Free Elvenbane by Andre Norton

she was reaching them. The perimeter of the estate was still sealed off, and there were guards on all of the entrances to the manor itself. While she would have no trouble passing the perimeter, there was still the matter of getting outside to do so. She didn’t particularly want to shift into something the size of, say, a house cat. She was already pushing her resources to stay human-sized. She planned to leave on the wing, but in the form of a Great Kite, a bird with a wingspan rivaled only by the ice-eagles, and massing about the same as a human male. And a bird that was particularly ill omened. That should set Rathekrel on his pointed ears, and confirm in most minds that Rathekrel was losing his luck, and quickly.
    So while she waited for an opportunity to reach the roof, she decided to create another episode in a long-running ploy most of the Kin had played with at one time or another—
    The Prophecy of the Savior of Humanity, the Elvenbane.
    She found a pile of bags in the corner of the kitchen, filled one with the rest, and headed down into the cellar.
    She had discovered some time ago, that if she acted as if she had business in a place and was under orders, humans tended to leave her alone. She had only to avoid elven overseers, who questioned everyone and everything out of the ordinary. This time was no exception; she carried the overstuffed burlap bag right past the cook and the kitchen overseer—who was, fortunately, human—and opened the cellar door without ever being challenged.
    Since there was quite a bit of traffic up and down the cellar stairs, the staircase was well lit, as were most of the areas where common things were stored. Cool, damp air, fragrant with onions, garlic, sausage, and the earthy smell of vegetables, struck her in the face as she hurried down the steps.
    She waited a few moments to ensure that she was alone, then she shifted form again, this time into that of an old, seemingly blind human woman.
She
could see perfectly well through what looked to be milky cataracts, but no one looking at her would know that. Clothing herself roughly in the burlap sacks, and hiding her white-and-silver tunic, she seated herself just under the light at the bottom of the cellar staircase, and waited for the next servant to be sent after something.
    In fact, the next slave down the stairs was as near to perfect a victim as she could have asked for; young, female, and so burdened with a stack of empty boxes that she couldn’t see and was having to check for each stair with a cautiously outstretched bare toe. Alara waited until the girl had reached the bottom of the staircase, then spoke, in a voice like a rusty hinge.
    “Hast thou heard the Word, child?”
    The girl shrieked in startlement and jumped, boxes flying in all directions. She wound up with her back to the wall, her eyes round with fear and surprise, her hair straggling over one eye in untidy curls. Alara sat like a statue, white-filmed eyes staring straight ahead.
    “Gods’ teeth, ol’ mam!” The girl panted, one hand at her throat. “Ye ‘bout frighted me t’death!”
    Alara said nothing.
    The girl pushed away from the wall, and peered at Alara, her eyes still round with alarm. “How ye get down here, anyways? Ye don’ b’long t’ th’ Lor’ Rathekrel—”
    Alara raised one hand, and pointed upwards; the girl looked up involuntarily, then dropped her gaze to Alara’s “sightless” eyes. “The Voice of the Prophecy belongs to no one, mortal or immortal,” Alara intoned, doing her best to sound mysterious. “Only to the ages.”
    The girl’s brow wrinkled in puzzlement. “I don’ know no Lor’ Ages.” She started to edge away, and cast longing looks up the stairs. “Belike I better get th’ cook—”
    “Hear the Prophecy!” Alara cried, forestalling the girl by standing up with a swiftness at odds with her apparent age, interposing herself between the slave and the staircase. “Hear and remember! Remember, and