by Lisa Smedman
Larajin froze, watching with wide eyes as he moved toward her. If she kept utterly still, he might pass by her, allowing her to slip away. He came closer, sword probing, until he was within a pace of where she stood, then he walked by, continuing up the street toward the corner.
Then, like a man suddenly remembering something, he stopped. Larajin heard him sniff.
Too late, she realized that Thazienne’s gown was thick with perfume. In another instant, the guard would find her. Larajin did the only thing she could think of—she turned quickly in place and began walking toward Sarn Street, then deliberately blundered into the guard.
“Hey there!” he exclaimed, grabbing her shoulder. He leaned closer, and peered at her face through the swirling fog. “Who are you, woman?”
Remembering whom she was impersonating, Larajin squared her shoulders and gave the man a haughty glare.
“‘W-woman?’” she sputtered. “That’s ‘Mistress,’ if you please.”
As she spoke, she glanced out of the corner of her eye. The other guards were still somewhere around the corner on Sarn Street, lost in the gold-flecked fog. She prayed that the man’s startled question hadn’t been loud enough for them to hear.
“Ah … Mistress, then,” he said, nodding at her gown. Close enough to see her now, his eyes missed nothing—not the heavy bag over Larajin’s shoulder, nor the toe of the boot that was peeking out from under her hem. His eyes narrowed. “What urgent business compels you out of your home and onto the streets this late at night?”
Larajin stared at him for a long, silent moment, imitating the way Thazienne had once stared down a young serving girl who had caught her climbing out a window late at night. The serving girl—Larajin—never reported it to the master.
“I am returning to Stormweather Towers after a … liaison,” she said, falling into a flawless imitation of noble speech. “The business I was about was legal and therefore none of your concern. I am Mistress Thazienne of House Uskevren, and when my father hears how you roughly accosted me and tore my sleeve, he will be sorely displeased. You can imagine what conclusions he will draw and what reports will reach the Hulorn’s ears.”
As she spoke, she grabbed a handful of slashed sleeve and yanked on it just enough to cause a small rip. The soldier’s eyes widened at the sound of tearing cloth, and he took a step back. He bowed, sweeping a hand in the direction of Stormweather Towers.
“Mistress, I beg your pardon. Please proceed.”
As haughtily as she could, Larajin swept by him, her gown rustling. After a few steps, a quick glimpse behind assured her that the guard could no longer see her. Immediately she gathered the skirts of the gown, turned silently around, and tiptoed past him—giving him a wide berth, so he wouldn’t smell the perfume this time.
When she was certain she’d left the guard well behind, she broke into a jog, then a run. As she ran, she tried to decide which way she should go. The High Bridge lay to the north, along Galogar’s Ride. It was the only way out of the city for travelers bound for Ordulin, but Larajin could hardly head there. In another moment the guards would realize they’d been duped and would start searching for a “noblewoman” in a green gown. She needed somewhere close, somewhere she could change into a different disguise.
Habrith’s bakery was just a few blocks away.
As she hurried there, Larajin chided herself for not thinking of Habrith earlier. Not only was the baker someone she could trust, she also knew the route to the Tangled Trees. It had been Habrith who set up the trading mission that took Master Thamalon there twenty-five years before. Larajin suspected that Habrith had made the journey more recently than that, as well. More than once, over the years that Larajin had known her, the baker had left her shop in the hands of apprentices who were able to say only that their mistress was “on a journey to the north.”
With luck, Larajin might even be able to persuade Habrith to accompany her. If not, Habrith would at least be able to provide her with a fresh disguise and tell her how to reach the Tangled Trees—and what to expect when she got there.
Habrith’s bakery was certain to be open, even at so early an hour. Bakers were early risers who began work while the rest of the city still slept, so that their loaves would be ready at dawn. Habrith was a perfectionist, who liked to supervise the baking herself. Her loaves might look simple, but the exotic mix of ingredients that flavored them demanded absolute precision in measuring—something her newest apprentice was still struggling to learn.
As Larajin rounded the corner onto Larawkan Lane, the smells of yeast and baking bread drifted down the road toward her. Mixed with them was the sour smell of the dung that a street sweeper was pushing to the side of the road with his broom. Larajin passed the front of the shop, which had a closed sign on its door and its curtains drawn, and turned into the alley that led to the delivery door at the rear.
She’d no sooner stepped out of the street light than she heard a faint noise on the rooftop to her left. It sounded like a foot scuffing against roof tiles. Larajin caught a glimpse of what might have been a person crouching. She flattened herself against the wall and tried to decide what to do. Run the last few strides to Habrith’s back door, and risk being taken down from behind? Or stay with her back to the wall, and attempt another spell?
Before she could begin her prayer, something hurtled down from the rooftop. Larajin spun to meet it, then heard a familiar sound.
Brrow?
The tressym landed in the alley and stared at Larajin with eyes that were twin pools of reflective gold, her head cocked slightly to the side. She folded her wings and padded toward Larajin, then butted her head into Larajin’s leg through the stiff fabric of the gown, purring loudly. The tressym sat down and looked up, as if expecting to be scratched under the chin.
