much harder to separate from their fellows and lure or drive out where the Hunt could bring them their just reward, and the Seleighe Wild Hunt loved the challenge, sneering at the Unseleighe, who sacrificed poor careless innocents. Mortals, of course, could not tell the two apart, but that was their problem, not Denoriel's. He delivered justice, justice in the form of a slim, leaf-shaped blade and the bright silver arrows of elf-shot.
Nevertheless, his twin sister did not like to be reminded that he rode with any Hunt at all. Gentle Aleneil never caught sight of him in his batwing cloak and his night-dark armor without a shudder, so as he rode toward the Gate, he banished these accouterments, calling up the soft silks of courtly garb in Aleneil's favorite colors of green and azure to clothe himself anew. Denoriel was no Magus Major, but the elf who could not clothe and reclothe him- or herself with a single thought when Underhill hardly deserved the name of Child of Dannae.
He favored styles of an older mode than that current among the humans; the puffed breeches and short tunics, the lace ruffs and slashed sleeves seemed unreasonably silly, if not downright uncomfortable, to him. Let others ape the latest foppery of the mortals; he would keep to what suited him. His green tunic was beautifully molded to his body and at mid-thigh length exposed smooth-fitting azure chausses, cross-gartered in the green of his tunic, that displayed his handsome legs to fine effect. He could not change the obsidian hilt on his sword—and would not if he could—but the sheath was now soft silver rather than dead black.
Silver lanterns, like miniature moons, hung