by Lisa Smedman
Leifander’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown. “About my part in the ambush, you mean?”
“Yes … and no. They told me about your…” She hesitated, then seemed to change her mind. “They asked if I had noticed any omens or signs that—”
Before Doriantha could finish her whispered answer, the voice called out once more from the leaves above. “Leifander of the Tangled Trees, rise up, and meet our sacred circle.”
Springing nervously to his feet, Leifander waited as moonbeams coalesced into a spiral of branches around the Moontouch Oak’s trunk. He gave Doriantha one last look, and his courage nearly faltered as he saw the tense, expectant expression on her face, then he climbed.
Despite the warm summer air, the moonbeam branches felt as cool as a mountain stream under Leifander’s bare hands and feet. He followed their course, climbing in a spiral around the trunk until branches completely obscured the ground below. The murmurs of voices overhead led him to a spot perhaps fifteen or twenty times his height above the ground. He peeked up through a hole in the center of a platform that surrounded the trunk of the oak—a platform made of floating leaves, their scalloped edges knitted together to form a soft green carpet.
On it stood the druids of the Circle of the Emerald Leaves: six elves, three male and three female, all elders with deeply lined faces and silver-white hair. Five were moon elves with lighter skin; the sixth was a forest elf with skin a healthier tree-bark color, her cheeks tattooed in a pattern reminiscent of branches.
Leifander knew all of their names by rote, despite the fact that he had never met them face-to-face. Ruithlana was the youngest of the elders, with hair cascading from a gold clip and one eyebrow permanently arched, as if he were about to ask a question. Klanthir the Learned stood stroking his chin with a slender hand, eyebrows frowning beneath a high forehead. Horthlorin wore his hair loose about his shoulders and had eyes that were a rich, forest green.
The three women who balanced the sacred circle included Quinstrella, who had milk-white hair cut high above her ears; the much older looking Bhanilthra, who leaned on a walking stick made of gilded, sacred oak; and the forest elf Rylith.
The five moon elves wore leaf-green hose and boots, and soft shirts whose fabric rustled like leaves in a faintly stirring wind, but Rylith instead wore a serviceable pair of leather breeches and vest. All of the druids had a band of silver oak leaves twined in their hair, and wore cloaks woven from brilliant, fall-colored leaves that somehow had not dried and crumbled—magic must have been sustaining them.
The wand Leifander had taken from the wizard was nowhere to be seen.
As he climbed onto the platform, marveling at the springy bounce of the carpet of leaves underfoot, Leifander wondered which of the druids he should bow to first. Ranged in a circle around the platform as they were, if he bowed to one it would mean turning his back on at least one of the others.
Rylith solved the problem by walking forward and taking Leifander’s hand. Shocked by so intimate a gesture from a powerful druid hundreds of years his elder, Leifander fumbled his way through a bow. As he rose, Rylith shifted her grip to his chin, turning his face for the others to see.
“His eyes,” she said. “See their color? They are hazel—it will be as the legends foretold.”
The others crowded close, solemn faces nodding. Leifander felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny. Yes, his eyes were a strange color, but he’d thought it merely an oddity.
Rylith released his chin. Her dark eyes bored into his and she asked, “Have you ever wondered, child, who your father was?”
Leifander tried to speak but could find no words that seemed suitable. Instead he nodded. He had wondered—every day of his life.
“Your father was a great man,” she continued. “He was a friend to the Harpers, a man who tried to bring humans to appreciate and value the Tangled Trees. Sadly, he did not succeed, but he left his legacy among us: you.”
Leifander stood silent and trembling, like a bird startled by a sudden noise but uncertain which way to fly.
“Who …” He faltered, then tried again. “Who was he?”
He waited for the answer, afraid to breathe. To the best of his knowledge, his mother had never revealed the name of the man who had sired him, even to her closest kin. Indeed, she had left him little at all, aside from the ring that hung at his throat—a ring they said she had been wearing at the time of her death.
The family who had raised Leifander had always shrugged when he asked them who his father had been. Over the years, he’d gradually stopped asking. Now the questions rekindled inside him, burning brighter than ever before.
