Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [57]
It had been phrased as a question, and so Leifander was compelled to answer. "It would depend on who the offer was from."
Drakkar's lips twitched in the faintest sketch of a smile. "What if it came from Maalthiir, first lord of Hillsfar?"
This time, Leifander answered willingly, in a harsh voice. "Maalthiir!" he spat. "We'd rather accept the aid of a demon."
"And why is that?" Drakkar asked, unperturbed.
"He's banned all but humans from his city. Elves found within its walls are used as fodder for the gladiatorial games. The Red Plumes are known throughout the forest for the atrocities they commit. The council would never trust him. Never."
"What if such an alliance was the only way to save the forest?" Drakkar asked. "Pride can't harvest nuts from a blighted tree or shelter you from your enemies."
Leifander desperately wanted to say no, that the elves would fight to the last man, woman, and child, but he was haunted by the destruction the magical blight had already caused. He imagined elves standing homeless amid the skeletal trees of a destroyed wood.
"They… might," he conceded, "but I think… not." see.
Drakkar sounded pleased. He'd obviously been fearing an elf alliance with the cities of the Moonsea. Leifander's rejection of any such notion had clearly set his mind at ease.
"This past winter, three wild elves appeared in Selgaunt in the Hulorn's hunting garden," he told Leifander. "Who were they, and why were they here?"
"I don't know."
The answer had been a truthful one, but Drakkar's eyes narrowed. He tried again. "You must," he growled. "They were protecting a girl-a human. A servant of the Uskevren house. Who is she?"
Once again, Leifander's tongue spoke the truth. "I don't know."
"Gods curse you!" Drakkar kicked Leifander in the ribs, making him wince, then a cunning look crept into his eye. "Let's see if you're lying," he spat. "Tell me, shapeshifter… what is your true name?"
"I… don't know," Leifander gasped. The kick must have cracked a rib. It hurt to breathe. "My mother died giving birth to me. If she gave me a true name, I don't know it."
Drakkar thought a moment, then tried again. "Do you know the true names of any of the elves of the High Council?"
Leifander fought the compulsion to speak as long as he could, but at last his answer burst forth. "Yes." "Whose?"
"Lord Kierin of Deepingdale."
Drakkar's eyes gleamed. "What is his true name?"
"His true name… is…"
With a supreme effort of will, Leifander wrenched his head to the side, mashing his cheek into the cold stone as he spoke, slurring his words. He must not betray his adoptive father's sworn friend. He would not.
Drakkar bent over him, wrenching his head back. "Again. What is Lord Kierin's true name?"
This time, Leifander spoke clearly: "Sallal Lolthrailin.",
"What does it mean?" Drakkar asked. "Tell me in the common tongue."
Weeping again, Leifander answered. "Keeper of the Wood."
"Well done," Drakkar said. "That should prove very useful."
He stroked a fingertip across Leifander's hps. A scent clung to the finger that was equal parts sweet cinnamon and something loathsome and rotting. It lingered on Leifander's lips, even after Drakkar drew his hand away.
Suddenly finding himself free from magical compulsion, Leifander wrenched his head to the side and spat away the taste. He turned the full force of his pent-up anger on Drakkar.
"May the Black Archer take you, and send swift arrows of vengeance to pierce you," he yelled. "May the Lady of Air and Wind buffet you with gales, and break your bonesF
Instead of trembling at the promised wrath of the gods, Drakkar gave a low chuckle and stared down at Leifander with flat, expressionless eyes.
"You'd better save your breath for a more useful invocation," he said. "One that protects you from rats."
Then, fingers caressing his staff as if they were reading a message in the pattern of the thorns, he chanted a brief spell. In the blink of an eye, he was gone-vanished from the room as if he had never been there.
A scuttling noise echoed out of the ventilation