Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [111]
She dropped her paw and continued flying, unable to do anything about it but worry. Was the thorn tainted with some foul poison? Would her wing beats soon slow, as the venom clutched at her heart?
But no, the sting of the thorn was gone, leaving behind no residue of ache, no creeping pain that worried its way up her limb. It felt as though the thorn had completely disappeared, and yet still the drow were pursuing her.
Drakkar must have used his staff to cast some sort of detection spell upon her, Larajin decided-one that made him cognizant of her every move. She might escape the drow, might even be able to fly fast enough to leave Drakkar himself behind, but guided by his thorn, how long would it be until he caught up to her again?
A second, less pressing question also puzzled her. Drakkar must have recognized her. Why hadn't he simply killed her when he had the chance?
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 FOURTEEN
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 IImeth 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 unharmedI 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.