Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [81]
Laurana regarded each knight with a look that was not so much seeking approbation as simply waiting for an acknowledgement of her leadership. For a moment, she appeared so like Tanis in the firm set of her jaw and the calm, steady deliberation in her eyes that Sturm smiled. But Derek was not smiling. He was infuriated and frustrated, the more so because he knew there wasn’t a thing he could do.
Finally, however, he snarled a muttered reply that he supposed they must make the best of it and angrily stalked over to pick up the chest. Flint and Sturm followed, the dwarf sneezing until he nearly sneezed himself off his feet.
Laurana walked back to her brother, moving quietly along the sand in her soft leather boots. But the Wilder elf heard her approach. Raising her head, she gave Laurana a fearful look and crept backward as an animal cringes at the sight of man. But Tas, who had been chatting with her in an odd mixture of Common and elven, gently caught hold of the Wilder elf’s arm.
“Don’t leave,” said the kender cheerfully. “This is the elflord’s sister. Look, Laurana. Gilthanas is coming around. It must be that mud stuff she stuck on his forehead. I could have sworn he’d be out for days.” Tas stood up. “Laurana, this is my friend—what did you say your name was?”
The girl, her eyes on the ground, trembled violently. Her hands picked up bits of sand, then dropped them again. She murmured something none of them could hear.
“What was it, child?” Laurana asked in such a sweet and gentle voice that the girl raised her eyes shyly.
“Silvart,” she said in a low voice.
“That means ‘silver-haired’ in the Kaganesti language, does it not?” Laurana asked. Kneeling down beside Gilthanas, she helped him sit up. Dizzily, he put his hand to his face where the girl had plastered a thick paste over his bleeding cheek.
“Don’t touch,” Silvart warned, clasping her hand over Gilthanas’s hand quickly. “It will make you well.” She spoke Common, not crudely, but clearly and concisely.
Gilthanas groaned in pain, shutting his eyes and letting his hand fall. Silvart gazed at him in deep concern. She started to stroke his face, then—glancing swiftly at Laurana—hurriedly withdrew her hand and started to rise.
“Wait,” Laurana said. “Wait, Silvart.”
The girl froze like a rabbit, staring at Laurana with such fear in her large eyes that Laurana was overcome with shame.
“Don’t be frightened. I want to thank you for caring for my brother. Tasslehoff is right. I thought his injury was grave indeed, but you have aided him. Please stay with him, if you would.”
Silvart stared at the ground. “I will stay with him, mistress, if such is your command.”
“It is not my command, Silvart,” Laurana said. “It is my wish. And my name is Laurana.”
Silvart lifted her eyes. “Then I will stay with him gladly, mis—Laurana, if that is your wish.” She lowered her head, and they could barely hear her words. “My true name, Silvara, means silver-haired. Silvart is what they call me.” She glanced at the Silvanesti warriors, then her eyes went back to Laurana. “Please, I want you to call me Silvara.”
The Silvanesti elves brought over a makeshift litter they had constructed of a blanket and tree limbs. They lifted the elflord—not ungently—onto the litter. Silvara walked beside it. Tasslehoff walked near her, still chattering, pleased to find someone who had not yet heard his stories. Laurana and Elistan walked on the other side of Gilthanas. Laurana held his hand in hers, watching over him tenderly. Behind them came Derek, his face dark and shadowed, the chest with the dragon orb on his shoulder. Behind them marched a guard of Silvanesti elves.
Day was just beginning to dawn, gray and dismal, when they reached the line of trees along the shore. Flint shivered. Twisting his head, he gazed out to sea. “What was