Leifander kept an eye on Thamalon, watching for confirmation that the story the druids had told him was true. It came, in the form of a slowly creeping flush that spread upward from the collar of Thamalon’s doublet, not quite reaching his cheeks. Thamalon’s expression, however, remained utterly unchanging, as if his features had been set in wax.
“Go on,” he repeated, this time in a voice crackling with tension. “You’ve come with a message from Larajin, haven’t you? Is that where she’s run to-the Tangled Trees? Is she safe-is she well?”
Puzzled, Leifander faltered to a halt. He’d spoken the words that Rylith had made him memorize-a message designed to play upon Thamalon’s sympathies for the elves by reminding this human that he’d sired a half-elf child. That child, according to Rylith, lived in Selgaunt, and was named Larajin. It seemed this Larajin had flown from the nest. If Leifander revealed the fact that he knew nothing of her whereabouts, would Thamalon dismiss him without answering the questions that burned inside Leifander?
Thazienne ran fingers through her hair, then broke the strained silence with a question. “Father? Is what this wild elf’s saying true? Is Larajin really your daughter?”
Thamalon closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength. “I’m afraid she is.” He shot Thazienne a look. “And you are to tell no one-not even your mother-what you have just heard. Am I understood?”
Thazienne started to arch a mocking eyebrow, then thought better of it. “All too well, Father,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face. “These … impetuosities … do happen.”
Thamalon glowered at her.
Leifander cleared his throat to remind them that he was still there.
“Sir,” he said, “having delivered my message, I wish to speak to you about another matter. The druids told me that you know my father. He is an elf, living here in Selgaunt. I was hoping you could give me news of him.”
Thamalon at last tore his eyes away from his daughter. “What is his name?”
Leifander blushed. “I … don’t know.” He reached inside his vest, feeling for his mother’s ring. “The druids told me you would know him by his ring. He gave it to my mother, just before he left the Tangled Trees.”
Thamalon stiffened as he glanced at the ring. His face blanched still further, and his voice grew strained when he asked, “What was your mother’s name?”
“Trisdea. She was a priestess and warrior among her people. She died giving birth to-”
“Trisdea was also the name of Larajin’s mother,” Thamalon interrupted. “But that can’t be. They said…”A troubled look came into his eyes. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
Thazienne snorted. “The same age as Larajin? How convenient,” she said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Father, you can guess what’s coming next. This elf is going to tell you some ridiculous story-that he’s Larajin’s twin, or something.”
“No,” Leifander protested. “My father was-”
“Then he’ll try to claim his inheritance,” Thazienne continued, “just like the last Uskevren ‘heir’ did. This fellow may have learned your dark secret, but whatever he says next will be lies and nonsense. He hasn’t got a shred of proof that-”
Thamalon turned on his daughter, his voice pitched dangerously low. “Look there,” he said, pointing a quivering finger at the ring that hung at Leifander’s throat. “That ring. I was the man who gave it to his mother, twenty-five years ago, as a token of my affection. Leifander is indeed … my son.”
Thazienne’s mouth fell open in mute surprise. Her eyes darted from the ring to her father, then back to Leifander again. She gaped at him, as if seeing him for the first time. The shock she must have felt, however, was a pale shadow of Leifander’s own.
“I’m no human!” he said, spitting out the word. “Nor even half-human. You’re wrong!”
“I’m afraid not,” said Thamalon. “Your story meshes with my own, like two hands folded together. I lay with Trisdea, and later, during my second visit to the Tangled Trees, learned that she had become pregnant by me. The elves told me that she died giving birth to that child-that although there was a cleric present at the birth, his magic could not save her. That her death was the will of the gods. They also told me she bore twins, but that only one lived. Now I see that they lied.”
“Twins?” Leifander echoed.
Could it be true? He could feel his eyes widening. According to the ancient tales, twins were favored of the gods-twice blessed and destined for great and noble deeds.
He was too upset to say more. All he could do was stare at Thamalon. With a growing horror, he realized that what Thamalon was saying must indeed be true. Now Leifander knew why the druids had chosen him to convey their message, why they had said that by doing so, he would learn who his father was. They’d told him the truth, but now Leifander wished they hadn’t. His father … a human? He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.
But part of him had already accepted this terrible fact. He thought back to the taunts he’d endured in his youth-taunts thrown at him by an elf many years his senior who had teased Leifander by calling him “round ears.” At the time, he’d shrugged it off-his ears were as pointed as any other elf’s-but Leifander’s adoptive father had taken the incident more seriously, and had come to blows with the man. Later, when the fellow disappeared, there had been rumors that Leifander’s father had killed him. At the time, Leifander had dismissed this as idle gossip, knowing there was nothing that could have prodded his father into so brutal an act.
He realized, now, that he’d been wrong. His adoptive father must have known all along that Leifander was indeed half-human. He’d killed the man to spare Leifander the shame of it.
A part of Leifander, however, still struggled with the revelation. How could he be part human? He had the look of a full-blood elf! Then he realized that subtle hints had been there, all along. He’d always been tall and somewhat heavyset for his age. His deep auburn hair was much darker than the autumn-leaf red of the other elves. Added all together, it seemed like damning evidence against him being a full-blooded elf.
He stared at Thamalon, searching for any resemblance, but just could not see it. Thamalon looked so human, and yet this man’s blood flowed in his veins.
Human blood.
With that thought came a second realization, even more terrible than the first. If human blood flowed in Leifander’s veins, that meant his life expectancy would be half what it should be-less than two hundred years. He stared at Thamalon with narrowed eyes, suddenly hating him.
Leifander started to turn, intending to stride back down the hall to the nearest balcony and fly off into the night, but Thamalon stepped forward and caught his arm. Though the fingers that gripped him were strong, the touch was a light one, imploring, rather than commanding.
“Please,” Thamalon said. “Stay a little longer. I would like to speak with you further, my son.”
Leifander tried in vain to keep from wincing at the word. “I must leave,” he snapped. “Tonight.”
“Must you?” Thamalon asked. “A pity. I’d have liked to have told you more about your mother.”
Thazienne, having been roundly scolded, was keeping her silence, but her eyes spoke volumes. She shook her head, obviously still not believing a word of it.
Thamalon turned to her. “Please leave us, Thazienne. I wish to speak to Leifander in private.”
Thazienne opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Lips pressed together in a tight, angry line, she turned on her heel and strode away.
Thamalon watched the door close behind her, then turned back to Leifander. His eyes lingered on the ring at Leifander’s throat.
“I think there will be much for us to speak about,” he said. “Did you know that your mother was a Harper?”
Surprised, Leifander shook his head. If it were true, not even the elves of the Tangled Trees had known it. What other surprises did this man have in store?