“There is someone who can tell you who your father is—even introduce you to him,” Rylith said at last.
As he realized that Rylith had spoken of his father in the present tense, Leifander’s heart leaped with joy. His father was still alive!
“That man is Thamalon Uskevren,” Rylith said at last.
Leifander frowned, puzzled. The name meant nothing to him. It sounded foreign. He tried it on his tongue. “Tham-a-lon Usk-ev-ren. Is he a high elf—one of those who departed for Evermeet—is that where my father lives?”
Rylith shook her head. “Thamalon Uskevren is not a high elf,” she said. “Nor a moon elf, nor one of the woods. He is human. He hails from the city of Selgaunt, in the realm of Sembia.”
Leifander’s puzzled frown deepened. “Does my father also live … among humans?” The last word hung bitter on his lips.
Rylith nodded, then quickly turned to one of the other druids. Taking his cue, Klanthir the Learned cleared his throat. Slender fingers gripped the edges of his cloak, hands resting against his chest as he assumed the posture of a speaker of the High Council.
“We commend you, Leifander of the Tangled Trees, for your brave rescue of your companion on Rauthauvyr’s Road and your daring attack on the wizard whose evil magic was blighting the wood. You proved the High Council correct in our assumption that the depredations upon our wood were caused by human hands. More than that, you have laid the blame squarely at Sembia’s doorstep.”
Sembia? That was the name of the realm from which the man they said knew his father hailed.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Leifander asked tentatively. “Now we know the name of our enemy. We know which caravans to strike.”
In his heart, though, he didn’t care which of the caravaners died. They were all human and equally deserving of the elves’ wrath.
Klanthir sighed. “If only it were merely a matter of striking caravans…. Now that the Council knows who perpetrated this blight, they are speaking of war. If it comes to that, the balance will be forever tipped, and in a direction not in our favor. Long gone is the glory of Cormanthor and Myth Drannor. Though we hold the wood still, we are a scattered people. A war against Sembia will be a war we cannot win.”
“Not so!” Leifander cried, unable to contain himself. “We may be outnumbered, but one elf is a match for any four humans. They will never take our wood! We know it too well. On our home ground we cannot fail.”
“That is so,” Klanthir agreed, “but the wizard you met cannot be the only one working magic along Rauthauvyr’s Road. So great is the destruction—so widely are the seeds of the blight scattered—that one wand could not have sown them all.”
“There is yet time for us to act,” Rylith added. “The man I spoke of earlier—Thamalon Uskevren—is the head of a powerful merchant family. His voice speaks loudly in the Sembian council. If he could be persuaded to counsel against rash action, a war might yet be averted.”
With a sinking feeling in his heart—for he could guess the answer—Leifander asked, “What is my part in this?”
“Go to the city of Selgaunt, and find Thamalon Uskevren,” Rylith said. “Speak to him. Remind him of the love he once had for … the Tangled Trees. Plead with him to steer Sembia toward a course of action that will placate the High Council—one that will heal the rift between elf and man.”<
br />
“I have never been to a human city,” Leifander said. “I couldn’t…”
It was a half-hearted protest. Already his mind was turning over the possibilities. He would deliver his message to Thamalon Uskevren, then press the human for information about his father, insist that he arrange a meeting between father and son.
“Don’t worry,” Rylith said with a twinkle in her eye. “Selgaunt is not far—as the crow flies. Now listen closely, while I relate what you are to say.”
CHAPTER 3
Larajin kneeled on a carpet of fragrant rose petals, her reflection rippling in the pool beside her. The cleric who kneeled in front of her rinsed his brush in the water, scattering flakes of gold, then dipped it again into a pot. Concentrating on Larajin’s bared midriff, he applied moistened gilt paste to her skin with delicate, tickling strokes, marking her as one of the novices who would be traveling to the temple in Ordulin.
