They rode up the narrow trail. The mountain slopes rose up steeply on either side, becoming almost vertical. It would be very easy for someone to roll boulders down; the stones would flatten anyone misfortunate enough to be in their way. Except an ogre or an Adept. Stile kept his hand on his harmonica and his mind on a boulder-repulsion spell he had devised. He did not want to use magic here, but he wanted even less to suffer death by stoning. Then they encountered a hanging bridge. It crossed a deep, dark chasm too wide for Neysa to leap, but the bridge was too narrow and fragile to support equine weight. Neysa could change form and cross, but that would not help Hinblue. Stile considered casting a spell to transport the horse across, but vetoed it himself; the Platinum Elves could be watching. So—they would have to cross the hard way, by navigating the chasm manually. Perhaps this was a deliberate hurdle to test the nature of intruders, separating the natural from the supernatural—or, more likely, the Elven folk did not want mounted visitors charging into their Demesnes.
There was a precarious path down into the chasm, and another rising on the far side. Probably the two connected, below. Stile and the Lady started down, riding, because the steeds did not trust the people’s ability to navigate such a pass safely alone. But Stile kept his hand on the harmonica.
touch of that musical instrument reminded him—he was coming here for a flute. Yet how could a musical instrument avail him? What he really needed was a weapon. Well, he should soon be finding out! Fortunately the path did not descend far. It reached a broad ledge that cut into the chasm, reducing it to a width that could be conveniently hurdled by the steeds. The path continued on down into the chasm, but they did not follow it. They jumped across the ugly crack and started up the other side. Stile was aware of a hot draft that came up erratically from the depths, smelling of sulfur. He did not like it.
They emerged at the top of that chasm, and continued on up the path. Now they were higher in the mountain range, nearing the top—and they rounded the crest, and the landscape leveled, and lo! it was only a larger foothill. Ahead the real mountains loomed, sloping up into the clouds. They were tall enough to maintain snow, but it was purple snow.
On this brief level spot was a mound, overgrown by turf and vines. The path led right to it; in fact there was a stone entranceway. “Methinks we have arrived,” Stile murmured, dismounting.
“Methinks thou shalt not swiftly depart,” a voice said behind him. Stile turned to find a small man in the path behind. He stood about four inches shorter than Stile, but was broader in proportion. His skin was an almost translucent blue, and his clothing was steel-gray. “Thou must be of the Elven Folk,” Stile said. “I come to beg a favor of the workers of platinum.”
“We do work platinum,” the elf agreed. “But we do no favors for outsiders. Thou art now our prisoner, and thy human companion.” He gestured with his shining sword. “Now proceed into the mound, the two of you. Thine animals will join our herds outside.”
Neysa turned on the arrogant elf, but Stile laid a cautioning hand on her back. “We came to petition; we must yield to them,” he murmured. “If they treat us ill, thou canst then act as thou seest fit. An thou dost find me fettered, free me to play my music.”
Neysa made an almost imperceptible nod with her horn. Once Stile had access to his music, he could bring his powers of magic into play, and would then be able to handle himself. So the risk was less than it seemed. He and the Lady suffered themselves to be herded into the mound. Inside it was gloomy, with only wan light filtering in through refractive vents. Several other armed elves were there, garbed like the first. Their leader stepped up and appraised Stile and the Lady as if they were newly purchased animals. He sniffed as he approached Stile. “This one be Elven,” he pronounced. “But the woman is human. Him we shall spare to labor at our forges; her we shall use as tribute to the beast.”
“Is this the way thy kind welcomes those who come peaceably to deal with thee?” Stile asked. There was no way he would permit the Lady Blue to be abused.
“Silence, captive!” the elf cried, striking at Stile’s face with a backhand swing of his arm.
The blow, of course, never landed. Stile ducked away from it and caught the elf’s arm in a punishing submission hold. “I can not imagine the elders of thy kind being thus inhospitable,” he said mildly. “I suggest that thou dost summon them now.”
“No need,” a new voice said. It was a frail, long-bearded old elf, whose face and hands were black and wrinkled. “Guards, begone! I will deal with this matter myself.” Stile let go his captive, and the young elves faded into the crevices and crannies of the chamber. The oldster faced Stile.
