Elvenborn

own offspring.

'Why not use scrying instead of this device?' Dina asked, moving the telescope to gaze at another part of the valley.

'Because, my dear, the place is adequately shielded against scrying—oh, not by magic, by all that iron and steel they've managed to collect.' She stared down at the valley, one finger tapping her lips thoughtfully. 'Very clever of them, actually; there aren't three of them together that are a match for a single one of the Old Lords, but the metal does their work for them.'

Needless to say, her son's magic had not been enough to save him from enraged and mistreated humans who came in the middle of the night to beat him to death in his own bed—espe­cially not when they arrived bedecked in thin iron armbands.

During the chaos of the revolt itself, some of her son's slaves had escaped to her; the rest fled to the Wizards and the wilder­ness. When more armed bands of escaped slaves had come upon the Tower, her people protected and guarded her while she stood ready to use deadly war-magics if it became neces­sary. She knew about the effects of iron and steel; she would not have made any attempt to blast attackers, unlike those fool­ish Elvenlords like Dina's husband. She planned to blast holes into the earth beneath their feet—or to use her magic to launch large and heavy objects at them. Most of her anxiety had not been for herself, but for her people, if they could not convince their fellow humans to go away peaceably. She didn't want them hurt on her behalf, and she didn't want them to have to witness what she might have to do to protect them all.

Dina stood, and relinquished her seat with a smile. 'Very clever of you to know the things that can't be interfered with by that metal,' she said, as Moth took her seat again.

'Not clever, dear, only resourceful. If I were clever, I'd have managed to find a way to eavesdrop on them.' That irritated her; she still hadn't managed to insinuate a reliable spy into their slave- stock.

She was not entirely certain what her people had told ma­rauders during those first weeks of the Revolt to dissuade them from attacking the Tower; there probably had been several dif­ferent stories, specifically tailored to each group. It was true enough that a few, select escapees had decided to swell the ranks of her own folk—no doubt, because they were unwilling or unable to make the strenuous journey over the mountains to an uncertain and probably uncomfortably barbaric existence in the wilderness.

Not that she blamed them in the least. She had always had an ample portion of 'Lady-magic,' and although her husband had not been aware of the fact, she was his equal in the realms of Elven magic usually taught only to men. Had it been necessary, she could have defended the Tower as well as many Elvenlords, and probably better than most. Now, her magic went to ensuring the continued survival of her diminished estate. She did every­thing needed to ensure exactly the right weather for the farm-

fields, she went over the fields and gardens daily to monitor and encourage growth and health in plants and animals. She had the knowledge and the long memory to tell them what they needed to do, and when. They trusted her, her learning, her judgment, her experience. That was what she had brought to the table; they had brought their labor. Returning to the grand tradition of her family, they had worked together to make sure that Elven-blood and human-blood prospered.

'Is there anything you'd like me to do this afternoon?' Dina asked, diffidently.

Moth examined her friend carefully. There had been mo­ments, in those first days after Viridina took refuge with her, that she truly felt that Viridina would never be entirely sane again. But Dina was stronger than Moth had first thought; even after escaping murder at her Lord's hands and seeing her Lord incinerated virtually at her feet, she had not truly had a break­down of her senses. It took time and careful tending, but she had recovered. Moth decided that it was time for her to help do her part here.

'Would you make the rounds of the kitchen-gardens for me, dear? I would really appreciate it, and I know you must have tended your own gardens thousands of times. I needn't tell you what to do.' Moth felt herself both justified and rewarded when Dina's face lit up.

'Gladly! I have been feeling so—' she gestured frustration with both hands '—so useless. And a burden on you.'

'You have never been a burden,' Moth lied gracefully. Dina only smiled, recognizing the lie, and the graciousness behind it, and turned to go back down the stairs, her sleeves and trailing hem fluttering behind her.

After most of the escaping slaves were gone, but before Moth had a chance to move herself and her people back to the Great House, the Young Lords had moved in. Occasionally, even now, she cursed herself for hesitating —but on the other hand, the Great House was much less defensible, and even with her new followers, she still had really not enough people to ad­equately staff and run a property that was ten times the size of that attached to the Tower.

The Young Lords had taken over the abandoned estate; they had brought their own slaves with them. Lady Moth was not en­tirely certain where they had gotten those slaves; many of them seemed terribly young for the work they were required to do. She suspected that the Young Lords had raided the breeding-farms of some of the Old Lords while the latter were occupied with the fighting, carrying off hordes of confused and fright­ened creatures barely out of childhood.

Poor, poor things, she thought, taking one last look through the telescope, her lips tightening. Well, at least there are enough of them to do the work they are ordered to do, and they are saved one horror. Their masters are too busy with their own concerns to abuse them; confusion is the worst they have to face.

The reason she had asked Dina to take her place in 'work­ing' the garden was that she had an appointment with the Young Lords quite soon, and it was bound to be stressful. She had come up here in the first place to get a little more information before she faced them; now it was time to change into a riding-habit and make the short journey over to their stronghold.

She chose her clothing carefully: a tailored, severe habit of stark black, with only the barest hints of silver at the cuffs and throat. She dressed to intimidate; the last thing she wished to be thought was 'feminine.' Her groom brought her horse around, along with her guards, and she mounted and made the short journey to what had once been her home.

She was accompanied by four burly young men—humans, not Elves, and humans that wore scale-armor of iron, not bronze, and had ostentatiously bare necks. Moth had played the game of wits and treachery for centuries before these striplings had ever been born.

They were, one and all, less than a century old; when she swept into the meeting-chamber in her trim sable-silk riding habit, her hair in an uncompromising knot bound in a black silk snood, with all four of her escorts flanking her, they found themselves rising from their seats despite whatever their origi­nal intentions had been in the way of greeting.

She paused at her seat, looked gravely up and down the table

with an unreadable expression, and only then did she sit— which in turn, allowed them to resume their seats. She might not be the leader here, but in their hearts, they all acknowledged her power.

Which is more than their fathers would. Then again, she probably wouldn't ever use tactics this crude with their fathers.

She listened without comment to the reports of their progress—or lack of it—against their fathers. The situation was clearly at stalemate, and had been for some time now. This was not necessarily bad, and had they asked her opinion, she would have advised patience. When there is stalemate, it is often pos­sible for frustration to