Her heart still pounding, Larajin let out a heavy sigh. Instead of patting the tressym, she flicked both hands at her.
“Shoo! You already got me into enough trouble tonight. Go away!”
The tressym’s ears swiveled back, but she refused to budge.
Larajin didn’t appreciate the tressym following her. She could ruin any disguise Larajin might adopt with one affectionate rub against her leg. Larajin might as well wave a banner with her name on it over her head. If the tressym hadn’t been sacred to Hanali Celanil, Larajin might have tried to cast some sort of spell upon the creature.
A door opened behind her, spilling light into the alley. The scent of baking bread wafted out, making her mouth water. From inside came the clatter of pans and the squeaking of a water pump.
“Larajin—is that you?” an older woman called. “By the gods, it is—and in a noble’s gown! What brings you to my shop in the middle of the night? Is something wrong? Are you in danger?”
Embarrassed at having her disguise seen through so easily, Larajin turned to face Habrith. The baker was in her late sixties, older than Larajin’s adoptive mother, but unlike Shonri Wellrun, she was hale and hearty for her age. Her face was wrinkled, but her dark brown hair, bound in a simple braid down her back, had yet to see a single strand of gray. A large apron covered her clothes. Against it, on a thong around her neck, hung a silver pendant in the shape of a crescent moon.
“You know me too well, Habrith,” Larajin answered, “and you’re right, I am in trouble. The wizard I told you about—the one who attacked me in the Hulorn’s Hunting Garden a year and a half ago—has discovered who I am and where I live. He’s threatened to … to ‘silence’ me.” She swallowed nervously and glanced up and down the alley, then shifted the strap of her bag slightly. It was biting into her shoulder. “The Hulorn’s men are looking for me even now. I need to leave Selgaunt as quickly and as quietly as possible.”
Thankfully, Habrith didn’t argue, though her forehead crinkled with concern.
“I knew this time would come,” she said quietly. “Where do you intend to go?”
“North, to the Tangled Trees.”
That got a nod of approval.
Habrith glanced at the tressym, which was rubbing back and forth against Larajin’s legs, rustling the fabric of her dress.
“Isn’t that the creature you rescued from the Hunting Garden? Are you taking her with you?”
“Not if I can help it.”
That brought a wry smile to Habrith’s lips. “I see. I think the tressym might have other ideas.”
Larajin dropped her voice, even though the tressym was just an animal and couldn’t possibly understand her words. “Perhaps you might offer her a bowl of cream in a room without windows and a lock on the door …”
As Habrith started to chuckle, the rubbing against Larajin’s ankles suddenly stopped. Larajin looked down—just in time to see the tressym stalking away down the alley. An instant later she spread her wings and launched herself into the night. Larajin watched her disappear behind the rooftops.
Habrith shrugged, then gestured with a flour-dusted hand. “Come inside.”
Larajin followed her into the delivery room of the bakery, piled high with sacks of flour and barrels of fresh milk. Habrith closed and latched the door, then pitched her voice low so the apprentices in the next room wouldn’t hear her.
“Tell me, Larajin, have you scattered starlight upon the Pool of Reflection?”
“Habrith! Do you serve the Lady of Love also?”
The baker chuckled, and shook her head.
“Then how do you know about the first initiation ritual?”
Habrith smiled. “You’ve obviously taken it, then. That’s good. It means you can wear the crimson robes.”
Larajin absently fingered her heart-shaped locket, which was hanging against her palm. She’d taken her vows and pledged her love to Sune and had received formal training in those few spells the goddess had already seen fit to bestow upon her—simple healing, charms, and commands, and the obscuring mist she had just conjured up—but had yet to don a cleric’s robes. She’d been hesitant to commit herself fully to just the one goddess, lest Hanali Celanil become jealous. She wondered if Habrith was suggesting she become a full-fledged cleric of Sune and take shelter in the temple, turning her back on the elf goddess.
“It won’t work,” she said, thinking out loud. “I can’t hide inside the temple for the rest of my life.”
“How about just until dawn, then?”
That brought Larajin up short. “What do you mean?”
“A Heartwarder from the temple in Ordulin has been visiting our local temple for the past tenday,” Habrith said. “She returns to Ordulin this morning, accompanied by four novices who will serve in that temple. One more novice wouldn’t be noticed by the city guard, and even if she was—and was recognized—the guard wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of the goddess by interfering with a Heartwarder.”
Larajin smiled. It would work—she was certain of it. She was as good as out of Selgaunt.
“Once you get to Ordulin, there’s a tailor I know who can help you,” Habrith continued. “He’s a half-elf, himself. He can give you the name of an elf in Essembra who can guide you to the Tangled Trees.”
“Could you … accompany me yourself?” Larajin asked hesitantly. “At least as far as Ordulin?”
Habrith shook her head. “There’s too much to attend to here in Selgaunt.”
“The new apprentice, you mean?”
That brought a twinkle to the older woman’s eyes. “Not exactly—let’s just say I’m making sure the bread is buttered on the correct side, and leave it at that.”
Larajin wondered what Habrith meant by that, but she knew better than to ask. Habrith often spoke in riddles, using plain language only when it suited her.
