Dizzy, Larajin had to look away for a moment to clear her head. She watched Leifander instead, marveling at his control. He was drawing air in through his nostrils and blowing it out through pursed lips in a constant stream, like a trained musician. Eyes locked on the amber, he shifted his head ever so slightly this way and that, altering the flow and direction of his magical breeze. His brow was furrowed in a look of intense concentration, and a trickle of sweat rolled down his temple and tattooed cheek, eventually dripping from his jaw. He ignored it, his chest rising and falling slowly, hands still fanning the air.
Larajin turned her attention back to the amber. The feather moved through the town, drifting over rooftops and corrals, seeking the road Maalthiir and his men were walking. As it passed over the chimneys of the temple of Gond, the image inside the amber tumbled wildly as a current of hot air from a chimney caught it, and for several heart-stopping moments Larajin thought Leifander had lost control of the feather. When the view steadied, the street zoomed up from below.
Walking along it were six men. Their figures enlarged inside the amber as the feather drifted down toward them. One of the figures-an officer with a scar running in a vertical line down one cheek-looked up as if sensing something was wrong, and Larajin held her breath. Maalthiir, walking beside him, noticed his officer looking up and glanced in the same direction, a look of bloodthirsty anticipation on his face, as if he was expecting the return of the crow that had spied on him earlier.
As Leifander blew out the last of his breath in a rush Maalthiir’s face enlarged, filling the amber completely. Closer still-a square, stubbled jaw-and closer still-tight, cruel lips-and-
Nothing. The amber was empty.
Leifander slumped, closing his eyes. His breathing became rapid and shallow, and his skin paled. Larajin reached for his shoulder, thinking he was going to fall, but then his eyes opened and his back straightened.
“I did it,” he said in a proud voice. “The feather struck Maalthiir full on the lips. It was amazing. Never have I felt so close to the Lady of Air and Wind. I felt like a nestling, enfolded in her powerful wings.”
“And now it’s up to Doriantha,” Larajin said. “May Hanali Celanil and Sune watch over her, and protect her.”
That brought Leifander down to earth.
He gave Rylith a worried look and asked, “Can you see her in the amber?”
The druid spoke a flowing phrase in Elvish. A figure appeared within the amber. It was Doriantha, walking along Rauthauvyr’s Road. Anxiously, Larajin peered over Rylith’s shoulder, watching as Doriantha was challenged at the gate, then allowed to pass through. Doriantha hurried up the road, toward the manor, then up its steps. The view shifted then, showing her entering the great hall. Figures were clustered at the end of it. Maalthiir, his officers, and Lord Ilmeth of Essembra were there. They were involved in an animated discussion, heads close together, but when Doriantha entered, Maalthiir glanced up and the scowl on his face softened. When Doriantha placed a hand above her heart and gave a graceful bow, the scowl melted from his face. A moment later, after beckoning Doriantha forward and listening to her speak, his expression changed to a dreamy smile.
“The spell worked!” Larajin exclaimed with relief.
“It did indeed,” Leifander added a moment later. He too was staring into the amber, watching Larajin’s plan unfold. “You see? Maalthiir’s drawn away from his men and has led Doriantha to a quiet corner to talk. Just look at the desire, burning in his ugly eyes. He’ll be asking her to lay with him in another moment. Yes, there! They’re leaving the hall together.”
With that last comment, Leifander’s voice had dropped to a low growl. Tearing his eyes away from the amber, he leaped from the boulder and began pacing back and forth across the clearing.
Watching him, Larajin suddenly realized something. Her brother had feelings for Doriantha. The elf warrior, in turn, cared for Leifander. Hanali Celanil had blessed them both, though their love had yet to fully blossom.
Larajin offered up a prayer for Doriantha’s safety, imploring the goddesses to give the archer’s budding romance with Leifander time and tranquility in which to blossom. It would be a grim thing indeed if Maalthiir or his officers were to discover Larajin’s plot and Leifander were to lose a second woman he adored to the Red Plumes’s wrath.
Intent upon her prayer, Larajin at first didn’t pay any attention to Rylith’s quick intake of breath, but then the druid spoke in a strangled whisper.
“No-what was Doriantha thinking? She has stabbed him!”
“Who’s been stabbed?”
A glance into the amber gave Larajin the answer. She saw Maalthiir staggering into the great hall, hands clasped to a stomach that was leaking red. The officer with the scarred face sprang immediately to his side, easing him to the ground and laying hands upon his wound, probably invoking a healing spell. In that same instant, Doriantha came into view.
Leifander, who had joined Larajin and Rylith in peering into the amber, let out an anguished cry.
“What is she doing-why doesn’t she flee? She’ll be killed!”
Doriantha was pointing behind her, at the hallway she’d just emerged from. Two of Maalthiir’s men seized her-strangely, Doriantha did nothing to resist them-while the remaining three ran in the direction she’d been pointing. After a few moments they reappeared, forcing two captives ahead of them at sword point.
Rylith let out a relieved sigh as the two men holding Doriantha released her and gave quick, apologetic bows.
“All is well. It appears that it was not Doriantha who attacked Maalthiir, but someone else-two humans. My guess is they are Sembian spies.”
“Sembians?” Larajin asked in átense, low voice.
A sense of premonition gripping her, she peered more intently at the amber in Rylith’s hands. The two captives were on their knees, one with blood running from a gash in his leg, the other holding his head as if he’d been struck. As Larajin watched, their hands were forced behind their backs, and bound.
Maalthiir, his bloody wound stanched by magic, sat up groggily and said something. The officer who had been tending him nodded, then strode over and slapped the captive with the wounded leg. He barked an order over his shoulder, obviously relaying Maalthiir’s orders. One of the Red Plumes bent his bow, stringing it.
The second captive-the one who had been holding his head-turned to see what was happening. As he did, Larajin recognized his face. Suddenly, she knew what would come next-she’d seen it in her vision.
“Goddess, no!” she said in a high, tight voice. “That captive-it’s Tal. They’re about to execute him!”
Heart pounding, Larajin winged her way toward the town as fast as she could fly. Fear lent an urgency to each stroke of her wings, and determination made her ignore the oldiers in the streets below who were pointing up at her and shouting. An arrow sang past her, barely a pace away, but she only realized the soldiers below were shooting at her when a second arrow, closer than the first, snagged her wing and sent her tumbling. Furiously, she beat her wing to loosen it from her feathers, then recovered and flew on.
A short distance behind her, a small black shape trailed in her wake. Leifander had skinwalked only a heartbeat or two after Larajin did, but whether he meant to help her or to try to stop her was unclear. Nor did it matter. The only thing Larajin could think of was Tal.
Swooping down to street level, she flew toward Ilmeth’s Manor. With a rush of relief, she saw that Tal was still alive. Two Red Plumes had dragged him out onto the street, and were trying to force the struggling Tal to his knees. The archer-one of the Red Plumes-stood a few paces away, an arrow nocked but the bow held loosely at his side. The other captive lay on his face in the street in a pool of blood, the point of an arrow protruding from his back. The soldiers threw Tal face-first onto the ground beside the body, then took a quick pace back. The archer raised his bow as Tal struggled to rise.