The temple of Sune was tranquil at this hour of the morning, filled with the soothing sounds of fountains and harmonious voices chanting the Song of Sunrise under the direction of the Heartwarder. The clerics stood in a group on the other side of the sacred pond, arms stretched to the skies, moving slowly in perfect unison through the ritual exercises that accompanied the song. Closer at hand, flowers, kissed by the first pink rays of the sun, slowly opened their blossoms, while brilliant yellow songbirds flitted from branch to branch amidst the topiary.
In this peaceful setting, Larajin could almost forget the fact that a powerful wizard wanted her dead; the Hulorn’s men were no doubt scouring the streets outside even now, searching for her. Exhausted from having been up all night, she sighed, wishing that she could lie down beside the pool and be lulled into a peaceful slumber.
When she’d arrived at the temple just before dawn, it hadn’t seemed to matter that she was no more than an initiate. While Habrith had a quiet word with the temple’s Heartwarder, the clerics had welcomed her, given her their blessings, and clothed her in Sune’s vestments: a crimson robe, cut to reveal her midriff, sandals embossed with Sune’s winking eye, and a red silk scarf to tie back her hair. They had noticed the locket at her wrist and recognized it for what it was—a devotion to Hanali Celanil—but had just smiled, and commented that it must be difficult to serve two goddesses who were rivals for the same heart.
Yes, Larajin thought, she could happily tarry here forever, safely hidden within these walls. She looked up, and saw the tressym perched on the wall above, intent upon the songbirds. Larajin shook her head, willing the creature to go away. She didn’t think the clerics would react kindly to having their songbirds being killed and eaten. The tressym leaped into the air and dived into the courtyard. Larajin tensed—but the tressym bypassed the songbirds, instead gliding to a graceful landing beside the sacred pool.
The tressym bent to sniff the water, then began lapping delicately. Once she finished her drink, she stretched with catlike grace, extended one brilliant wing, and preened red and turquoise feathers with long, sure strokes of her tongue.
“She’s a beauty,” the young cleric said, pausing in his art to admire the tressym. “Is she yours?”
“She seems to think so,” Larajin quipped. “Or perhaps she thinks that I am hers.”
The cleric laughed. Auburn-haired and long-lashed, he wore the garb of the temple: tight-fitting crimson hose capped by a padded codpiece, and a crimson shirt whose short sleeves revealed finely chiseled muscles. The shirt ended well above his midriff, exposing the deep red lines tattooed into his flesh: the pattern of Sune’s lips, symbolically pressed against his belly in a sacred kiss.
He dabbed his brush back in the pot, and paused a moment before continuing his work. “Will your journey be a lengthy one, Mistress?”
Larajin did not know how to answer him. She was about to leave behind everything she knew and everyone she loved. Would she find protection among the wild elves of the Tangled Trees? More than that, would she find family, a new home?
“Mine will be a long journey,” she told the cleric, the exhaustion of not having slept making her words heavy. “One I may be on for the rest of my life.”
The cleric applied one last tickling brush stroke, then regarded the finished work appreciatively.
“Indeed? Then may Sune watch over and protect you for all of the days of your journey … and all the days of your life.” He brushed his lips against her midriff, sealing his design with a kiss.
Larajin flushed as the warmth of his lips spread up and down her body. The blush spread to her very toes and fingertips—which, she saw, were surrounded by a faint red aura—and prickled through her scalp. When the magic that had accompanied the blessing took hold, it left her feeling rested and refreshed.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“My pleasure, Mistress.” He gathered up his brushes and pot of gilt paste. “I hope to see you again, should your journey at last come to an end.”
Larajin’s eyes lingered on the cleric as he departed the courtyard—he was very good looking, even for one of Sune’s chosen.
She rose and cast a pebble into the pool and watched as ripples spread across it. No answer was given to her silent question. Perhaps even the goddess did not know what Larajin would find amidst the Tangled Trees. Unless the answer was the thing that was reflected in the pool: herself.
Bending, Larajin dipped her fingers in the water, lost in thought. The tressym butted up against her, and, remembering that the creature was the one who had alerted Drakkar, Larajin flicked wet fingers at the winged cat. The tressym flattened her ears and gave an indignant hiss, then launched herself into the sky.
