There could be only one answer. He must have mistaken Larajin, in her tressym form, for Goldheart. He either wanted Goldheart for his own evil purposes, or he hoped the tressym would lead him to Larajin.
Either way, Larajin was in trouble. As the voices of the drow and Drakkar’s shouts gradually diminished behind her, she headed in the only direction that made any sense: north, to Essembra.
Yet she couldn’t help but wonder, now that Leifander’s hatred had been unleashed, if Somnilthra’s dire prophecy would be fulfilled. Was Larajin only bringing death, in the form of Drakkar and his evil magic, more swiftly to her brother and ultimately, to herself?
CHAPTER 14
As soon as he reached Essembra, Leifander could see that something was amiss. Essembra was a human settlement-the only one ever permitted to take hold inside Cormanthor-but there were far too many humans down there, especially when travel should have been cut off by the war.
The stables beside the inn were choked with horses, and a number of carriages were lined up in front of the inn itself. Moving figures crisscrossed Rauthauvyr’s Road or stood in groups in the moonlight, talking. A number of tents had been erected on the north side of town. They looked military in nature, made from stiff, off-white fabric, and rectangular in shape. The way the people moved about between the tents, in regular, orderly groups, suggested soldiers.
But whose soldiers? Even if Lord Ilmeth had summoned every knight from the abbey, there still shouldn’t have been this many soldiers about. And why were they camped on the north side of town?
Leifander swooped down over the tents for a closer look. When he saw the red plumes on the helmets of the knights below, he nearly tumbled from the sky in surprise.
By the gods! he thought. Not soldiers of Hillsfar!
But it was true. They were unmistakably Lord Maalthiir’s soldiers, wearing full splint mail and carrying long swords. It was unthinkable that they should be camped on the outskirts of Essembra. The only explanation could be that they had taken advantage of the war and invaded from the north while Lord Ilmeth’s back was turned. Yet if that was so, how had they made it this far south through the great wood without being cut to pieces by the elves? Why had they stopped at the very gates of the town, leaving the folk of Essembra unmolested? So bloodthirsty were the Red Plumes that Leifander would have expected to see Essembra’s dirt streets soaked with blood and its buildings burning.
He circled back over the town, taking stock. The wooden watchtowers that lined Rauthauvyr’s Road held soldiers whose shields bore Lord Ilmeth’s crest, and the gates across the road had not been forced. The wooden palisade that surrounded the town’s most important buildings was likewise untouched. Even the cottages in the forest surrounding Essembra appeared unharmed, with lights glowing cheerily in their windows. Lord Ilmeth was still in control of Essembra-or so it seemed. Had he actually welcomed the Red Plumes to his town?
If so, they weren’t his only guests. Circling wider over the forest, Leifander saw movement beneath the trees and was just able to make out the round, forest-brown tents of his people. For a moment he debated landing and asking the elves what was happening, but then, from the direction of town, he heard a high-pitched cry. It was the shriek of a griffon. Were the windriders there, too?
Wheeling, he flew toward the center of town and saw that he had been right. A griffon was indeed tethered, all by itself, in a corral near the center of town. The other windriders’ steeds were nowhere in sight.
Leifander landed on the roof of the town’s highest building, the House of Gond. Hopping along its soft lead gutter, he peered down from the temple’s two-story height, past the heavy iron battlements that supported its walls. Smoke and the occasional bright red cinder drifted from the building’s numerous chimneys. The blacksmith priests of Gond must have been working through the night, forging the weapons of war.
He saw more humans-residents of Essembra-on the streets below. Many of them had swords at their hips, having no doubt been pressed into service with the militia. There were also knights in full armor and a handful of elves. Some were forest elves, padding along in bare feet with bows in hand; others had the haughty bearing and pale skin of Silver elves and were clad in chain mail and helms. All seemed to be moving in the same direction, toward the sprawling, multi-hailed building known as Ilmeth’s Manor.
The massive iron doors at the front of the manor were open to the street. Elves and humans hurried up the front stairs and into its lantern-lit interior. Leifander hopped off the temple roof and flapped his way to the manor, landing atop one of the massive wooden pillars that fronted the building. By twisting his neck, he was able to peer under the rooftop and get a look inside the doors. What he saw there nearly froze his blood.
The hall had been trimmed with all of the trappings of war, including battle standards and ceremonial lances. It was filled with human soldiers-both Lord Ilmeth’s and the Red Plumes. The latter stood across the room from where the elves had assembled, no doubt warily keeping their distance. Flanking a table at the far end of the room was a group of high-ranking elves and Red Plumes officers, standing so close to one another they were almost rubbing shoulders. Worse still was the sight of Lord Ilmeth and half a dozen members of the Elven Council-including Lord Kierin-standing around a table with none other than Maalthiir, first lord of Hillsfar.
Leifander nearly gagged at the sight of the man. Short and stocky, Maalthiir had dark red hair shaved close to his scalp and eyebrows that joined above his nose in a V-shape, giving him a perpetual scowl. His jaw was square and blocky, his nose a mere stub. Had Leifander not known better, he would have guessed the man to have some orc blood in him. Perhaps that guess was correct. Self-loathing could explain the disdain Maalthiir felt for any but “trueblood” humans.
With barely suppressed hatred, Leifander stared at the man whose edicts had caused Chandrell’s death. The man’s hands might appear clean, but they were stained with the blood of countless innocent elves.
Regardless of this terrible fact, Maalthiir seemed welcome in Lord Ilmeth’s manor. He stood quietly with the group at the table, watching as each person in turn took up a quill and signed a piece of parchment that had been spread on the table-top. He smiled pleasantly as he took the pen from Lord Kierin’s hand-an elf’s hand-to sign the document himself.
The ceremony reached its conclusion, and Lord Ilmeth picked up the parchment and held it out before him. The assembled crowd immediately fell into a respectful hush, broken only by the faint clink of armor as soldiers shifted for a better look.
“By this document,” Lord Ilmeth’s voice rang out, “Lord Maalthiir of Hillsfar pledges his soldiers-ten thousand swords-to the elven cause.”
“Madness!” Leifander cawed, but his protest was lost in the cheer that echoed through the hall. Had the High Council lost their minds? How could they trust these humans?
Judging from the wary looks on some of the elves’ faces, Leifander was not the only one with doubts. Lord Kierin turned to Maalthiir and placed both hands over his heart, bowing low. Maalthiir, a smug look on his face, clasped the windrider’s shoulders in what had to be a false show of friendship.
It seemed to satisfy the assembled elves, however. Heads began to nod and a murmur of approval filled the room. Leifander knew what they must have been thinking. If so mighty a hero as Lord Kierin could bow to Maalthiir, the human must have renounced his evil ways.
Leifander, however, saw something they did not: the frozen smile on Lord Kierin’s normally scowling face. He realized, with a sudden terrible clarity, that there could only be one explanation. Leifander had betrayed Lord Kierin’s true name to that wizard, Drakkar. He, in turn, must have confided it to someone, who in turn conveyed the information to Maalthiir. The lord of Hillsfar had used that secret in a foul manner, to bend Lord Kierin to his will.