She waited, praying the elf would believe her.
The elf’s eyes had grown wider as Larajin spoke. Suddenly, in one swift motion, she lowered her bow. Removing her arrow, she slid it into the quiver at her hip. She pressed both hands against her heart, palms to her chest, and bowed.
“I should have paid more heed to the goddess’s sign. Perhaps then I would have recognized you,” she said as she straightened, “but it is little wonder that I didn’t. You and your brother are as different as day and night.”
“My brother?”
Before Larajin had a chance to ask more, the elven woman motioned for silence. Behind her, a dozen elves came running lightly through the wood. She turned quickly and signaled to them. They slowed their pace, at the same time lowering their weapons. The woman spoke to them in their own rapid tongue, pointing several times at Larajin, and once getting her to lift her hand and show the elves the tressym feather she was holding. There were mutters, at first, but then more than one of the elves began nodding.
The woman turned back to Larajin. “You will come with us, to the Tangled Trees,” she said. “We will leave at once.”
Larajin nodded, and allowed a smile of relief to creep to her lips. Silently she thanked the goddesses-first Hanali Celanil, then Sune-for watching over her. Despite the terrible fact that men had just fought and died on Rauthauvyr’s Road, Larajin had survived, and would soon be on her way to the Tangled Trees. The goddesses seemed to be watching over her, after all.
CHAPTER 4
Leifander circled over the lights below, which were brighter than the glow from a thousand camphres. Even at this height the city assaulted his senses. The stink of dead fish, tar, and sewage rose from the harbor. Even in the depths of night, grunting laborers loaded cargo into ships, and carriages rattled through the streets, axles squealing. Lanterns burned on side streets where no one walked, and smoke smelling of cooking grease wafted out of chimneys, clogging the already humid air.
Leifander cocked his head, staring disdainfully down at the city. Humans were a wasteful, destructive race. How he yearned for the fresh green of trees that had stood for centuries, the quiet stillness of a forest glade under moonlight. He would be glad when this mission was done.
He finally spotted the building Rylith had described. Stormweather Towers was a massive stone structure topped with towers and turrets; it rose like a rocky spire out of a surrounding fringe of greenery far too symmetrical to ever be thought natural. Smaller buildings surrounded the main structure, marring the gardens with their ugly gray.
Lights burned in several of the rooms, and humans moved around inside, busy at a multitude of tasks. Several of the shuttered windows were open. The clatter of crockery and the harsh sounds of human voices drifted into the air. Leifander circled the building, glancing in through windows for the man he had been ordered to seek out. None of the people inside fitted the description he had been given: a man of sixty winters, with snow-white hair and heavy, dark eyebrows.
Uncertain how to present himself-Rylith had warned that elves were not welcome in Selgaunt-Leifander flapped his way to one of the second-story balconies and landed on its cool stone rail. The double doors that gave access to the balcony were open. Inside the room, he could see the dark shapes of a high four-poster bed with rumpled blankets, two armchairs, and a wardrobe. A small cabinet mounted on the wall behind the bed was fronted by two glass doors. Something amid the clutter of objects inside it glittered as it caught the faint light coming in through the balcony doors. Intrigued, Leifander cocked his head, staring at it.
A shudder coursed through him as he assumed elf form once more. Wings became arms, talons turned to bare feet, and feathers coalesced into a tooled leather vest and fringed trousers. A ridge of feathers along his back became a quiver, holding arrows and an unslung bow.
He hopped lightly down from the rail, arms still spread and fingers fluttering like feathers as he caught his balance. Cautiously, listening attentively to the faint noises coming through the door that led out of the room, he crept over to the bed.
Clambering up onto the rumpled blankets, he peered inside the cabinet. The object that had caught his eye was a quill pen, the shaft of the feather gilded and set with a row of bright diamonds. It looked to be of elven make-perhaps even something that was sacred to the Winged Lady. What was it doing there, in a human home?
As he leaned to the side to get a better look at it, sparkles of red and blue fire danced in the depths of the gems. None of the other trinkets inside the cabinet-tiny gold bells, a silver dagger, ceramic statues, two gold rings, and an enameled locket-even came close to it in beauty.
Unable to resist, Leifander turned the latch on one of the cabinet doors. Something stung his finger, and he jerked his hand back. The cabinet door swung open. Leifander stared in surprise at shelves that had suddenly become empty.
A feeling of dizziness passed over him, then was gone. Leifander peered at his fingertip and saw a bead of dark blood welling there. Angrily, he shook it away, then felt inside the cabinet. The shelves were indeed empty-and though he could still see objects through the glass of the cabinet door that remained closed, his questing fingers found nothing but bare shelves. He had been fooled by an illusion-and, judging by the numbness of his punctured fingertip, nearly laid low by a trap.
Cursing all humans and their devious natures, he sprang down from the bed. In that same instant, the door began to open, spilling a crack of light into the room. Leifander hurried to the balcony, crouched there, and began the chant that would transform him back into a crow.
Before he could complete the spell, light washed over him, and a woman’s voice hissed, “Ebeian! What took you so long? I was worried that … Oh! Who are you?”
Leifander shot a look over his shoulder, and saw a human holding a flickering lamp. She looked to be in her second decade of life, and had dark hair and eyes as green as the emerald that glittered in the ring on her finger. Dressed in tight, black leather pants and shirt, she was slender for a round-ear-and pretty, Leifander grudgingly admitted. A rapier hung at her hip, and the hilt of a dagger protruded from one boot. She made no move toward either weapon.
Leifander rose slowly to his feet, turning to face her.
“Did Ebeian send you?” she asked. “Is he in trouble? Did something go wrong?”
For a moment, Leifander considered trying to pass himself off as a friend of this Ebeian fellow, whoever that was, but he decided against trying to satisfy what was only idle curiosity. The schemes of humans were not his concern. More to the point, this woman seemed singularly unconcerned to have discovered a forest elf in her bedchamber. She might be the best one to ask where Thamalon Uskevren could be found.
“My name is Leifander,” he said simply. “I am an elf of the Tangled Trees. I have come to speak with Thamalon Uskevren. I bring him a message.”
“Do you, indeed?” she asked with an arched eyebrow. “So, messenger, do you always sneak in through second-story windows when delivering your messages-or do you sometimes knock at the front door?”
This woman was truly exasperating. “Will you show me to Thamalon Uskevren or not?”
She did not answer at once. Instead she hung her lantern on a long hook attached to the ceiling and pointedly glanced at the open cabinet above the bed. Leifander stiffened, but when she turned back to him, amusement sparkled in her eyes.
“I see you couldn’t resist a little pilfering while you were waiting to deliver your message,” she said, clucking her tongue in mock reproach. “It’s lucky for you that you’re an elf and immune to that drug-otherwise I’d have found you asleep on my bed. Exotic looking as you are, I’d have been forced to ravish you. As it is …”