The Halls of Stormweather

THE MAID

Larajin yanked the gold turban from her head and tossed it angrily aside. The tiny silver bells sewn onto it tinkled as it rolled to a stop in the corner of the workroom.

"I've had it," she said, shaking out her long, rust-colored hair. "I can't seem to do anything right."

Kremlar looked up from his oil press. "What's wrong?" the dwarf asked in a soft voice. "Did you have another run-in with Erevis Cale?"

Larajin gave an exasperated sigh. "It wasn't my fault that the wine goblet spilled on the table," she said, hooking a finger into one of the royal blue slashes on the sleeve of her dress. "How could anyone be expected to serve a luncheon in a uniform like this? The sleeves catch on everything."

"That explains the stain then," Kremlar said, nodding at her skirt. He pulled the handle of the press, and oil trickled out into a bowl.

Larajin looked down. The white fabric of her dress had a blotchy red line across the front. She stared at the dwarf as he sat at his worktable, which was scaled to Kremlar's stocky but short body. The dwarf was surrounded by the ingredients of his trade: stone mortars filled with powdered spices; pots of bright red and blue and purple dyes; trays heaped with fragrant flower petals; and bowls of sticky, pungent tree sap. A lot of messy ingredients were involved in the manufacture of perfumes, yet somehow Kremlar was always immaculate. His gray hair and beard were neatly braided, and his doublet and richly embroidered sleeves were spotless. Even his hands-with a gold ring on every finger and a locket ring on one thumb-were clean and pink, without a grain of powder or smudge of sap anywhere on them.

"How do you do it?" Larajin asked as she unfastened the lacings on the front of her tight gold vest.

"Eh?" Kremlar looked up again. "Do what?"

"Stay so clean," Larajin answered. "Mister Cale is always lecturing me about my uniform and not keeping up the standards of the Uskevren household. He expects me to carry coal without getting dusty, and to scrub pots without wetting my sleeves. He's always whispering to Mistress Shamur, and I'm sure it's about me. The mistress gave me a look colder than winter when I stoked the fire in her room this morning, and she's always watching me. I'm sure Mister Cale told her that I was the one who left the dust mop out in the hall that her guest tripped over, and that I scorched Tazi's masquerade dress with the pressing iron. If it weren't for my parents, she'd have turned me out by now-which just isn't fair, because I do try. It's just that-"

Kremlar finished her thought for her. "You're a square peg in a round hole," he said. "Try as you may, you're unable to smooth off your corners."

Larajin frowned. "Are you saying I'm not trying hard enough?"

Kremlar shook his head. "No. Someday, you'll find a square hole, just as I did." He held up blunt but neatly manicured fingers. "Could you imagine these hands working a pick or shovel? I felt the same way when my father tried to make a miner of me. I loved the sparkling gemstones, but the dust and sweat-ugh!"

"At least they let me out to do the shopping," Larajin said. "Mister Cale never complains about how long I take. I think he's glad to be rid of me."

Larajin began to tug her dress up over her head. Kremlar politely declined to look up again until she'd changed into the more serviceable clothes that she kept hidden in the back of his store: a brown trouser-skirt and a gray shirt with sleeves that buttoned tight from wrist to elbow. Kicking off her black velvet slippers, Larajin pulled on fur-lined, oiled leather boots. Like the rest of her outfit, they were serviceable: they kept her feet dry, even when she was standing in a foot of sewer water.

It felt good to be out of the foolishly fancy maid's uniform. Larajin stood and ran fingers through her hair, raking it back out of her eyes. She reached for her cloak.

"You're going to the garden?" Kremlar asked. It was more of a statement than a question; Larajin always snuck into the Hunting Garden when she needed to clear her head.

Larajin nodded.

"Will you fetch me something?" Kremlar asked. "I'll make it worth your while: thirty ravens if you can find it."

"Find what?" Larajin asked. She could guess. This wasn't the first time she'd turned an illicit venture into the Hulorn's private estate to her profit.

The dwarf rose from his worktable. He stood only as tall as Larajin's waist, and so he had to balance on tiptoe to lift a thick book from its place on the shelf. He flipped through pages, then tapped a finger against the hand-tinted illustration of a brilliant red flower whose twin petals resembled a woman's lips.

"It's called Sune's Kisses," he said. "There's also an elvish name for it, which I won't even try to pronounce. The flowers bloom only in the depths of winter, and the leaves are flecked with gold. The name's poetic: the plant is said to have sprouted after the goddess kissed the barren ground in the depths of an especially cold winter. The flowers have an exquisite fragrance. The plant is extremely rare, but the Hulorn is said to have a specimen or two in his garden. That is, if he hasn't trampled them under his horse's hooves while out hunting or let weeds strangle them."

"Better that someone who appreciates the plant should have it," Larajin agreed, "and that they should turn it into a beautiful perfume, worthy of Sune herself."

"Indeed," Kremlar said reverently. He looked up at her. "Our usual arrangement, then?"

Larajin handed the dwarf her shopping list and the knotted kerchief of silver ravens that Mister Cale had given her. "Done," she said. "If Sune's Kisses are in the Hunting Garden, you'll have them by eventime."

Larajin rubbed grease into the hinges of the grate, waited a moment, then carefully pushed it up. The metal was cold enough to stick to her bare fingers, and a light snow had started to fall. Snow meant footprints: she'd have to stay in the deepest parts of the garden, lest someone see her tracks.

She climbed out of the sewer grate into the fountain that was the garden's centerpiece. It had been drained for the winter. The hideous collection of leering sirens at its center, carved from pink marble, were no longer squirting water from their breasts.

Larajin stepped out of the fountain and made her way into the Hunting Garden. When it had first been laid out, more than a century ago, the garden had contained beds of flowers and only a scattering of trees, but now it had a more natural, forested appearance. Trees arched overhead, and the ground was covered with soft, springy moss. Not so long ago, when the Hulorn's father ruled Selgaunt, the garden had been carefully tended. But Andeth Ilchammar had neglected it for more than a decade, preferring to spend his fivestars on lavish clothes and parties. Meanwhile the gravel paths sprouted grass, and the flowers and shrubs outgrew their weed-choked beds.

Larajin found the Hunting Garden beautiful even in winter, with the flowers gone to seed and the leaves blown away. Frost sparkled on bare tree branches, and winter berries added spots of ice-bright blue to the underbrush. The garden called to her as no other place in the city did-not even the temple of Sune. Its silences and dappled shadows spoke to a part of her that yearned for the beauty of the wilderness. Already she could feel the knot of tension between her shoulders beginning to unravel.

Larajin kept her eye on the ground as she walked, diligently searching for specks of red. The dusting of snow would make Sune's Kisses easier to spot. She stopped to straighten a shrub whose branch had been broken by someone's careless footstep and heard a small animal rustling through the bushes. A squirrel? She clucked her tongue, but there was no response.

Her eye fell on a neat line of footprints in the snow. She recognized them by the size of the oval pads and the lack of claw scuffs as having been made by a house cat, probably one of the Hulorn's many pets.

The tracks were as fresh as her own. They had a curious drag mark beside them. Had the cat become tangled in something?

Larajin rubbed her fingers together. "Here, kitt-cat," she said. "Come, kitt."

