Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [12]
Habrith watched the understanding grow in Larajin's eyes, and smiled. "There is more I could tell you about the Tangled Trees, Larajin, and about yourself, but that would just complicate things. You know what I always say."
Larajin nodded, and recited Habrith's favorite saying. "Simplest is best, and all ingredients in balance."
"Exactly," Habrith agreed. "Some things in life turn out better if allowed to come to fullness on their own time, like rising bread. I can tell you this, however. When you reach the Tangled Trees, you will be more than welcome. The forest elves have a surprise in store for you."
"What is it?" Larajin asked.
Habrith held up a hand, and quoted her other favorite saying. "All in due time, and not a moment before." She winked. "You'll find out, soon enough."
CHAPTER TWO
Leifander wheeled high above the forest, peering down at the caravan that was slowly making its way north along Rauthauvyr's Road. He counted six wagons, a dozen teamsters, and nearly two dozen soldiers. All were human, carrying both crossbows and swords, and clad in chain-mail armor that winked red in the sun.
Their numbers were greater than expected: The humans below outnumbered the elves awaiting them two to one and were better armed than the elves had guessed they would be. When the caravan reached the spot where the elves were hiding, everything would depend upon the advantage of surprise. Thankfully, Doriantha had chosen the ambush site well.
Winging his way north again, Leifander flew to his appointed place: a tall oak that had somehow retained many of its leaves, despite the blight that surrounded it. He landed on a sturdy branch, then shifted back into elf form.
Glancing down through the branches, he could only just make out the dozen wood elves who waited for his signal. Clad in brown leather, they matched the colors of the forest, with faces browned by the sun and hair that ranged from grass-yellow blond to autumn red. The bright steel of their swords had been dulled with a rubbing of soot, and their arrows were fletched with plain brown feathers, instead of the brightly colored fletching the elves normally favored. All trace of personal ornamentation had been set aside in preparation for the ambush. Gone were the brightly polished bell-beads and colorful feathers they normally adorned their braids with. Such vanities had no place where the tinkle of a bell or the flash of a yellow feather could give the ambush away. The elves' sole decoration was the black ink that had been needled into the flesh of their cheeks and chins. The tattoos helped to camouflage them, allowing their faces to blend with the shadows of the forest.
Doriantha, leader of the troop, peered up at Leifander from the elves' hiding place across the road. She moved a slender hand in a complex gesture, asking a silent question. Leifander answered with hand signals of his own, indicating the strength of the human warriors and the distance the caravan had yet to travel: less than a mile.
Doriantha's pale brown eyes sparkled, and her lips twitched into a feral grin. From Leifander's position high in the tree, the tattoo on her face looked like a solid line of black across her nose and cheeks, but in fact it was an intricate band of knotwork that continued under her hair and above her pointed ears, forming a sacred circle. Lean muscles flexing, she tested the draw of her bow, sighting down an imaginary arrow. In that moment, with the sunlight slanting through the trees behind her, with the hood of her cloak thrown back and her long sun-bleached braid
draped over her shoulder, she looked as magnificent as the Great Archer.
Realizing he had blasphemed, Leifander touched a forefinger to his lips then smacked it against his open palm to negate his silent words. Comparing a mere mortal to a god-even a mortal as vibrant as Doriantha- might cause the Great Archer to withdraw his favor from the day's deed.
It was hard to imagine the