Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [114]
It started at his wingtips. His long black flight feathers disappeared. Losing stabihty, 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 may be 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,