Elvenborn

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