Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [83]
The other windriders rode similar mounts and were also armored in chain and helms. Each carried a lance, but these were primarily for show. Any real fighting was done with the powerful recurved bows and brightly fletched arrows that hung in quivers behind their saddles.
They circled once around the hilltop where Leifander stood, then landed gracefully next to its half-circle crown of upright stones. Lord Kierin housed his lance in a sling next to his stirrup, then swung out of the saddle. He was tall for an elf, with long white hair that matched the color of the ribbons on his lance. His eyes were the color of a summer sky. A deep vertical line creased his forehead, and his brows were drawn together in what had become a habitual frown. He was well beyond his middle years, in his third century of life, but Leifander had never seen a warrior with such poise and grace.
"Is it you, Leifander?" Lord Kierin said. He spoke the dialect of the Gold elves, but Leifander knew enough of it to reply in kind.
"I am he who bears that name." Leifander placed both hands upon his heart and bowed so low that his braid swung over his shoulder and touched the ground with its tip. "I beg your mercy for my transgression."
The other windriders had dismounted and gathered around the spot where Leifander and Lord Kierin stood. Five were male, three female, and all were moon elves with pale hair and amber eyes. They stood with legs slightly bowed from long years of riding, and seemed to stare through Leifander into the middle distance, as if still scanning the horizon.
Lord Kierin gave a deep, melancholy sigh. "Your words have placed me in great danger, it is true, but your transgression was no fault of your own. It was magic that moved your tongue and caused you to tell my true name, and so I forgive you."
Relief washed through Leifander in an icy shiver. It was Lord Kierin's right, should he so choose, to end Leifander's life. He had been generous.
"I hardly recognized you, my boy," Lord Kierin said, switching into the forest elf dialect and dropping the formal tone he'd been using a moment earlier. "You have grown to an enormous size since last I saw you. Tell me, how is your father faring?"
He was referring, of course, to Leifander's adoptive father. Leifander had yet to summon the courage to tell others about the human blood that flowed in his veins.
"He is well, thank you, Lord Kierin," he answered, "as is my mother."
Lord Kierin switched back to the dialect that the other windriders spoke. "I hear that your eyes were also busy while you were in Selgaunt-with results much more to our favor." A rare smile twitched the corners of his mouth. "Did Lord Ulath send the rings with you?"
"He did." Leifander reached into the leather bag that was slung across his shoulder. Inside was an intricately carved wooden box the size of a loaf of bread. He handed it to Lord Kierin.
The windrider held it in his hands a moment, studying the floral patterns carved on its lid and sides, then he pressed a sequence of hidden catches-each the center of a flower-and the box sprang open with a soft click.
The other windriders gathered around as its contents were revealed. There were four pairs of rings, each pair consisting of a simple gold band for a human finger, and a larger gold band that was nearly the size of a bracelet with a hinge on one side that allowed it to open and a pin to close it on the other. The smaller ring of each pair was nested inside the larger, in a depression in the box's black velvet lining. The slanting rays of the setting sun gave the gold a ruddy glow, throwing into relief the delicate tracery of runes engraved on the rings.
One of the windriders-a woman with a shiny patch