The bushes to her left rustled, and Larajin saw a flash of color. Her breath caught in her throat.

It was no ordinary cat that slunk cautiously out of the undergrowth, but a tressym: a cat with large, feathery wings. The creature had sleek blue-gray fur and wing feathers as colorful as a peacock's, with spots of brilliant turquoise, rich red, and vibrant yellow, all edged in tabby-stripe black.

One of the wings was folded neatly against the creature's back. The other dragged in the snow, its feathers wet and bedraggled. Larajin could not only see that the wing was broken, but she could also see the cause. Someone- probably the Hulorn's spoiled children-had tried to force an infant-sized shirt over it. The shirt hung in tatters from the broken wing, and the cat mewled in pain and stopped abruptly as it snagged against a branch.

Larajin clenched her fists in anger. Tressym were magical creatures, sacred to Sune. How dare the Hulorn give one to his children as a plaything!

Slowly, murmuring her reassurance, she let the winged cat sniff her fingers. "There, little blessed one," she said. "Let me help you."

The tressym growled softly and lashed its tail as Larajin's fingertips touched its wing. It tried to move away, but the shirt was caught fast on the branch. Hissing, the cat swiped at it with its claws. Larajin heard a soft crack, as something inside the wing splintered further. The tressym's hiss rose to a howl.

Worse yet, Larajin could hear someone approaching through the woods. It wouldn't be one of the few remaining groundskeepers. They did little enough in summer and ignored the garden completely in winter. It had to be a member of the Hulorn's family, or one of his invited guests. Whoever it was, if Larajin were discovered in the garden, she'd be in big trouble. However, she couldn't leave the tressym to suffer.

As the footsteps approached through the wood, Larajin prayed to Sune. As she whispered, the cat fell silent. It looked up at Larajin with luminous yellow eyes, as if suddenly understanding what she meant to do. This time, when she reached down to gently tug the shirt away from its wing, its only protest was a soft growl. It remained utterly still until the instant Larajin pulled the scrap of cloth free, then bounded away into the woods, its broken wing trailing behind it.

Larajin suddenly smelled a sweet fragrance. Looking down, she saw that she was kneeling beside a plant with tiny red flowers and leaves flecked with gold: Sune's Kisses! She was certain the plant hadn't been there a moment ago, but perhaps her knee had brushed away the snow that had covered it. Wherever it had come from, there was no time to dig it up now. Larajin scrambled behind the trunk of a wide tree, just as the source of the footsteps strode into view.

She was just in time. The walker in the woods was none other than the Hulorn himself. Larajin recognized him at once by the insignia on the breast of his black velvet doublet and his carefully coifed, raven-black hair. He wore hose and a codpiece of royal purple and had an ermine-skin cape wrapped around his broad shoulders. Snow had settled upon it like downy white feathers. He muttered to himself as he walked, his fingers twisting a heavy gold ring on the forefinger of his left hand.

As the Hulorn passed, Larajin saw that his left hand ended not in fingers, but in clawed, birdlike talons. His face was even more horrible. The side of it turned toward Larajin was covered with glossy black scales, and the bulging eye that stared out of it was slitted like a reptile's.

For the second time that afternoon, Larajin gasped. So the rumors were true! The Hulorn had altered his body with foul magics.

The Hulorn slowed his stride. Larajin froze in terror, convinced he had heard her or seen her footprints in the snow. His mismatched eyes searched the forest as if he were looking for something. After a moment he turned and strode away. As he left he stepped on Sune's Kisses, crushing its tiny red flowers underfoot.

When the sound of footsteps faded, Larajin emerged from hiding and carefully dug the crushed plant from the ground. She looked around for the tressym. She wanted to take it to the Temple of Sune, to ask the priests there to heal its wing, but the tressym's footprints ended at a tree, which it seemed to have climbed. Larajin scanned the branches overhead but couldn't see any sign of the creature.

It was nearly dusk. She'd never find the tressym now. She'd have to come back tomorrow and look for it then.

It was dark by the time Larajin changed her clothes at Kremlar's and picked up the basket of purchases he'd made on her behalf. The dwarf hadn't been happy with the condition of the plant she'd handed him, but after hearing how she'd nearly been caught-by the Hulorn, no less-he'd given her ten ravens, just the same. He didn't seem particularly surprised when he heard of the Hulorn's strange appearance, but he did have a word of advice.

"You'd best keep that to yourself, Larajin. The rich and powerful don't like it when the common folk know their secrets."

Larajin hurried back through the streets, past the street lanterns, which tindermen were lighting with long, candle-tipped poles. The snow was to the top of her sodden slippers now, and her feet were numb with cold.

Engrossed in her thoughts, it took her several moments to realize that someone was following her, dogging her shadow. The figure darted from one shade to the next, silent as falling snow. Was he a cutpurse-or worse? Only when he passed briefly through the pool of light cast by a street light did she catch a better look.

He was a slight man with a narrow face, clad in an unfashionable forest-green cloak whose hood was pulled up over his head. His hair hung to one side in a long braid tied with a feather, and his feet were clad in high soft boots. Noticing that Larajin had spotted him, he stepped quickly into the shadow-but not before she had seen his almond-shaped eyes. Below them, his face was patterned with strange marks.

Now Larajin was scared. The fellow was an elf. Not only that, but one of the wild elves of the lands north of Sembia. Master Thamalon the Elder might see the wild elves as noble savages, but to Larajin-to most Sembians-they were one step removed from animals, reportedly incapable of compassion or pity. What was one doing in the city?

For a heartbeat or two, Larajin froze, uncertain what to do. If she took her usual route back to Stormweather Towers, her pursuer would catch her within a block. No members of the city guard were in sight. She was on her own.

She darted suddenly into a narrow alley that was a shortcut and broke into a run. Her sudden doubling back caught her pursuer by surprise, but the fellow was as fast as a tiger. He ran up behind her and caught her wrist in his hand. As she tried to jerk away, his cloak fell open. Larajin saw the bone-handled dagger at his hip, hanging beside a pouch.

Larajin dropped the basket, which fell to the snow beside her. She opened her mouth to scream, but the elf clasped his free hand over her mouth. His fingers were long and slender, as brown and hard as tree roots. They smelled of leather and earth.

He whispered fiercely at her in a foreign language as sibilant as the whispering of tree leaves. Then he drew her close. She tried to pull away, but his narrow arms were as strong as tree roots. He lifted the hand that had been holding her mouth a finger's breadth away from her lips.

Larajin's heart pounded in her ears. Should she scream? The snow fell thickly, muffling all sound. Her lips began to move in a whispered prayer for mercy.

"Please," she begged. "Please don't…"

Larajin suddenly smelled flowers. The elf's nostrils quivered. He sniffed-then his eyes widened.

The elf's hand clamped back over her mouth. His other hand fell to his waist, to the spot where his knife was sheathed. Suddenly realizing that he could draw it and slit her throat in an instant, Larajin threw herself backwards as hard as she could and wrenched her head to the side.

"Leave me alone!" she screamed. Then, "Help! Guard!"