Habrith paused. Her eyes grew worried, and she fingered the pendant at her throat.
“I’m glad you came to me before leaving, Larajin. It’s a dangerous time to be journeying north. The Heartwarder will see you safely to Ordulin, but once you pass there, you’ll fare better under our protection.”
Exhausted at having been up all night scrubbing the kitchen, Larajin took a moment to register this remark.
“Under whose protection?” she asked at last.
Habrith’s voice dropped to a whisper. She touched the pendant at her throat and asked, “Would you recognize this symbol, if the harp was still there?”
Larajin blinked in surprise as she realized what Habrith was referring to. The pendant, which Larajin had assumed was merely decorative, had a rough patch along the inside of the crescent where another portion of the design had broken away. Put a harp at the center of the crescent moon, and it became much more. It became the symbol of the Harpers, a vast network of clerics, rangers, and bards who worked silently and secretly to thwart the plans of unscrupulous mortals and evil gods alike. Larajin had been right—Habrith was no mere baker.
Larajin chastised herself for being such a fool. Why hadn’t she made the connection before? Then she realized the answer. Habrith seemed so innocuous, so nondescript, not a noble or a cleric but a baker, a common tradeswoman. She was widely traveled, it was true, but those travels could be explained as nothing more than trips to gather the spices and herbs that flavored her breads. All the while, she must have been secretly carrying out other, more pressing missions.
Habrith watched the understanding grow in Larajin’s eyes, and smiled. “There is more I could tell you about the Tangled Trees, Larajin, and about yourself, but that would just complicate things. You know what I always say.”
Larajin nodded, and recited Habrith’s favorite saying. “Simplest is best, and all ingredients in balance.”
“Exactly,” Habrith agreed. “Some things in life turn out better if allowed to come to fullness on their own time, like rising bread. I can tell you this, however. When you reach the Tangled Trees, you will be more than welcome. The forest elves have a surprise in store for you.”
“What is it?” Larajin asked.
Habrith held up a hand, and quoted her other favorite saying. “All in due time, and not a moment before.” She winked. “You’ll find out, soon enough.”
CHAPTER 2
Leifander wheeled high above the forest, peering down at the caravan that was slowly making its way north along Rauthauvyr’s Road. He counted six wagons, a dozen teamsters, and nearly two dozen soldiers. All were human, carrying both crossbows and swords, and clad in chain-mail armor that winked red in the sun.
Their numbers were greater than expected: The humans below outnumbered the elves awaiting them two to one and were better armed than the elves had guessed they would be. When the caravan reached the spot where the elves were hiding, everything would depend upon the advantage of surprise. Thankfully, Doriantha had chosen the ambush site well.
Winging his way north again, Leifander flew to his appointed place: a tall oak that had somehow retained many of its leaves, despite the blight that surrounded it. He landed on a sturdy branch, then shifted back into elf form.
Glancing down through the branches, he could only just make out the dozen wood elves who waited for his signal. Clad in brown leather, they matched the colors of the forest, with faces browned by the sun and hair that ranged from grass-yellow blond to autumn red. The bright steel of their swords had been dulled with a rubbing of soot, and their arrows were fletched with plain brown feathers, instead of the brightly colored fletching the elves normally favored. All trace of personal ornamentation had been set aside in preparation for the ambush. Gone were the brightly polished bell-beads and colorful feathers they normally adorned their braids with. Such vanities had no place where the tinkle of a bell or the flash of a yellow feather could give the ambush away. The elves’ sole decoration was the black ink that had been needled into the flesh of their cheeks and chins. The tattoos helped to camouflage them, allowing their faces to blend with the shadows of the forest.
Doriantha, leader of the troop, peered up at Leifander from the
elves’ hiding place across the road. She moved a slender hand in a complex gesture, asking a silent question. Leifander answered with hand signals of his own, indicating the strength of the human warriors and the distance the caravan had yet to travel: less than a mile.
Doriantha’s pale brown eyes sparkled, and her lips twitched into a feral grin. From Leifander’s position high in the tree, the tattoo on her face looked like a solid line of black across her nose and cheeks, but in fact it was an intricate band of knotwork that continued under her hair and above her pointed ears, forming a sacred circle. Lean muscles flexing, she tested the draw of her bow, sighting down an imaginary arrow. In that moment, with the sunlight slanting through the trees behind her, with the hood of her cloak thrown back and her long sun-bleached braid draped over her shoulder, she looked as magnificent as the Great Archer.
Realizing he had blasphemed, Leifander touched a forefinger to his lips then smacked it against his open palm to negate his silent words. Comparing a mere mortal to a god—even a mortal as vibrant as Doriantha—might cause the Great Archer to withdraw his favor from the day’s deed.
It was hard to imagine the elves’ arrows missing their mark, however, when they had the forest on their side. The road below held a carefully concealed trap: a thick growth of choke creeper that had grown across it in long, snaking coils. The trap had been constructed earlier that morning, just before dawn. With Doriantha directing them, sword in hand in case the powerful vines entwined any of her troop, the elves had carefully raked dirt over the choke creeper, hiding it from view.