Elvenborn

she didn't worry about it. That was his job, and he'd been trained very, very well for it. She did wish, however, that the need for stealth had not required the horses be tied up quite so far from Aelmarkin's camp. The thing about deer-trails was that the deer didn't care a bit if there were branches stretched across the path, or roots to trip up the unwary.

It was dusk by the time she and her escort rode into a camp that was, thanks to her good sense in picking the right sort of slaves for this job, in much better state than Aelmarkin's. There was a very small fire burning beneath a clever shelter of branches that not only shielded it from most of the omnipresent rain but dissipated the smoke rising from it so there would be no plume above the trees to betray their presence.

Good men. She was glad that she had bought them from Lord Kyndreth, once she'd learned they were not only foresters, but had been trained to serve as war-scouts. They were effi­cient, unobtrusive, quiet—they already knew how to work to­gether as a team, and they didn't need constant supervision.

And they already knew their reward could be very great in­deed if they served her well. She'd given them a taste of it. There was a time for the lash, and a time for the velvet glove, and when you needed someone's utmost effort in a skill, the velvet glove was the only sensible choice.

Besides, they weren't bad looking, any of them, although they were craggy and rough-hewn—and they were a pleasant change from her usual pretty toys.

So despite being chilled and damp, she bestowed praise all around and made sure Kartar was well- provisioned as well as well-fed before he set off to join his fellow tracker to keep watch over Aelmarkin's camp. Dusk lingered for a long time out here, and Kartar had a clear trail to follow. He'd be in place by dark.

In spite of her dislike for this whole situation, things were becoming interesting. Definitely interesting. She smiled again as she accepted a plate of slightly-charred meat from one of the slaves and retired with it into the privacy of her tiny tent. She might never forgive Kyrtian if it turned out he had led her out here on some idiotic wild-goose chase, but if he hadn't—

If he hadn't, this might prove to be the best opportunity for upsetting the balance of power among the Great Lords that had come along in a while.

And there was always one other possibility she could pur­sue—one which, given the circumstances, could provide a lot of satisfaction even if this was a wild-goose chase.

If Aelmarkin hadn't told her where he was going and what he was up to, he probably hadn't told anyone else. Except possibly Cheynar, and then it wouldn't have been much. Everyone knew these were dangerous forests. Her forest-trackers had been trained for war. His hadn't. And no one knew that she was in these hills as well.

So if he and his men just—disappeared—no one would be surprised, nor was it likely that anyone would come looking for him once Cheynar reported where he'd gone.

She wouldn't win her bet—but she wouldn't lose it, either. And it just might be worth violating every law and compact the Great Lords had sworn just to see his face when she slit his throat.

This was the darkest forest Kyrtian had ever had the misfortune of camping in. He found himself wondering as he kept half of his concentration on the conversation around the fire, and the other half on the sounds out in the woods beyond the camp, if the overcast skies here ever lifted. Surely they had to at some point... it couldn't rain all the time. Could it?

And yet, there hadn't been so much as an hour since they'd entered the place when it hadn't at least misted. And it was a good thing that he and his men weren't depending on that old saw of finding north by looking for moss on a tree trunk, be­cause moss grew everywhere, thick as a carpet in most places. If ever there was a spot meant by nature for ambushes, this was it. So far they'd managed to avoid any more of those invisible whatever-they-weres, but the very nature of the gloom-laden landscape had his whole group edgy.

The snap of a twig brought Kyrtian and everyone in his camp to instant alertness. The whistle of a skylark came out of the darkness, and they all relaxed again. A moment later, Shana and a young male wizard walked into the circle of light cast by the fire, the omnipresent mist sparkling like gems on the edges of their hoods.

'I don't know how you do that—getting past my sentries,' Kyrtian complained good-naturedly. 'I hope no one else can.'

'Only humans that have their special magic, dragons, and Wizards,' Shana told him, grinning, as she settled down on a bit of log that one of the men rolled to the fire for her. 'Speaking of which—this is my foster-brother, Keman.'

'I am pleased to make your acquaintance,' Kyrtian said po­litely, but warily. 'So, you're another wizard, then —'

'Ah, actually, I'm not,' the young man said diffidently, with a glance at the Elvenbane. 'Shana thinks it's time you were— ah—'

'If you're going to trust us, we have to give you a reason,' Shana said briskly. 'I've already talked this over with the other leaders, and they think it's time for you to be entrusted with the biggest secret we have.'

'Which—would be what, exactly?' Kyrtian replied, wishing she would just get straight to whatever she was going to say.

'First, just indulge me and do whatever it is that you nor­mally do to dispel an illusion or a glamor. Keman isn't exactly what he seems,' Shana said, and there was a certain—tone in her voice that made him look at her with suspicion for a mo­ment. Just what was she up to, anyway? Was this 'foster brother' of hers fully Elven—or perhaps human? No, if he was

human, there would be no need for all this secrecy and fiddling about.

But it was obvious that he wasn't going to get any further in­formation out of the woman unless he did as she asked, so, with a sigh, he gathered threads of magic and wove them into a net, casting it over the two of them, just for good measure. He might as well see if the Elvenbane herself was under a glamor.

Nothing happened. The two of them remained exactly as they had been when they walked into the firelight.

Now Kyrtian was puzzled. Had the magic been countered? It couldn't have been deflected; he'd have seen that. Could they have absorbed it, then negated it? But how? 'Are you carrying something new that works like iron?' he asked. 'Or have you—'

He never got a chance to finish his question, because in the next moment, the young man who had been standing at the fire­side, looking altogether as normal as it was possible for a wizard to look, suddenly began to ... change. He didn't writhe, exactly, but he blurred and twisted in a way that induced a really violent case of dizziness and nausea. It felt as if something was wrench­ing Kyrtian's eyes out of their sockets and stirring up his guts at the same time, and Kyrtian clapped his hand over his mouth and turned away. He wasn't alone; the rest of his men were doing the same thing, their complexions in varying shades of green.

What in the name of—

As soon as he turned his eyes away his symptoms subsided, and he looked up, glaring at Lashana, angry accusations on his lips.

Which died, as he continued to look up—and up—and up— into the jewel-like and surprisingly mild eyes of a very large, sapphire-blue dragon.

At least, he thought it was a dragon. He couldn't think of anything else it could be. It was huge, scaled, winged, fanged and taloned. There weren't many other creatures that fit that description.

As he stared, he heard the men behind him reacting to the presence of the creature. One was praying in the ancient lan­guage of the humans, one was cursing with remarkable fluency,