Strangely, the fragrance of Sune's Kisses was even stronger now, as if Larajin were standing on a crushed field of flowers, instead of on snow. Stranger still, the elf released his hold on her wrist. His body stiffened, and his brow furrowed as if he were fighting against some inner demon. Then he turned on his heel and walked briskly away, his soft leather boots padding on the snow.

Larajin sagged back against a wall, trembling with relief as she saw a member of the Selgaunt Guard round the corner at a run. By the time he reached her, the elf was gone, swallowed by the shadowy streets. The only assistance the guard could offer was to help her scoop her soggy loaf of bread out of the snow, then escort her home to Stormweather Towers.

"Are you sure it was the Hulorn?"

Tal's voice echoed out of the darkness behind Larajin. He splashed through the sewer behind her, just at the edge of the pool of yellow light cast by the lantern in her hand. As soon as he'd spoken, he clamped the perfumed handkerchief that Kremlar had given him back over his mouth and nose. The tunnels reeked, even at low water when the retreating tide had carried most of the effluent away.

"Don't you believe me?" Larajin asked.

"I believe you," Tal said.

He probably meant it. At nineteen, Tal was four years younger than Larajin. He'd always listened respectfully to whatever she had to say, even though she was just a servant and he the second son of the noble Uskevren House that Larajin served.

Last night, when Larajin had told him about the Hulorn and how she used the sewers to sneak into the Hunting Garden, Tal had insisted on accompanying her when she went back. He tried to talk her into waiting a day or two, saying that he needed time to memorize his role in Mistress Quickley's new play, but Larajin insisted on rescuing the injured tressym as soon as possible. Tal at last gave in after being assured they'd be back well before dark.

"The person you saw in the Hunting Garden may have been someone who just looked like the Hulorn," Tal continued. "Or if it was the Hulorn, perhaps he was wearing part of a costume. I heard that the Hulorn's face and hand were injured when a lantern spilled flaming oil on him. Maybe he's wearing a mask and glove to cover his burns. Theatrical devices can be quite realistic-"

"The scales and talons were part of his body," Larajin asserted. "It was magic-I'm sure of it. Now hush, or we'll be discovered."

They were approaching one of the street gratings. Pale morning sunlight poured in from up above, together with the sounds of street vendors hawking their wares. The skies had cleared since yesterday, and a trickle of meltwater dripped off the long icicles that hung from the grate. The clouds were breaking up. Larajin could see the full moon in one of the patches of blue sky.

They passed under the grate and turned down a side tunnel, then down another. Tal's splashes were uneven now, and Larajin paused to wait for him. When he caught up to her again, his face looked gaunt. Then she saw it was only a growth of beard, giving his normally clean-shaven face a shadowed appearance. Odd, that it had grown so quickly. He was sweating, despite the fact that the air in the tunnel was cold enough for Larajin to see her breath.

"Are you all right, Tal?" she asked.

"How close are we?" he asked.

Larajin studied the tunnel. They'd reached a point where it was reinforced; the high stone walls surrounding the Hunting Garden must have been directly above. "Almost there," she answered.

Tal nodded and waved Larajin on.

She continued up the tunnel for a few paces more but paused when she saw a pair of small bright eyes glinting at her out of the darkness ahead. After a moment, their owner scurried into view along one of the raised ledges: a large brown rat.

Larajin stepped to the opposite side of the tunnel to let it pass. She froze in mid-step as it crawled into the light. That was no ordinary rat. It fumbled along the ledge, crawling with one front leg that was a feathered wing and another covered in thick white fur. Its rear legs clicked against the brickwork like tiny hooves. Its face…

Larajin raised the lantern. "By all that's unholy, Tal, you won't believe this," she said in a trembling whisper. "This rat has a human face."

In that same moment, Tal-who once more was well back of the lantern light-turned and fled. His feet splashed rapid echoes around the corner the tunnel.

"Tal!" Larajin shouted. "Where are you going?"

She turned to follow Tal-and the movement of her swinging lantern illuminated dozens of pairs of eyes, up on the ledge. The tunnel filled with the whispering, clicking, dragging sound of dozens of malformed legs scurrying. With soft splashes, the rats began dropping from the ledge. They swam toward Larajin, their malformed bodies leaving rippling wakes through the murky water.

One of the rats clawed its way up Larajin's leg. She felt a sharp, stinging pain in her thigh and the hot trickle of blood. She slapped at the writhing creature, knocking it from her, then felt another rat land on her shoulder. It had the beak of a bird and pecked her ear. Screaming, she whirled around, only to lose her grip on the lantern. It plunged into the sewage, and the light snuffed out with a loud, hot hiss.

Larajin could feel rats everywhere on her now. Their teeth tore into her skin; their feet plucked like human hands at the fabric of her shirt. She slapped at them furiously, knocking more than one off her body, but others replaced them. One twined itself into her hair.

Larajin turned and ran. Though the tunnel was in near-total darkness, she knew every step of this sewer. Her eyes were keener than most, especially in dim light-she could just make out the dim reddish-brown blurs of the rats that covered her body. She turned right, then left, back the way they'd come, shedding rats with each step. Several still clung to her, rending her flesh with their teeth.

Praying she wouldn't slip and plunge face-first into the sewage and be eaten alive by rats as she floundered helplessly in the stink, Larajin ran on. She nearly cried when at last she saw the patch of light looming ahead. When she was under it she jumped-and her flailing hands snapped off one of the icicles. She caught it on the way down, landed miraculously on her feet, and used the pick-sharp icicle to stab at the half dozen rats that still clung to her body.

She punctured her own skin by accident once, and after killing just two of the rats, the icicle broke. She leaped again-missed and splashed down into the sewage-then leaped a third time and managed to snap off another icicle. Holding it with cold-numbed fingers, she continued stabbing furiously. One by one the rats dropped from her and either floated or swam away.

Larajin stood panting in the barred patch of sunlight. A dead rat with the lolling, forked tongue of a snake floated in the water at her feet. Above the grate, carts rumbled past, their drivers oblivious to the battle that had just taken place in the sewer below.

Now that it was over, Larajin's shoulders began to shake. She found herself crying: not so much at her near brush with death but at the fact that Tal had abandoned her when she needed him most.

At first, Larajin didn't realize that anyone was in the library. The crackling of flames in the fireplace muffled the slight creak of leather, and the high back and wings of the armchair hid the person sitting there. She dusted the shelves, too distracted by her thoughts to replace the elder master's books in exactly the same order, even though she knew she'd catch a tongue-lashing from Mister Cale later for her carelessness. The books were all the same to her: musty, leather-bound tomes filled with stories about folks long dead. Elven folk. After being accosted by the wild elf yesterday, elves were the last thing Larajin wanted to think about.

It was only when she moved closer to the fire to dust the chessboard and collect the empty wine goblets from the table beside it that she smelled a faint hint of sewage that wasn't quite masked by the smell of soap. She peered around the edge of the wing chair and saw the very person she'd been looking for all afternoon: Tal.

He was staring into the fire with troubled eyes. His broad hands were knotted together in front of his face, his chin resting upon them. His face was clean shaven, and he'd changed into fresh clothes.

Larajin rapped the duster down against the table. A pawn toppled over and rolled across the chessboard, then clattered onto the stone floor.

