Elvenborn

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