Larajin watched her go, shaking her head. She’d tried to slip away from Habrith’s bakery without being followed, but somehow the tressym had found her. It seemed Larajin could no more leave the little creature behind than she could escape her own shadow. At least the tressym had the good sense not to pad along behind Larajin like a dog, as she’d made her way to the temple. Instead she’d kept her distance, flitting along from rooftop to rooftop, up where few noticed her.
While she waited for the Heartwarder and her clerics to finish their ritual—they’d be setting out as soon as the Song of Sunrise ended—Larajin stared out through the courtyard’s gate at the street, which was just starting to fill with carriages and passersby. One of them stopped at the gate, and peered in through the wrought iron. For a moment Larajin thought it was one of the guard—that she’d been spotted—then a familiar voice shouted her name.
Realizing it was Tal, she hurried toward the gate, gesturing frantically for him to be quiet. At the same time, she silently cursed. She’d hoped that Tal would sleep until well after she was gone. He’d obviously awakened earlier than usual, found her note, and assumed that she wouldn’t leave the city without paying her respects at the temple. Had Drakkar guessed the same?
Larajin opened the gate and all but yanked Tal inside the courtyard. She shut it hurriedly, then dragged him into the shadow of the wall, where they couldn’t be seen from the street. They stopped beside a pile of bags and crates the clerics would take with them on their journey to Ordulin.
Tal looked as though he’d left the house hurriedly. His doublet was only half buttoned, his hair was uncombed, and a shadow of stubble covered his heavy jaw. He carried a small leather pouch in one hand and a cloth-wrapped object the size of a candlestick in the other. The latter he held in a peculiar fashion, arm extended to keep it at arm’s length from himself.
“Larajin,” he panted, a worried look in his eye. “I’m so glad I found you. Are you really leaving Selgaunt? These are dangerous times to be traveling.”
Larajin nodded. “I have to, Tal. Drakkar—”
“I want to come with you …” Tal said in a husky voice, then, before Larajin could protest, he added, “but I can’t. The Merchant Council is agitating for war against the elves. If it comes, I’m to serve in a company under Master Ferrick. Leaving now would be seen as desertion—as cowardice. I just
wish …”
Larajin, horrified by the prospect of war engulfing the lands to the north—lands through which she was about to travel—could only stare at Tal.
Misinterpreting her look, he hastily added, “Don’t worry, Larajin. The elves are only half the soldiers that we are. They’re too simple to understand the tactics of battle. If it does come to war, we’ll squash those savages in a tenday. I’ll march home again without a scratch.”
Larajin said nothing. In his usual blundering way, Tal had insulted her without realizing it, not understanding that Larajin had been born to a mother who was a “savage” and therefore “simple.”
The leather pouch clinked as he thrust it into Larajin’s hands. “There’s twelve fivestars and nearly a hundred ravens in there—all I could scrape together at a moment’s notice. That should help you along.”
It was an incredible sum. “Tal, I can’t—”
Tal waved her protest away. “Yes, you can.”
Thanking him with a silent nod, Larajin found her bag and tucked the pouch inside it.
“I’ve brought something for you to protect yourself with,” Tal continued. “Here.”
He held out the cloth-swaddled bundle. Taking it, Larajin noted that it was heavy. She unwrapped the cloth and saw a dagger, its pommel embossed with the Uskevren family crest. Sliding it out of its sheath revealed a brightly polished silver blade with a strange glyph engraved upon it.
“It’s magic,” Tal said in a hushed voice, as if afraid his words would activate it. “If you say ‘illunathros’ while holding it, the blade will glow with the brightness of a torch. It may also have other magical properties, but I don’t know what…” He hastily amended whatever it was he’d been about to say. “I, uh … haven’t used it that much, so I’m not sure what they are.”
Larajin saw a twinge of guilt in his eye. She refrained from asking whom he’d stolen the dagger from. By the crest on its pommel, she could guess.
“You’re too generous, Tal. I’ll never be able to repay you.”