Tal looked up, noticing Larajin for the first time. A series of emotions crossed his face: surprise, relief, guilt. He sprang to his feet and reached out to pull her into one of his bear hugs, but Larajin jerked back. Her leg struck the table, knocking the rest of the chess pieces over. She didn't even stop to worry about the fact that she'd just demolished a game in progress-another contest of wits between the Mister Cale and the elder master. Mister Cale's wrath seemed inconsequential, now.

"Larajin, I-" Tal lowered his arms. "Thank the gods you're all right. Those rats-"

"Why did you run away?" Larajin asked. She wanted to rage at him, to smack her hands against his broad chest and tell him how terrified she'd been and say that she'd nearly been killed. She'd suffered nearly a dozen bites, and though they were only superficial wounds, they stung.

"I had to leave," Tal said. A desperate look crept into his eyes. "I couldn't take the chance that… I might have…"

Larajin sat down on the table beside the jumbled chess pieces. Now that she was face to face with Tal, the hurt inside her was as chill and sharp as the point of the icicle she'd used to kill the rats. Wordlessly, she pulled up the hem of her skirt to show him the bites on her leg. The skin around the bandages was puffed and red.

"Did you get them treated?" Tal asked, concern in his eyes. "Rats are diseased creatures. Their bites-"

"You know how to use a knife," Larajin said. "You're one of Master Ferrick's top pupils. If you'd stayed to protect me, I wouldn't have any bites. I just want to know why you ran, Tal. Why?"

Tal sagged into the armchair with a heavy sigh. He stared at the bandage on Larajin's wrist. This time, when he reached out for her, Larajin let him take her hand. For a long moment, they sat in silence, listening to the crackle of the fire as something warred with itself in Tal's troubled eyes.

"Larajin," he said, leaning closer. "There's something I must tell you about myself. I'm-"

The door to the library opened at just that moment. Master Thamalon the Elder strode into the room, then stopped as he saw Larajin and Tal seated by the fire. Dark eyebrows drew together as his penetrating eyes took in Larajin's hand in Tal's. Startled, Larajin jerked her hand away and hurriedly pushed the skirt of her servant's uniform back over her knee. The elder master's eyes narrowed. When Larajin realized what he must be thinking, her face flushed.

As Tal stood to face his father, Larajin bowed her head and began nervously setting the chess pieces back on the board. They kept falling over, and soon black and white were jumbled together.

Tal read his father's stern look instantly. "Father, I can explain. Larajin was… We-"

"Tal, I want a word with you," the elder master said. He used his quiet voice, the one he'd always employed when Larajin and Tal were just children, romping through the halls together and running headlong into dignitaries and guests.

Out of the corner of her eye, Larajin saw Tal's shoulders slump. Once again, the second son had proved a disappointment to his father. This time, he wasn't at fault, but he couldn't explain why-not if he wanted to keep Larajin's foray into the sewers a secret.

Larajin knew exactly how Tal felt. Mustering up her courage, she straightened and met the elder master's eye, but the look in it silenced her.

"Leave us, Larajin," he said, "It's time that my son and I had a little chat about self-control."

Tal's expression was a mixture of frustration and fear. With one last look at him, Larajin hurried from the room.

"Tal and I didn't do anything wrong!" Larajin said sullenly. "The master is lying if he says we did."

As her father raised his hand, Larajin suddenly realized she'd gone too far. Defending herself was one thing, but calling the word of the elder master into question was quite another. She winced, but stood her ground, waiting for the sting of a slap against her cheek.

Her father stood with his open hand trembling, visibly fighting to restrain his anger. Thalit Wellrun was a gentle man who had never taken so much as a whip to the horses under his care during all of his four decades of service to the Uskevren household. Even though he and his wife quarreled frequently, Larajin had never seen her father strike her mother. Now, as he looked at Larajin, his eyes were blazing.

Thalit stared at his hand as if it had betrayed him, then ran a callused palm across his close-shaven scalp. He paced in frustration between the lines of linen, limping slightly on the leg that had been damaged years ago. The old injury only troubled him when the weather was changing for the worse. Outside the closed window, the evening air was still and cold, but Larajin could sense a storm of emotion coming.

They stood in the drying room among the crackling braziers and clotheslines pinned with tablecloths, where Larajin had been folding the clean linen. Thalit had come straight from the stables and was still dressed in his leather apron. His white cotton shirt with its gold and blue ribbons was smudged with dust and smelled of horses and hay. Unlike the household servants, his work ended early in the eventime, after the horses were fed. However, he often worked late into the night. Larajin did the same-except that her extra duties were a punishment from Mister Cale, performed under silent protest, and not by choice.

"You have to understand the consequences," her father said in a strained voice. Not once did his eyes meet Larajin's. "Affections between master and servant always turn out for the ill. Young master Talbot would be honor-bound to provide for the upkeep of any child resulting from such a union, but an illegitimate child would be an embarrassment to the Uskevren household. You could be unable to continue in your duties while you were bearing and nursing the infant and-"

"Is that what matters most to you?" Larajin interjected. "The master's embarrassment? And my duty? What about the truth?"

Her father turned to her with a pained expression. "Duty is sometimes more important than truth," he said gruffly. "Duty keeps households together-and families. If it wasn't for my duty to your mother, you-" He bit off the rest, as if he had said too much.

"You care more about your horses than you do about mother," Larajin muttered. "Or me."

She hadn't meant for her father to hear the remark. She'd half turned to unpin a sheet from the line, but now her father wrenched it aside.

"I care for you," he said, in a voice trembling with emotion. "Even though you often disappoint me. Even though you are not my daughter."

Larajin blinked in surprise. She opened her mouth to ask her father if she had heard correctly-if he had truly uttered those words. All that came out was a whisper: "What?"

"Ask your mother," her father said. He let the sheet drop like a curtain between them.

Larajin stood, stunned, as her father limped out of the room. By the time she thought to run after him, he was gone.

She walked slowly down the hall, her thoughts whirling. Suddenly, her father's long-simmering anger toward her mother made sense. If Larajin was another man's child, it was only logical that Thalit's jealousy had turned to bitterness over the years. Larajin could see that her father still loved her mother, but until now she'd never understood why he held back his affections-or why he sometimes stared at Larajin as if wondering who she was.

Larajin already knew that she didn't look a bit like her father, nor did she share any of his mannerisms. While her father went about his duties as quietly as a horse bred to the bit, Larajin chafed at the very touch of her servant's uniform. They were as different as shadow and light.

Larajin found herself in the doorway to one of the smaller kitchens. Her mother was the only servant in it. Shonri Wellrun leaned over a heavy wooden table, kneading dough. Behind her a fire blazed brightly in the oven, and the warm air smelled of yeast and cream. Her hands white with flour, Shonri rolled the dough into long, thin lines, then deftly braided it. She squeezed juice from a tart-smelling fruit onto the dough, then dusted it with a sprinkle of brown spice.

Larajin stared at her mother, trying to see her through her father's eyes. Shonri had just turned sixty. Her red hair had faded to the color of pale ash, and her hands were creased with wrinkles. Even though she had been a servant all of her life, Larajin's mother had a hint of pride in her bearing and a gentle beauty that years of toil hadn't quite erased. She was one of the elder master's favored servants and was often summoned to the big table to be praised for her delicate pastries, made with rare spices from the four corners of Faerun.

