“Has she gone to ambush another caravan?” Larajin asked hotly. “Wasn’t killing Dray Foxmantle enough for her?”
That earned her a blank look. Larajin tried again, using simpler words. “Who does Doriantha fight?”
“Sembians,” the elf said, then added, with a feral grin. “Now is war.”
“War,” Larajin echoed in a whisper.
That was it, then. The dam holding the mutual hostilities of the elves and the Sembians in check had finally broken. Was that why she’d seen an image of Tal’s death? Was he marching, even now, toward a confrontation with the elf archer who would seal his doom?
And what would happen to her now? This elf didn’t seem as friendly as the others had. Instead of smiling deferentially at her, he glowered. In fact, now that the glow of the ale-and whatever had been in that draught Rylith had given her-was gone, Larajin’s certainty of her welcome was fading, fast. Had the elves only been pretending to accept her as one of their own? Had she just imagined their smiles?
For the first time since she’d set out on her journey to the Tangled Trees, Larajin realized the ramifications of her decision. The elves had seemed so benign, so welcoming, earlier in the day. Did they now see only her human features and consider her a prisoner of war?
She rose to her feet, keeping a wary eye on the owl. “When did Doriantha leave? Can I go to her?”
The elf shook his head. “No go. Stay. Wait. Leifander come. Then you …” Unable to find the word in Common, he linked his fingers together. “Like so again. Prophecy time come, and gods take. All be good for forest elves.”
Larajin didn’t like the sound of that last part. What did he mean, exactly, by “gods take?” And what had he meant by that gesture? Larajin and her twin had been united that closely only once-in the womb. Did he mean they would be united again in death?
The elf stared at her a moment longer, then turned and stroked the owl. Seeing her chance, Larajin quickly whispered a prayer to Sune, pleading with the goddess to provide her with a spell. If she could command the elf to take the owl away with him, she might be able to slip out of the tent and find someone to help her, but though she prayed fervently, no answer came. There was no rush of magical energy, no red glow from the locket. Even the goddess had turned her back on Larajin.
The elf withdrew from the tent, leaving the owl. Defeated, Larajin turned her prayers toward Hanali Celanil, asking the goddess to fill with compassion the hearts of the elves who now held her prisoner.
As she finished her prayer, she sniffed the air. Was it only wishful thinking, or was there a faint scent of Hanali’s Heart in the air? Would the elf goddess persuade her people to spare Larajin’s life?
Time would tell.
CHAPTER 6
The sun was rising when Leifander at last flew away from Stormweather Towers. He had sat with Thamalon Uskevren in the indoor garden throughout the night, at first only grudgingly listening, then, as Thamalon talked about Trisdea, gradually asking more and more questions. The old man had managed to convince him that he too loved the Tangled Trees-that his attempt to create a market for the forest’s wild nuts and fruits had been made with the elves’ welfare in mind. By the end of their talk, Leifander was thinking that if he had to have been sired by a human, he was glad that it had been someone who could see the beauty of the forest as clearly as any elf. When Thamalon tried to persuade him that there were other humans who felt the same-who did not want war with the people of the forest-Leifander had believed him.
Almost.
Angrily, Leifander shook his head. He flapped his wings harder, beating the weak notion from his mind with strong, sure strokes. Just because one human was benevolent toward the elves didn’t mean the rest could be trusted, he reminded himself. Thamalon was an aberration: hardly representative of his race. Just look at the sprawling city below, at the people scurrying through it like ants. If their leaders told them to kill every last elf, they would do it without question.
As the pink rays of the sun slanted over the river, illuminating the walls and towers that surrounded the city, dark shapes began to rise into the air above a wide swath of greenery, itself enclosed by walls. Hearing the hoarse caws of his feathered kin, Leifander wheeled toward the flock. The crows-more than a hundred of them-were rising from their nesting place, a grove of trees beside a lake far too symmetrical to be natural. Now they were wheeling in the air above the lake, forming up for the flight to their daytime feeding grounds.
Leifander joined them, losing himself in their mid-air teasing and games. He tested his speed in a race against another young male, dived playfully at a female who avoided him with an adroit slip to the side, then found a strong current of salt-tanged air coming off the sea and showed off with a series of dives and loops that left the others croaking with envy. These birds were animals, not skinwalkers, but Leifander felt at home among them. They were his totem animal, their souls kindred to his own. Among them, he could lose himself in simple, mindless play. He could-
Flashes of sunlight from the ground below caught his eye. Wheeling in a tight circle, he passed over a wide, cobblestoned plaza a second time, and saw a group of several dozen archers beside caravan wagons, their brightly polished helmets reflecting the sun like mirrors. They looked as though they had lined up to receive rations-or perhaps a shipment of arms. Curious, he dived from the flock for a closer look. It wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of spying while he was there.
Settling onto the cool slate of a rooftop beside the plaza, Leifander hopped to the edge. From this vantage point two stories above the plaza, he could catch the scents of freshly sawn boards and the stink of the humans below, already sweating in their armor. The archers were carrying strung bows, and a few held quivers of arrows, but none had yet been nocked. Man-shaped targets-some made of wood, others sacks that had been stuffed with straw-lined two sides of the plaza, half hidden behind potted trees. Behind the targets, the ground floor windows of the shops had been closed and shuttered. Each of the streets leading to the plaza had been blocked by a wooden bar, beyond which a soldier stood guard. It looked as though the humans had assembled to practice their archery, but as yet the targets were unfeathered by arrows.
The four wagons were larger than those usually found in caravans and had been drawn up in a line. They looked newly made and were as yet unpainted. They were without horses, their traces and harnesses coiled in a heap in front of each wagon. Strangely, though, a driver sat in each wagon’s seat, just ahead of the enclosed cargo area, holding the reins as if driving an invisible team.
A sergeant shouted orders, and the archer closest to the back of each wagon opened its rear doors. His curiosity fully aroused now, Leifander hopped sideways along the edge of the rooftop, trying to see inside. He had almost reached a good vantage point when he saw a flash of a mailed arm as one of the archers pointed him out. A heartbeat later, the archer beside him raised his bow and nocked an arrow.
Leifander hurled himself sideways, wings flapping, as the arrow skittered against the slate tile beside him, knocking loose a tile. As the archer below laughed and swiftly drew another arrow, he hopped back out of sight. They probably thought him nothing more than a crow-but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t skewer him with an arrow, just for sport.
Hopping across this rooftop to seek another, Leifander heard the sergeant shouting at his men to stop wasting their arrows, then voices arguing, pitched too low for him to make out the words. A moment later came an order to “mount up” followed by creaking noises below.
By the time he risked a peek down into the plaza again, all of the archers had disappeared. For a moment, Leifander wondered where they had gone but then saw the wagons shifting as the men inside them repositioned themselves. The sergeant walked from one wagon to the next, closing the rear doors, then strode out of the plaza at a brisk pace. From somewhere out of sight, came his shout: “Ready?”