Элейн Каннингем - Silver Shadows

“By the stars and the spirits,” Tamsin swore in a choked voice. The young elf kicked into a run, dashing through the ferns and vines without regard for silence and without thought for the trail his passing left.

Foxfire’s reprimand died unspoken. A dagger gleamed in Tamsin’s hand. The youth often sensed dangers that older and wiser elves missed, and though he was impulsive, he did not enter battle lightly. Foxfire and Korrigash exchanged a quick, dismayed glance and drew their own weapons.

The elves ran lightly through the crushed foliage, pausing at the torn curtain of vines that had veiled Council Glade from their sight. Before them stood Tamsin, his copper-hued face strangely ashen, and beyond him lay a scene of utter devastation.

What had once been a lush forest glade now resembled the remnants of a careless merchant’s campfire. A large circle of ground was black and barren, littered with piles of charred sticks. The swinging bridges—walkways that had linked the trees and the homes and chambers hidden among them—now hung against the blackened trees. The elven homes were gone, as were the inhabitants. Foxfire’s throat tightened as he noted blackened bones lying among the remains of trees.

The home of the Elven Council had been utterly destroyed, and with it the best hope of unity among the beleaguered People.

A light touch on his shoulder tore Foxfire from his grim thoughts. He turned to face the hunter, who handed him a blackened arrow shaft.

“Took it from between two naked ribs. Look at the mark,” Korrigash advised him.

The elf glanced at the shaft. The mark on it was familiar: three curved lines, combining to make a stylized foxfire, the bright flower from which he had taken his name. The arrow was unmistakably his, yet how had he lost it? He hadn’t missed a chosen target since boyhood!

He lifted incredulous eyes to his friend’s face. “But how?”

“The humans.” Korrigash pointed to the shaft. “Note the length.”

Foxfire nodded, understanding at once. The arrow shaft was shorter than it should have been by a width of perhaps two fingers. It had been broken off, the jagged edge trimmed smooth, and the arrowhead reaffixed. Since the forest elves retrieved and reused all arrows used in hunting, this one could only have been torn from the body of an enemy. It was possible that this arrow had been plucked from a wounded ogre or bugbear, but such creatures lacked the wit to plant it here for others to find. This was the work of the elves’ human foe.

“Tribe against tribe,” the hunter commented grimly.

Again Foxfire nodded in agreement. The marks of the best elven hunters and warriors were well known in the forest, and not every elf who stumbled upon the razed elven settlement would see the ploy for what it was. While it was possible that someone was attempting to turn the elven tribes against each other, the purpose behind this grim act was utterly beyond Foxfire’s ken.

There was one human, however, who might well have the answers. Foxfire remembered his conversation with Bunlap, and suddenly he knew where he might find the human.

He walked up to Tamsin and put a hand on the young elf’s shoulder. A surge of guilt filled Foxfire as he noted the haunted look on the fighter’s face. Tamsin was fey, even for a green elf. It was likely the youth was seeing the carnage as clearly as if it was happening before him. Such gifts were as much torment as blessing, but Tamsin’s was needed. The elf was twin-born, and he had a bond with his equally fey sister that enabled them to speak mind-to-mind.

“You must send word to Talltrees at once,” Foxfire told him. “The tribe must send a war band with all possible speed to the border trees south of Mosstone. Thirty elves, armed with unmarked green arrows.”

This last command was unprecedented, for the elf arrows known as “black lightning” were crafted through a long and mystic process. Green arrows were raw and unfinished by elven standards, deadly enough when launched from elven bows, but lacking the rites that imbued the weapons with forest magic and linked the elven hunter-warriors to their home in ways that no human—and few elves—could fully understand. Yet Foxfire knew his request would be honored, and he understood that this was a measure of the high regard his tribe had for his leadership and judgment. He only hoped that with this decision he would not betray his people’s trust.

“If there were no elven raids before, there will be soon,” he added softly. “We will attack the farm where the elves are held as slaves.”

At these words the haunted look faded from Tamsin’s eyes, burned away like morning mist by the rising sun of his hatred. “In that case, I will send your words to Tamara with pleasure,” he said grimly. “And I will tell her to urge the warriors to hurry!”

“So how’s the farming going?” Arilyn inquired casually.

Her words seemed to irritate her young host, as they were intended to do. Prince Hasheth cast her a baleful look, then quickly composed his hawklike features into a lofty, lordly expression so studied that Arilyn was certain he’d practiced it before a mirror.

It seemed that Hasheth, a younger son of the ruling pasha, was having a great deal of difficulty finding a life-path suited to his ambitions and his exalted sense of self. Arilyn had met the young man several months before, during his attempt to gain fame and wealth as an assassin. He had been charged with killing another assassin, namely Arilyn. She and Danilo had managed, just barely, to convince the proud youth that this assignment was actually a death sentence handed down by guildmasters who wanted Balik’s son out of the assassins’ guild. Since then, Hasheth had become an ally, helping to insinuate Arilyn into the assassins’ guild and sponsoring Danilo in the social life of the palace. And in doing so, he had finally found an activity that suited him. The role of Harper informant appealed to the young man, for intrigue was a skill highly valued in Tethyr. Yet his Harper activities did not bring him the overt wealth and status he craved. Since he’d left the assassins’ guild, he had tasted of a dozen occupations. The latest, apparently, was no more to his liking than any of his previous choices.

“I have scraped the dung and the mud from my boots and left the manor house in the hands of a steward,” Hasheth announced with disdain. “The life of a country lord is deadly dull. What need have I of lands or title, I who am the son of a pasha?”

Actually, Arilyn observed silently, lands and title would be a big improvement over Hasheth’s current lot. As a younger, harem-born son, his status was roughly that of a skilled tradesman, and his prospects were considerably less promising. At last count Balik had seven sons from his legal wives; his harem had produced an additional thirteen or fourteen. Hasheth had at least a dozen older brothers. Even if he had perfected the assassin’s art, it would have taken him many years to work his way up to the head of the line.

The half-elf nodded sympathetically. “Land is important, but Zazesspur’s wealth comes largely from trade. Have you considered becoming a merchant?”

The prince sniffed. “A greengrocer? A camel salesman? I think not.”

“How about apprentice to the head of the shipping guild, a man who also sits on the Lords’ Council?” the Harper countered. “Trade and politics work together like a paired dagger and sword. In no place is this more true than in Zazesspur. You could learn much and gather the tools needed to carve out a place for yourself. Those who control trade will always have a powerful hold upon the rulers. And Inselm Hhune is an ambitious man. You might to do well to hitch your cart to his star.”

Hasheth nodded, his black eyes regarding her thoughtfully. “And the Harpers—they endorse this Lord Hhune?”