Had Shonri been summoned by one of the master's guests for attention of a different sort? Was Larajin the illegitimate child of a union like the one her father thought he was preventing?

As if sensing Larajin's intent gaze, Shonri looked up. She smiled at her daughter and gestured at a mortar that held greenish nuts. "Larajin, if you've finished with the linen, would you crush those for me?"

"Mother, I need to know…" The question died on Larajin's lips. But her expression conveyed it silently.

Her mother covered the braided dough it with a damp cloth. "Something's troubling you," she said, gesturing Larajin closer. "Come tell me what it is."

Larajin found herself unable to move from the doorway. She gripped the door frame tightly and spoke in a rush. "Father says I'm not his daughter. I believe him. I want to know who my real father is."

A flash of anger crossed Shonri's face. An instant later it was replaced with an expression of resolve. She patted a stool beside her. "Sit down. It's time you knew the truth."

Like a sleeper walking in a dream, Larajin slowly crossed the room. She sat beside her mother and waited while her mother carefully cleaned her hands on a rag. Then Shonri herself sat down.

"You are a daughter to your father," she said in a careful voice, "as much as you are a daughter to me. Always remember that."

Larajin nodded. She already knew that her mother and father loved her. She considered the relationship between herself and her mother a close one, even though it was to her Aunt Habrith that Larajin turned when she wanted to confide her secrets.

Shonri stared at the oven, not really seeing it.

"Twenty-three years ago, I lost a child," she said slowly.

Larajin was confused. This wasn't what she'd expected to hear. "I don't understand."

"You will," Shonri said. She continued. "I was accompanying Master Thamalon the Elder on a trip north to the Dales, a trading expedition. He'd asked me to come with him to evaluate the quality of the wild forest nuts and fruits he intended to purchase. It was a very important journey, a keystone in the household's economic well-being, and the meeting had been set up a full year in advance. It was a singular honor for me. So I agreed to accompany the master, even though I was pregnant and near to giving birth."

Shonri's eyes grew sad. "Your father didn't want me to go. We'd been trying for a child for so long…"

She sighed. "I lost my child on that journey. When the birth came, we were deep in the woods, far from a cleric. The child died."

Larajin touched her mother's hand. "How-"

"The trading expedition was not a success," Shonri said. "More than half of the nuts had been damaged in the harvest, and the fruits hadn't ripened properly. We stayed only a short time-long enough for the master to conclude that the yields would never be large enough to turn a profit.

"While we were there, the folk in the place we were staying at learned that I had just lost a child and approached the master to ask a favor. One of their women had died in childbirth, and no other woman had milk to suckle it with. They asked the master if his servant would care for it. I took one look into your beautiful hazel eyes and immediately agreed."

Larajin had listened carefully to every word her mother said, yet she still found them difficult to believe. "I… I am not your daughter, either?" she asked. "Who am I, then?"

Shonri gave a slight shrug. "An orphan. The mother was unwed, and no one knew who the father was."

Larajin wanted to know more. "Was my mother a Daleswoman?" she asked. "From what town?"

"I don't know," Shonri answered. "We were deep in the Tangled Trees, far from any town. The meeting was held in a place where the nuts and fruits grew wild. The master never inquired as to the woman's name."

Even though she was firmly seated upon a stool, Larajin felt as if she were floating. Her mind groped for something-some as-yet unspoken detail-then seized upon it.

"You never told Father that you lost your own child, did you?" she said. "He was just guessing when he said that I wasn't his daughter. He didn't know how right he was."

Shonri rose from her stool and picked up a metal tray. Lifting the cloth away from the bread, she carefully eased it onto the tray, then opened the oven and slid it inside.

"Have you finished folding the linen?" she asked in a businesslike voice.

Larajin suddenly realized that her mother wasn't going to tell her any more. The familiar distance between mother and daughter was back. The time for confidences was over.

"Not yet," Larajin answered.

"Well get back to it, then, before Mister Cale finds out."

Larajin stood quietly, listening to the lap of the water against her ankles. The Temple of Sune was quiet this early in the morning. Its priests tended to serve the Lady of Love with nightly revels, then sleep late the next day. Only on mornings when there was an especially beautiful sunrise did they rise to greet it.

It was snowing again outside, and a chill wind was blowing, but the waters of the great fountain that filled the temple's courtyard were as warm as a stream on a summer day. Powerful clerical magic kept the temperature balmy at ground level. The snowflakes that were falling into the open central courtyard, with its beautiful natural rock formations and magically animated fountains, gently melted away before they hit the ground. Driftglobes floated just above the surface of the main pond, filling the temple with soft-hued light.

The only other occupant of the temple at this hour was a young girl about eleven years old, wearing the crimson robes of the temple. She was an auburn-haired child, one whose high cheekbones and long eyelashes suggested that she would grow into a great beauty one day. Like Larajin, she was of uncertain parentage. The priests had found the girl on their doorstep one day and taken her in.

Larajin had been worshiping at the temple long enough to know the serving girl's name: Jeina. She knew little else about her. Was Jeina as tormented by questions as Larajin was? Or had knowing ever since her birth that she was a foundling allowed the girl to come to terms with her unknown ancestry?

Larajin watched Jeina tip a bowl of pale yellow rose petals into the water. For a moment, their eyes met. Jeina smiled, then shyly turned away.

Larajin waded through the ankle-deep water to one of the pools near the center of the fountain. Formed over decades by pebbles that had gradually worn a boulder into a natural bowl as the water swirled them round, the pool was one of those used by lay worshipers who wanted to ask questions of the goddess. Its stone was veined with gold and tufted with velvety mosses that were blooming in the unseasonable warmth.

Larajin stared into the clear water that filled the pool, watching the pebble trace a lazy circle around its bottom and the ripples flowing across the pool's surface. They distorted her reflection, softening the rust-colored hair that straggled out from under her turban and blurring a face that was too long and angular to ever be considered pretty. Usually a petitioner would ask the pool to reveal the face of a future beloved. Larajin had other questions on her mind.

"Who am I?" she asked. She dipped a finger in the water, then touched it to her heart, leaving a damp spot on the gold fabric of the vest of her serving uniform.

Larajin felt a tickle on the back of her neck, like a lover's breath, and smelled the unmistakable fragrance of Sune's Kisses. A moment later, a tiny red flower petal slid down the trickle of water that was falling into the pool, then another. Even though water was still falling into the pool, its surface became still.

Larajin looked down upon a reflection that she only half-recognized. The face was her own, but the turban was gone. Her hair was tucked back behind her ears. Her ears were…

"A golden morning to you, Larajin."

Larajin started, and her hand fell into the pool. Ripples covered its surface once more, distorting her reflection. She whirled around and saw the one person in Selgaunt she'd least expected to see. Diurgo Karn, a young noble about her own age, was a priest of Sune. He wore holy vestments: tight-fitting crimson hose capped by a thickly padded codpiece, and a shirt slashed to reveal his muscular arms and chest. His features were every bit as handsome as Larajin remembered, with fair hair containing just a touch of red swept back from his high forehead and forest-green eyes. Not so long ago, Larajin had thought herself in love with him and had dreamed that the goddess would smile upon this "impossible" match between servant and noble.

