Nearly ill with guilt, Leifander vowed he would make Maalthiir pay for this evil deed-that he would, at the very least, kill the man and set Lord Kierin free. But how? It would be suicide to attack Maalthiir in a hall filled with Red Plumes. He decided instead to wait until the man was alone-or nearly so, with as few of his guards around him as possible-then he would strike.
In the hall below, the assembly was already breaking up.
“We march in the morning!” Lord Ilmeth shouted. “Pray to your gods for victory on the morrow!”
Leifander drew back from the edge of the rooftop as the soldiers began spilling out down the stairs, into the street. Among the elves, he saw a face he recognized. Surely Doriantha, of all elves, did not support this alliance? He leaned out and cawed softly down to her. She started, then glanced up and gave her head the slightest of shakes. At the same time, her fingers moved, conveying a swift and silent message: “Meet. Tent. Forest.”
She stopped signing and hurried down the street. An instant later, Maalthiir emerged from the manor and strode down the stairs, flanked by his officers. Leifander crouched atop the column, hoping he hadn’t been seen. He watched Maalthiir climb into a carriage. After a moment it rumbled up the street.
Springing into flight, Leifander followed the carriage. As he’d suspected, it drove out through the town’s northern gate and rumbled toward the Red Plumes’s camp.
Doriantha had left the walled portion of Essembra, and was walking toward the tents of the forest elves. She was careful not to glance up at the sky, even though she must have been curious as to whether or not Leifander was following her. Leifander wheeled in a circle, uncertain. Should he meet her at her tent first? If he did, he might miss a chance at Maalthiir.
Climbing higher into the sky, he circled over the Red Plume camp, watching, until the carriage at last drew up in front of a large tent hung with red pennants. Maalthiir stepped out of the carriage and strode inside.
Gliding through the humid night air high above the camp, Leifander thought. Maalthiir’s tent was guarded not only by the Red Plumes who stood at attention outside but also, almost certainly, with magical wards that would announce an enemy’s approach in an instant. How then, to get inside?
Leifander dipped into a faint current of air that ruffled his feathers, and he let it blow him along for a moment or two, savoring its coolness. If only he could render himself invisible, he might have a chance, but that was not in the repertoire of spells granted by the Lady of Air and Wind. No, the spells she blessed the faithful with dealt with the creatures of wing and feather or with harnessing the power of the stormy winds.
That was it. The winds …
Leifander began to pray. From his beak came the harsh cawing of a crow, but in his mind he heard his prayer as distinct words.
“Winged Mother, come to my aid. Transform my body into one of your gentle breezes. Turn feather, flesh, and bone to air!”
It started at his wingtips. His long black flight feathers disappeared. Losing stability, he tumbled, but the progression swiftly continued. He felt his legs disappear, then the rest of his wings, then his beak, then his hips, breast, throat and …
His body was gone, and yet his momentum through the sky continued. He slowed gradually, until he was no more than a breath of breeze in the sky. He had no weight, but somehow he still had a sense of up and down. He had no eyes or ears, but he could still see and hear. There, on the ground that drifted lazily below him, were the tents of the Red Plumes. And there, in the sky just above and behind, was the hurtling streak of a tressym, flying hard.
Larajin?
The thought drifted into his mind, then was gone. The tressym shot past, a downbeat of its wings scattering Leifander like smoke when a wick is blown out.
After a moment, he found cohesion again, and remembered his purpose. The tent-the big one, below. Maalthiir. But somehow, the passion that had enflamed him a few short moments ago was gone.
Drifting toward the ground, he floated gently past one of the Red Plumes who stood at rigid attention outside the tent, then drifted for a moment in front of the tent flap, seeking an opening. The soldier whirled, suddenly alert, as the ties that held the flap shut fluttered with Leifander’s passing-and Leifander was inside.
The interior of the tent was lit with a profusion of candles mounted in rows on black iron candelabras that had been driven into the earth. Thick rugs, once beautiful but now tracked with mud, were strewn haphazardly across the floor of the tent. Strongboxes had been stacked atop them to form a long, low table around which three of Maalthiir’s officers clustered. One of them was pouring red wine for the others.
Maalthiir himself was seated in a folding chair with thick pads of leather cushioning its seat and arms, drinking from a gold goblet. He lowered it, and made a show of smacking his lips.
“Sembian wine is sweet, but tomorrow you’ll see if Sembian blood is even sweeter, eh, General Guff?”
The officer he’d addressed-a human with dark hair and a heavy growth of beard slashed by an scar that puckered forehead, eye, and cheek in a vertical line-chuckled. Lifting his own goblet, he drew his sword from its scabbard and poured wine along its gleaming blade.
“To victory,” he toasted, then thrust the sword into the air.
The other two officers-a bald fellow with a barrel chest, and a lean, fair-haired man with whipcord muscles-joined the toast.
The bald officer rumbled a toast of his own. “To our allies.”
The slender officer arched an eyebrow. “Which ones?” he asked. “I need to know whether to wish them victory or defeat.”
Maalthiir guffawed at this apparent witticism while the two lesser officers roared with laughter, but Leifander could see nothing funny in the words. Neither could General Guff, it seemed. He growled low in his throat like a dog about to bare its fangs, and the other two officers immediately fell silent.
Maalthiir continued chuckling, his wine slopping onto his fingers as he made a dismissive gesture. “Ah, Guff. Always so serious. Nadire was just making a joke.”
“He should be wary of those who listen,” the general growled.
Leifander, who had been gently drifting up to this point, shrank in upon himself like a sharply indrawn breath.
“What do you mean?” Maalthiir asked, sitting forward suddenly in his chair and looking warily around. “Who’s listening?”
Solemnly, Guff pointed at the ceiling of the tent. “The gods. Lord Tempus, specifically. His favor can be fickle.”
“Ah.” Maalthiir relaxed back into his chair, transferred his goblet to his other hand, and flicked the spilled wine from his fingers. “Let us pray to him then, for success.” He raised his goblet. “May Tempus grant victory and defeat to the appropriate parties, so that our road-building venture maybe a success.”
The two lesser officers chuckled along with their lord at these last few words, which must have been a shared joke of some kind. Guff, however, turned his sword point-uppermost and bowed his head in prayer, his eyes closed and forehead touching the blade. A dribble of the wine he’d poured on the sword trickled down the steel onto his face, making it look as though he had been baptized with blood. His lips moved in silent prayer.
Leifander, as he drifted around the tent, noted the symbol of Tempus-a silver sword in flames on a blood-red field-on Guff’s surcoat. He was glad for the languor his spell had caused. Had he tried to assume material form and attack Maalthiir in his tent, Guff would have killed him in a trice with the war god’s powerful magic.