Elvenborn

in breeches and somber tunic of brown doeskin. Starfoot was a mare so named, not because she was lovely (for in actual fact she was as ugly as a mud-pie and scrawny as a sapling), but because she was fleet as any shooting- star. She was perfect for such a task; her mud-color would hide her, just as the brown of Moth's clothing would serve the same purpose. Lasen had chosen another mud-colored, swift horse, a gelding that was Starfoot's half- brother, and already wore dust-grey tunic and breeches for the same camouflaging purpose.

And Lasen had one other advantage as her guide and guard; he had the human magic of speaking and hearing in thoughts. No one would get near to them without him knowing, and they could avoid the army's own scouts and sentries easily. That was the one thing that idiot Elvenlords always forget, Moth thought sourly, as she mounted Starfoot a little stiffly. Human

magic makes it possible for them to know long before an enemy arrives.

It was a long, hard ride, even for Moth, who was used to rid­ing the bounds of her own estate every day. They did not stop except to rest the horses and allow them to drink and snatch a mouthful of oats. And it was after sunset when they finally saw the campfires of Kyrtian's army from the top of a hill, like strange, yellow stars sprinkled across the hillside opposite them.

Lasen stared at the encampment. 'The password is 'A fine satin sheep,'' he said, after a moment's pause.

'Sheep? Not sheet?' she asked, nonplused.

'Definitely sheep,' he replied. 'They're using nonsense phrases just to make things a bit more secure.'

Moth dismounted; no need to order Lasen to watch the horses and lie concealed while she made her way into the army. He vanished into the darkness behind her; she worked her magic on herself.

She was already as thin and bony as many human men, and her loose tunic concealed what there was of her figure. With her long hair knotted on the top of her head and hidden beneath a cap, she needed only to alter her appearance a trifle to pass as a slave: round her ears, darken her skin, and so long as she kept her head down, simply darkening her eyes would suffice to hide what she was.

And the magic of elven women, after all, was to alter small things....

It hurt; that was the worst of it. Her ears burned as if she had dipped them in boiling water as she rounded the points, and she bit her nether lip until it bled to keep from crying out. Then it was the turn of her eyes—not so difficult, this, to change the color, and not as painful.

Then, following the whispered conversation that Lasen had given her before he vanished, she walked into the army en­campment. Thanks to Lasen she had the password she needed to pass the sentries quite as if she was part of the army herself. No one even gave her a second glance.

As she strode stiffly among the campfires, in the flickering

light from fire and torch that made it possible to pull off the next part of her ruse, she kept a sharp eye out for something she could use to get up as far as, and even into, Kyrtian's tent. One piece at a time, she managed to pilfer a tray, a plate, and a rough-hewn wooden cup; with a breath of her own magic, they acquired a patina of silver. Water took on the rosy hue of wine, and a couple of chunks of wood became meat, cheese and bread, at least on the surface. A snatched handful of weeds transformed into tasty-looking 'garden' greens put the final touches on. This all looked edible (although it wasn't) but by no means more than a scant touch above the ordinary soldiers' ra-. tions. She knew her nephew; knew that was what he would eat by choice. She didn't want her excuse for entrance to be snatched away by the officious servant of some lesser Elven-lord just because it looked tasty enough to be appetizing to his master!

By this time she was well up to the cluster of tents of the commanders; the larger size of Kyrtian's made it obvious which was his. There were guards on the tent, but her age, size, and burden made her status and errand obvious, and they gave her the merest of cursory once-overs to ensure that she wasn't armed before holding the flap aside and sending her in.

Kyrtian and his human shadow Gel were bent over maps, seemingly oblivious to anything else. She cleared her throat ostentatiously.

Neither of them turned around, or even so much as started. 'We know you're there,' Gel said crossly—which relieved her somewhat, since she'd been a little alarmed at how easily she had gotten close to her nephew, unchallenged. 'Put it down and get out.'

'That's a fine way to talk to your Lord's aunt,' she replied, loudly enough so they could hear her, but softly enough that her voice shouldn't carry to the guards outside.

They pivoted so fast to look at her, their eyes so wide and shocked, that she chuckled.

'Moth? Moth?' Kyrtian squeaked.

'Voice just now starting to break, boy?' Moth replied with a

grin, putting down her inedible burden. 'Always knew every­thing about you was slow to grow but your mind, but isn't that a bit much?'

'So, that's the situation, then,' Kyrtian finished. The arrival of his aunt on his very doorstep—and disguised as a human slave, no less!—had been something of a shock. A pleasant shock, however. 'And I don't mind telling you that I've been scram­bling to find some excuse not to rescue you.' He and Moth had been talking nonstop for so long that they were both hoarse, and once he got over his surprise, he had never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

'Well,' she ruminated. 'You can see why I was in no great hurry to be rescued. These young rebels are still not the best an­swer to our troubles, but they're a damn sight better than their fathers.'

He reached for a pitcher of something she had conjured up out of water, a handful of blossoms and a bit of magic and poured cups of the stuff for both of them. Whatever it was, it had as good an effect on a hoarse throat as honeyed tea. 'I don't know what to do,' he admitted. 'I can't stop commanding the army—it will just mean humans slaughtering humans. At least this way I'm keeping bloodshed to a minimum. But if I defeat the Young Lords, mother thinks the Great Lords will turn the army against the Wizards, and never mind the treaty.'

'Your mother's right,' Moth said sourly, her mouth twisted up into a scowl. 'There was never an agreement reached by any of the Great Lords that wasn't broken as soon as one or the other of them could manage it, and that's a fact you'd better get used to. There's no honor among them; your cousin is just a bit more open about his treachery than most of them are. If he was good, he'd have had your estate years ago.'

Kyrtian could only shake his head. Since taking command, he had gotten one example after another of the duplicity of his own race, and he was still having a hard time getting used to it. What was the point of all this double-and triple-crossing, any­way? Wasn't the world wide enough for everyone to prosper?

Evidently not, or at least, not so far as the Great Lords were concerned.

Gel's sardonic expression and occasional sarcastic com­ments had made it very clear that he was not anywhere near as innocent as Kyrtian had been. And, all things considered, Lady Lydiell probably wasn't either.

'Look,' Gel said, breaking into his thoughts. 'We need a plan, and I think I have one, but it depends on Moth's ability to scare the whey out of these pet rebels of hers.' He raised an eyebrow at her. 'Can you?'

'Depends on what you and this army of yours can do,' she temporized. 'What's the plan?'

'You can go as yourself to this training-camp. The gladiators will trust your humans, I suspect; fighters tend to trust other fighters. Whatever it takes, see if you can get them to listen to you and agree to what you want to do.'

She smiled. 'It won't take much,' she told them both, wear­ing an expression that told them she was mightily