"A golden morning to you, Diurgo," she said in a choked voice. "When… when did you get back?"

"Ten days ago."

Ten days ago, and he hadn't once thought to inquire as to Larajin's well being or even to let her know of his return.

Larajin intended to say no more to him, but curiosity burned inside her. "Was Lake Sember as beautiful as they say? Did you see its crystal towers?"

Diurgo made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I was forced to turn back before I could reach the lake. The elves would have killed me had I tried to continue."

"You knew that before you set out."

"Knowing and seeing are two different things."

"Yes they are," Larajin said, seeing him even more clearly than before. Several months ago, in the flush of spring, she'd been caught up in his quest: a pilgrimage to famed Lake Sember, a body of water sacred to both Sune and the elf goddess Hanali, Sune's rival for worshipers of beauty. Larajin had stolen away from Stormweather Towers to follow Diurgo but had traveled only a short distance before agents sent by Master Thamalon the Elder had forced her to return to Stormweather Towers. She'd pleaded with Diurgo to persuade them to let her accompany him, but he'd refused to speak on her behalf, sharply reminding her that she was only a serving girl, and a hindrance to his quest. Now it seemed he'd given up his "holy pilgrimage" as soon as the path became too steep for him.

Larajin stared at Diurgo, not bothering to hide the hurt she felt. "What do you want?" she asked.

"I saw a faint pinkish aura around you just now as you were gazing into the pool," Diurgo said. "I'm certain it was a manifestation of the goddess. I thought I could help you to channel it into-"

"A manifestation," Larajin spat back at him. "Like my rust-colored hair? Your lies worked on me once, Diurgo, but I'm not listening to them any more. You can find another naive young woman to conduct your 'holy revels' with."

The young priest had the good grace, at least, to look uncomfortable. Even so, he persisted. "I'm not lying, Larajin. I saw the aura clearly."

"Just as I see you clearly, Diurgo." Larajin folded her arms across her chest. "And I no longer like what I see."

Haughty annoyance flashed across the young priest's face. He waved a finger at her. "You shouldn't talk that way to the son of a noble house, girl." Without another word, he splashed angrily away.

Furious with herself, Larajin waded back to the edge of the main pool. Ignoring the towel Jeina offered, she jerked her slippers onto her feet, then picked up her cloak and strode out through the temple's main door.

She'd gone nearly two blocks before she noticed that her arms and legs were no longer stinging. Stopping, she untied the bandage on her wrist, and found to her amazement that the bite there had completely healed.

As she walked toward Kremlar's perfume shop, Larajin clutched her cloak tightly around herself. The sun was just rising over Selgaunt's eastern wall, and snow drifted down out of a leaden gray sky. Larajin pushed the thoughts of Diurgo out of her mind. Unlike him, she would complete her quest. Today, no matter what foul creatures lay in wait for her in the sewers, she would sneak into the Hunting Garden and rescue the injured tressym.

She was nearly at the shop when someone hissed at her from an alley. Instantly on the alert, Larajin poised herself to run. When she saw the person who beckoned to her from the shadows, she faltered to a stop.

It was as if Larajin were looking into a mirror. The woman was in her early twenties, and wore the turban, vest, and serving dress of the Uskevren household. She had the same height and slender build as Larajin, and the same angular features. She even stood with the same awkward posture, aping Larajin's surprise. Then she winked and pulled off the turban to reveal short, dark hair.

"It's me: Tazi," the double said. "Pretty good disguise, don't you think?"

"Mistress Thazienne," Larajin gulped. "Why are you dressed in a servant's uniform?"

"Call me Tazi," the mistress said: a reprimand that had become automatic between them. She chuckled. "I was just having a little fun. Remember the day when I caught you in my room, dressed up in leather armor and posing in front of the mirror? You looked so much like me-aside from the clumsy way you held my sword-that it gave me an idea. I wanted to see if I could pass as you."

Larajin blushed, embarrassed to be reminded of her transgression. She'd always admired Mistress Thazienne for her boldness, and when Larajin had set out after Diurgo, she'd pictured herself an adventurer like the young mistress. In the wake of her one adventure's disastrous ending, Larajin was even more aware of the vast gulf that separated the two of them. Thazienne, she was certain, wouldn't have even blinked at the malformed rats in the sewer.

Which reminded Larajin of the injured tressym.

"I have to go," she said, glancing up the street in the direction of Kremlar's perfume shop.

Thazienne's playful expression instantly sobered. She caught Larajin's arm. "Not that way," she said. "There's three elven gentlemen just up the street that I don't think you want to meet-much as they'd like to make your acquaintance."

Larajin's eyes widened. "Is one of them a wild elf?"

Thazienne's eyebrows raised in surprise. "You've run into them before?" she asked. "They look like pretty tough customers. They nearly succeeded in grabbing me-and I'm a pretty slippery eel. What do they want with you?"

"I don't know," Larajin said with a shiver. "Maybe they're members of a rival house who want to kidnap an Uskevren servant."

Thazienne shook her head slowly, her green eyes sparkling. "I don't think so," she said. "I understand a bit of the elven tongue-enough to have overheard one of them say, 'Is it her?' and the other answer, 'She's the one. I could smell it.' It's you they're after, Larajin."

Larajin glanced around fearfully. "Where are they now?"

"I pretended to run away, but then I followed them. They're lying in wait outside your friend's perfume shop."

Larajin didn't know which surprised her more: the fact that the young mistress knew about Kremlar, or that the wild elves knew her movements.

"You shouldn't go back to Stormweather Towers either," Thazienne advised. "Is there some other place else you could lie low?"

Larajin thought for a moment, then nodded. "I could go to Habrith's," she said. "Or do you think they'll be waiting for me there, too?"

A strange look crossed Thazienne's face; it was almost as though she knew something Larajin didn't. "Habrith's bakery should be safe enough," she said. "Go there now. I'll distract the elves and lead them back to Stormweather Towers, so they'll think you're there."

Larajin felt a rush of relief. "That's very kind of you, Mistress Thazienne."

"Think nothing of it-I haven't had this much fun in tendays," Thazienne said. She winked. "And for gods' sake, call me Tazi, would you?"

Larajin peeked out the window of Habrith's shop at the busy intersection. Wagons rumbled past, shoppers hunched along through the snow, and nobles in all their finery rolled past in glass-enclosed carriages, high above the dung-splattered slush in the street. She saw Kremlar stride past under a multicolored snow parasol, followed by a servant of the Soargyl family who was laden with boxes of Kremlar's perfume samples. But there were no other figures she recognized-and she was especially relieved to note there were no green-cloaked elves in sight.

"I don't understand any of it, Habrith," Larajin said, letting the curtain fall. "I'm not my parents' daughter, and now there are elves trying to kidnap me. Wild elves."

Habrith must have heard the faint note of disgust in Larajin's voice. "Elves have their place in the world, just as humans and dwarves do," she gently chided. She waved away a customer who had come to buy bread and hung a "Closed" sign on the shop door.

