuddering. 'Do Elvenlords leave ghosts behind when they die?'

Shana knew exactly how he was feeling. She had spent a great deal of her life in caves, and normally she felt quite com­fortable in them, but this one had an atmosphere that she could only describe as 'haunted.' Every word they spoke whispered and echoed in a way that was quite unnerving, with bits of their own conversation lingering long past the time when Shana would have expected the sounds to die away.

And now that they were all gathered in around the fire, Kyrt-ian had thriftily canceled his mage-lights. She was used to the way that a fire made moving shadows on cave-walls, but here were shadows that moved within the shadows, and places where blots of darkness were there when she looked, but gone when she looked again. As for the smell—under the usual damp 'cave' scent, there was a hint of something metallic and harsh.

It was only the first in a series of caves, as Keman had de­scribed, for in the wall opposite the rock-fall, a dark maw of a further entrance gaped. She guessed that this cavern had been water-carved at some point, but where the water had gone was anyone's guess. Perhaps it had sunk further into the depths of the hills, and they would encounter it as they got deeper into the caves. It was a half-dome now, the rock-fall covering what had been a vast entrance; the 'ceiling' was a good three or four stories above their heads. Under all the debris, the floor was of sand, which at least had the virtue of being dry and softer than rock.

But this cave was not what Kyrtian had come to hunt, not re­ally. The relics here were nothing more than the sign that this place was what Kyrtian's father had been looking for. There was no sign of the Elvenlord himself—unless some of those bones—

No, he would have found something to recognize his father by, I should think.

There was also no sign of his 'Great Portal,' or anything like it; no sign of the complex devices Kyrtian had described when he'd told Shana what he was looking for. How long before

Kyrtian decreed that it was time to move deeper into the com­plex? The only concession to 'making camp' so far was the fire and a few rocks as seats around it.

Kyrtian saw her glancing reluctantly towards the open en­trance at the rear, and caught her eye. 'Whatever is in there has waited for decades,' he said—sadly, she thought. 'It can wait another night. We rode like fools to get here, we're tired and wet and cold. We'd be further fools to go climbing around in an unknown cave in this state. People get themselves killed doing stupid things like that.'

Lynder let out his breath; clearly he'd been holding it the mo­ment Kyrtian began to speak, dreading being told they were go­ing to have to gather their strength and be off again once they'd eaten. 'Thank you for that, my Lord,' he said stoutly. 'You've prevented me from having to say the same thing. I was afraid if I did, you'd be angry, and if I didn't, Sargeant Gel would have the hide off me when we got back.'

'I would hope I would never be the kind of leader to put you in that sort of untenable position, Lynder,' Kyrtian replied, but a weary sparkle came back into his eyes, at least for a moment. 'Food and sleep, my lads—and my lady—' he added, bowing to Shana. 'That's what's called for here. And perhaps a little narrative from your friend on what it was like to eavesdrop out­side my tent. I am curious to hear about that.'

Keman bowed in his turn. 'The only difference between us and your usual guards, Lord Kyrtian, was that we have much sharper hearing—and one of us was a lady herself.'

'Oh really?' Kyrtian leaned forward. 'Please go on....'

Hours later, the fire died down to coals. Keman had gone out to catch himself something of an appropriate size for a dragon's dinner. Before he left, Shana and Kyrtian had both taken the time—comparing notes the while— to fence in their little camp with protective magic. Interestingly enough, neither of them had chosen to use magic- shields. Instead, they had both opted for something that would trigger an alarm if crossed, clearing a circle that Keman could easily see so that he wouldn't trigger the alarm by tripping it when he returned. After all, he could

simply shapeshift into a boulder, and nothing would disturb his rest; he didn't need alarms to warn him of danger, since danger would pass by without noticing him.

Despite those precautions, despite being weary, Shana was having a hard time getting to sleep. If conversations had echoed uncannily around the walls, the little sounds the others made as they moved or sighed or mumbled in their sleep were worse. Someone would cough a little, or turn over—moments later the sound came back, much distorted, into something that sounded like a footstep, or a whispered word. Sometimes multiple echoes came back, a breath, a murmur of not-quite-intelligible conversation.

She didn't actually fall asleep until after Keman finally re­turned. He entered as a dragon—a thin, snake-like dragon, the only way he could fit himself in through that tiny opening. He remained as a dragon, curled up just outside the boundary. His solid presence, bulking large so close at hand, finally made her feel safe. And in that moment, sleep came.

Triana's people had pitched a secluded camp at a discreet dis­tance from the site that was evidently Kyrtian's goal. Rain dripped steadily on the canvas of her tent as she plied the forester with questions, a soft glow from a mage-light suspended above them shining down on his face and highlighting rough-hewn fea­tures that Triana had begun to take a liking to. The rugged looks of all of these men were beginning to grow on her; by compari­son, her carefully-sculpted and trained slave-toys, though more defined and muscular, actually seemed rather boyish and imma­ture.

'So, five of them entered, and the rest are—where?' Triana asked her scout.

'Gracious Lady, I couldn't find them.' He didn't shrug, but she wondered what his impassive expression hid.