It had been phrased as a question, and so Leifander was compelled to answer. “It would depend on who the offer was from.”
Drakkar’s lips twitched in the faintest sketch of a smile. “What if it came from Maalthiir, first lord of Hillsfar?”
This time, Leifander answered willingly, in a harsh voice. “Maalthiir!” he spat. “We’d rather accept the aid of a demon.”
“And why is that?” Drakkar asked, unperturbed.
“He’s banned all but humans from his city. Elves found within its walls are used as fodder for the gladiatorial games. The Red Plumes are known throughout the forest for the atrocities they commit. The council would never trust him. Never.”
“What if such an alliance was the only way to save the forest?” Drakkar asked. “Pride can’t harvest nuts from a blighted tree or shelter you from your enemies.”
Leifander desperately wanted to say no, that the elves would fight to the last man, woman, and child, but he was haunted by the destruction the magical blight had already caused. He imagined elves standing homeless amid the skeletal trees of a destroyed wood.
“They … might,” he conceded, “but I think … not.”
“I see.”
Drakkar sounded pleased. He’d obviously been fearing an elf alliance with the cities of the Moonsea. Leifander’s rejection of any such notion had clearly set his mind at ease.
“This past winter, three wild elves appeared in Selgaunt in the Hulorn’s hunting garden,” he told Leifander. “Who were they, and why were they here?”
“I don’t know.”
The answer had been a truthful one, but Drakkar’s eyes narrowed. He tried again. “You must,” he growled. “They were protecting a girl-a human. A servant of the Uskevren house. Who is she?”
Once again, Leifander’s tongue spoke the truth. “I don’t know.”
“Gods curse you!” Drakkar kicked Leifander in the ribs, making him wince, then a cunning look crept into his eye. “Let’s see if you’re lying,” he spat. “Tell me, shapeshifter … what is your true name?”
“I … don’t know,” Leifander gasped. The kick must have cracked a rib. It hurt to breathe. “My mother died giving birth to me. If she gave me a true name, I don’t know it.”
Drakkar thought a moment, then tried again. “Do you know the true names of any of the elves of the High Council?”
Leifander fought the compulsion to speak as long as he could, but at last his answer burst forth. “Yes.”
“Whose?”
“Lord Kierin of Deepingdale.”
Drakkar’s eyes gleamed. “What is his true name?”
“His true name … is …”
With a supreme effort of will, Leifander wrenched his head to the side, mashing his cheek into the cold stone as he spoke, slurring his words. He must not betray his adoptive father’s sworn friend. He would not.
Drakkar bent over him, wrenching his head back. “Again. What is Lord Kierin’s true name?”
This time, Leifander spoke clearly: “Sallal Lolthrailin.”
“What does it mean?” Drakkar asked. “Tell me in the common tongue.”
Weeping again, Leifander answered. “Keeper of the Wood.”
“Well done,” Drakkar said. “That should prove very useful.”
He stroked a fingertip across Leifander’s lips. A scent clung to the finger that was equal parts sweet cinnamon and something loathsome and rotting. It lingered on Leifander’s lips, even after Drakkar drew his hand away.
Suddenly finding himself free from magical compulsion, Leifander wrenched his head to the side and spat away the taste. He turned the full force of his pent-up anger on Drakkar.
“May the Black Archer take you, and send swift arrows of vengeance to pierce you,” he yelled. “May the Lady of Air and Wind buffet you with gales, and break your bones!”
Instead of trembling at the promised wrath of the gods, Drakkar gave a low chuckle and stared down at Leifander with flat, expressionless eyes.
“You’d better save your breath for a more useful invocation,” he said. “One that protects you from rats.”
Then, fingers caressing his staff as if they were reading a message in the pattern of the thorns, he chanted a brief spell. In the blink of an eye, he was gone-vanished from the room as if he had never been there.
A scuttling noise echoed out of the ventilation pipe overhead. Leifander glanced up-the opening of the pipe was directly over his naked chest. He saw two tiny human hands gripping the edge of the pipe. An instant later, two eyes that glistened with hunger stared down at him. Behind the rat-thing with human arms, other shapes jostled forward, eyes gleaming.
The first rat-thing leaped from the pipe. As it landed on Leifander’s bare thigh and sank its fangs into his flesh, Leifander clenched his teeth against the pain, not permitting himself to make a noise, but as more of the vile creatures poured down from the pipe, landing on his naked body, he at last gave vent to his terror and screamed.
CHAPTER 7
Larajin awoke with a start to find a hand over her mouth. As her eyes flew open, she saw Rylith looking down at her. The druid raised a finger to her lips for silence. Larajin nodded, and the hand covering her mouth was withdrawn.
She sat up and glanced around the tent. The rain must have ended; hot sunlight filtered through the wet leather, which was steaming. Near the tent flap, the owl was asleep on its perch, ears twitching slightly with each rustle of Rylith’s leaf cloak. Just outside the entrance, Larajin could hear two wood elves talking. Rylith cocked her head, listening, then pointed at Larajin and at herself, and jerked a thumb, indicating she’d come to take Larajin away.
Larajin stared at the druid, wondering how she’d managed to sneak past the guards and the owl. More to the point, what was she doing there? She was clearly at odds with the elves who were holding Larajin hostage-the need for silence told Larajin that much-but could Larajin trust her?
A section of Rylith’s cloak rustled, seemingly of its own accord. Looking down, Larajin saw the cause. Golden eyes peered up at her as the tressym pushed its way past Rylith to nudge Larajin with its cheek. Goldheart turned and licked Rylith’s hand and allowed the druid to stroke her head. Larajin could just hear her soft purring.
Larajin’s mind was made up in an instant. If Goldheart trusted Rylith, so would she.
She pointed at the owl and in the direction the voices outside the tent were coming from, then shrugged a silent question. How were they possibly going to sneak past the guards outside?
Rylith winked, then drew a pouch from a pocket on the front of her vest. Loosening the thong that held it shut, she carefully began to pour out its contents: an orange-red powder that looked like ground crystal and smelled like tree sap. Goldheart watched intently, sniffed at the powder, then sneezed. As Larajin glanced in alarm at the owl-it didn’t appear to have heard the faint noise and was still sleeping on its perch-Rylith scooped the tressym into her arms. She handed Goldheart to Larajin, then continued pouring the powder. When she was finished, a perfect circle had been traced on the ground between Larajin’s bedding and the side of the tent.
Squatting just outside this circle of dust, Rylith held out a hand, and gestured for Larajin to join her. Tucking Goldheart firmly under one arm, Larajin took Rylith’s hand, waiting for further instructions. The druid mimed a descending count, folding fingers and thumb one by one against her palm as she counted down from five to one, then “walked” two fingers in the air, as if they were stepping over something. Larajin nodded, and lifted her foot, moving it slightly toward the circle of powdered tree sap to show that she understood.
Outside the tent, one of the elves called out to another. It sounded as though the guard was being changed. As the owl stirred in its sleep, ruffling its feathers, both women froze, but after a few tense moments it settled again without opening its eyes.