Larajin wasn't listening. "What are they doing in Selgaunt, anyway? Wild elves are too simple and shy to cope with city life. That's why they hide in the forest. They have no use for money, the elder master says. Nothing to spend it on. Why would they want to ransom me?"

"It's not ransom money they're interested in."

The certainty of Habrith's tone caught Larajin's attention. She stared at Habrith. The baker was in her late sixties-older than Larajin's mother-but though her face was wrinkled, her hair was still a rich nut brown. She wore it in a simple braid down her back. Her clothes were fashionable, but a little on the plain side. In a city where even peasants decorated their bodies with enough adornments to attract a flock of greedy crows, Habrith's only adornment was a silver crescent moon pendant, worn on a leather thong around her neck.

Habrith's philosophy-"simplest is best, and all ingredients in balance"-was reflected in her shop. She was known throughout the city for her bread. While other street bakers and household cooks, including Larajin's mother, cut and shaped their bread in intricate patterns, Habrith's product was simple, square loaves, shaped like the pans they'd baked in. But the tastes… that was where Habrith excelled. She made loaves using ingredients even Larajin's mother hadn't heard of.

Shonri and Habrith had been rivals, back before Larajin was born, and for a time there had been a war of loaves in the Uskevren household. Over the intervening years they'd developed a close bond, based on their shared love of their craft. Habrith, who seemed to embrace Larajin's own thoughts on the foolishness of fashion, had become like an aunt to the girl.

Now Larajin wondered how much Habrith really knew about her. The baker hadn't seemed one bit surprised when Larajin had told her that Shonri and Thalit weren't her parents.

Habrith seemed to have heard Larajin's thoughts. "I know who your mother is," she said.

"You do?" Larajin asked, startled.

Habrith nodded. "I've been waiting for the right moment to tell you. Now it seems that moment has been forced upon us. I just hope you're prepared to listen."

"I am," Larajin said, jumping down off the counter she'd perched upon. "Tell me!"

Habrith thoughtfully fingered the pendant at her throat. "You asked about wild elves. That's a subject I know a thing or two about. I was the one who set up the trading mission that your mother spoke of. Thamalon Uskevren hoped the fruits and nuts that grew wild in the Tangled Trees could turn a profit, and that this would encourage the preservation of that forest."

"What have the Tangled Trees got to do with me?" Larajin asked. "Aside from the fact that a Daleswoman gave birth to me there."

"Your mother wasn't a Daleswoman," Habrith said. "She was a wild elf."

For a moment, Larajin sat in stunned silence. Larajin refused to believe it. Her mother couldn't have been one of those tattooed, wild creatures. She shook her head. "My mother can't have been an elf," she said. "I'm human."

"Half-human," Habrith said.

"But my ears aren't-" Larajin's eyes widened as she remembered her reflection in the pool in Sune's Temple. She'd seen her own face-but with an elf's delicately pointed ears.

"So that was what the goddess was trying to tell me," Larajin said in a whisper. She stared at her fine-boned, slender fingers as if seeing them clearly for the first time, then ran them over her narrow face and pointed chin.

Habrith looked intently into Larajin's eyes. "The goddess?" she prompted.

It was all the encouragement Larajin needed. She told Habrith about what had happened in the Temple of Sune: about her wounds magically healing and the reflection she'd seen in the pool. She told Habrith about the rat bites, and the sewer, and her encounter with the tressym. She also told Habrith about the Hulorn's strange appearance and the magical appearance of Sune's Kisses, whose fragrance the wild elves seemed particularly interested in. When she finished, Habrith was quivering with excitement.

"Do you know the elvish word for that plant?" Habrith asked.

Larajin shook her head mutely.

Habrith spoke two words in a fluid language, then translated. "The name for it in the Common tongue is Hanali's Heart. It's also sacred to the elven goddess of beauty: Hanali Celanil. The gold flecks on the leaves are her symbol. The fragrance is said to emanate from priests of Hanali when they are working their magic."

"I'm no priest," Larajin protested, "and I worship in Sune's Temple."

"Sune and Hanali are rivals for mortals' love and affection, but they share one thing: the sacred pool of Evergold. While the goddesses might quarrel over whether humans or elves are more beautiful and often try to steal each other's worshipers-especially if they are half elven-they are on friendly terms with one another. It is possible for a mortal to worship them both-and to be blessed by both."

Larajin's head was spinning. "You're saying… that I'm blessed? By an elven goddess?"

Habrith nodded. "And by a human goddess. That brings us back to another point: your human father."

"Who… was he?"

"Who is he, you mean," Habrith corrected. "None other than your master: Thamalon Uskevren the Elder."

Larajin sagged, and caught herself against the counter. "My master?" she whispered. Habrith's words made sense. No wonder Thamalon the Elder had been so incensed at the thought of any romance between Tal and Larajin. Tal was her brother-or half-brother, at any rate, as was the younger Thamalon. Mistress Thazienne was Larajin's half sister. No wonder they resembled one another!

Larajin understood, now, why she had never been turned out of her servant's position, despite Mister Cale's unfavorable reports. Why the master had sent agents after her to fetch her back after she followed Dirugo.

Even so, Larajin was hard pressed to believe that the elder master was her father. Thamalon Uskevren was a solemn, respected man of noble birth and impeccable character who loved and respected his wife. What would have possessed him to sleep with a barbarian elf maiden?

"Your mother was a beautiful woman," Habrith said. "As beautiful as you have yet to become, once you find your way. She was well respected by her people, even though she accepted a human's seed inside her."

"Is that why I was given up by the elves?" Larajin asked. "Because I was half human?"

Habrith shook her head. "You weren't given up," she said. "Thamalon took you. Now the wild elves want you back."

"Back?" Larajin croaked. "Back where? And why?"

"In the Tangled Trees," Habrith answered. " 'Why' is the question I'm trying to find an answer for."

Larajin looked at Habrith with fresh eyes. The grandmotherly woman was more than she seemed. She knew things a mere baker should not.

Habrith nodded, and tapped the crescent moon that hung against her throat. "I have friends. I ask questions and hear things. The answer shouldn't be long in coming."

Larajin realized she was supposed to understand what Habrith was hinting at-the crescent moon represented something. But she had no idea what.

Habrith's hand dropped away from her throat. She rummaged behind the counter, pulling out a change of clothes, which she thrust at Larajin.

"Take your uniform off," she said, "and put these on. That should keep them guessing. Wait here, and open the door for no one. I'll have a word with these fellows who have been bothering you, then I'll come right back."

Larajin held the clothes in her hands. "But-"

Habrith pressed a finger to Larajin's lips. Then she smiled. "We'll speak more when I get back," she said. "Be sure to lock the door behind me."

After changing into the clothes Habrith had given her and waiting a few moments to ensure the baker wouldn't see her leave the store, Larajin made her way through the sewers to the Hunting Garden. She didn't see any malformed rats, this time. The only thing that slowed her down was an overactive imagination. Every splash behind her sounded like the footsteps of the green-cloaked elf. She whirled around more than once, a knife from Habrith's bakery in her fist, to confront what had proved to be only a shadow.

Inside the garden, she hurried to the spot where she'd last seen the tressym. It mewed in response to her call- but so faintly that Larajin barely heard its cry.

The winged cat lay at the base of the tree, barely looking up when Larajin stroked its fur. It looked even more bedraggled than it had two days ago, its fur wet and matted and its wing feathers shredded. A large lump over the broken portion of its wing was oozing pus.

"Oh, kitt," Larajin said, tears welling in her eyes. "I should have come back sooner. I'm so sorry."

She touched a hand to the lump on the tressym's wing. It was hot under her fingertips, despite the fact that the creature was shivering. The tressym growled softly but made no other protest.

Larajin wanted to pick the wounded creature up and carry it back to the temple, but she was afraid that if she moved the tressym, it would die.

She did the only thing she could: she prayed. First to Sune, then to Hanali. She begged whichever of the goddesses was listening to save the tressym, to prevent this beautiful creature from dying.

Larajin caught a whiff of something sweet: Sune's Kisses. Or, as she knew it now, Hanali's Heart. The flower was nowhere to be seen. The Hunting Garden was shrouded with snow. Yet the scent grew steadily, as if dozens of the tiny mouth-shaped flowers were suddenly blooming.

The tressym began to purr. Larajin looked down in alarm, mindful of the old wives' tales that spoke of cats purring just before they died. She was surprised to see that the tressym's fur looked a little less matted, that the lump on its wing was a little smaller.

Most surprising of all, her hand that lay over the lump had a rosy red glow. It pulsed out from her fingers and into the tressym, beating with the steady rhythm of Larajin's own heart.

She swallowed down her wonder. If this was magic-if she really were channeling the power of the goddesses-she didn't want to lose it. She concentrated on the wounded tressym, putting every ounce of her will into her desire for it to be whole and well.

She heard voices headed in her direction. One, she recognized-the Hulorn. Every instinct told her to flee, but she continued to focus upon the tressym, doing her best to ignore the approaching danger. The only sign of her rising panic was a slight tremble in her hands.

Finally she heard something that broke her concentration.

"… this blasted ring," the Hulorn said. "It seems to bear a curse. It regenerates flesh but twists it to its own dark design."

The other voice, also male, was unfamiliar. Now Larajin could hear feet crunching on the snow.

"Its magics seem to be linked to that of the wand," the second man said with a wheeze. "I cannot dispel the magic of one without affecting the other. You will have to make a choice: both, or neither."

The tressym stirred under Larajin's hand. The lump was almost gone.

"By the gods! Who is that?"

Larajin looked up. Not more than a pace or two away stood the Hulorn, his half-serpentine face twisted with alarm and rage. Behind him was a tall, dark-skinned man who leaned on a knotted staff. Clad in smoke-gray robes that made him little more than a shadow in the snowy forest, he stared at Larajin with an expression that was equally surprised.

"Who is she?" he asked, his voice wheezing.

"What does it matter?" the Hulorn said. "She's seen us together. She's seen this." He held up his bird-taloned hand.

The dark-skinned man nodded. He moved his staff slightly. "Shall I?" he whispered.

Fear coursed through Larajin in a violent shiver. She had no idea who the dark-skinned man was, but she understood the look in his eye. The Hulorn had just condemned her to death, and the dark-skinned man was to be her executioner.

Larajin crouched, too frightened to move, as the mage pointed the knobby tip of his staff at her. In that same moment, she felt the tressym stir under her hand. Finally healed, it rose to its feet and stretched brilliantly colored wings wide, fluttering them and testing their strength.

The Hulorn laid a hand on the staff. For a moment, Larajin thought she had been reprieved.

"Wait a moment," the Hulorn said. "The tressym cost two hundred suns. I don't want it damaged."

With a loud howl, the tressym launched itself into the air, fleeing into the treetops. Larajin stood, holding up her hands and begging for her life. "Please. I didn't mean to trespass. I found the injured tressym and just wanted to-"

The end of the dark-skinned man's staff crackled with magical force. Black sparks spat from its tip. Larajin started to turn but knew she'd never escape. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a bolt of crackling black force leap from the staff…

In that same instant a figure hurled itself from behind a tree. Still turning, Larajin caught only a glimpse of him: green cloak, feather-tipped braid, narrow tattooed face. Then the bolt from the staff took the leaping figure full in the chest. The wild elf screamed in agony, body suddenly going rigid. Sparks leaped from the tips of his fingers and booted toes, then his clothes and hair burst in tatters from his body. His charred husk fell to the ground, smoking against the snow.

Larajin gaped in horror at the blackened corpse. Now a sound registered in the silence left by the explosion.

An urgent whisper, in a language she didn't understand. Again, in the common tongue: "Run! Run!"

She needed no urging. Somehow her feet found their footing in the slippery snow. She caught a glimpse of another cloaked figure leaping down from a tree branch onto the Hulorn, who had drawn his sword, and yet a third cloaked figure rushing out from behind a bush at the dark-skinned mage. As she ran through the woods, her heart pounding, she heard two more explosive crackles behind her.

With frantic haste, Larajin scrambled over the lip of the fountain and wrenched the grating free. She'd barely wriggled through when she heard thudding footsteps approaching the fountain above. Sobbing, she realized that they had followed her footsteps in the snow. They wouldn't be able to trail her through the sewers. However there were too many twists and turns in the darkened tunnels-and sewer water didn't hold any tracks.

She leaped down into the tunnel, and fled with splashing footsteps through the darkness.

Larajin slipped in through one of the servants' entrances of Stormweather Towers, still panting from her run across the city and stinking of sewer water. She'd seen no signs of pursuit-neither the Hulorn's guard, nor the dark wizard, nor even wild elves. She was reasonably certain the Hulorn wouldn't be able to identify her if he saw her again, since nobles tended to see only the uniform and not the servant underneath. That didn't mean she was safe, though.

As she slipped off her muck-covered boots and toweled her hair, Larajin could hear murmured voices coming from the stairs that led to the main part of the household. That would be the master, in the throes of yet another business discussion with the Talendars, a very important meeting that Larajin was supposed to be working.

A meeting presided over by Master Thamalon Uskevren. Her father.

The thought was still too incredible to believe.

Larajin heard a slight scratching at the door behind her. She opened it, and saw the tressym perched on the boot scraper outside. The winged cat walked into Stormweather Towers as though it had always lived there and rubbed against Larajin's leg.

"What is that creature doing here? That's an expensive pet-send it back to wherever it came from."

The winged cat scuttled back out the door as Mister Cale marched down the hall. The head servant's deep-set eyes were blazing. He drew himself to a halt and pressed thin lips together, giving Larajin the full benefit of his scowl as he took in the fact that she was out of uniform. His nostrils sniffed.

"Just where," he said, with heavy emphasis on each word, "have you been?"

Larajin saw the tressym fly away, a splash of vibrant color amid the falling snowflakes, and shut the door behind her.

"To worship Sune, Sir," she said meekly. "The winged cat followed me back from the temple, and I was all this time trying to get rid of it."

"Hmph." Mister Cale seemed to accept this explanation. "Get into uniform. At once. Tend to the master. There's an important meeting going on upstairs."

Larajin bowed her head. Despite her posture, she was anything but contrite. She stared at her folded hands-at the fingers that had wrought the healing magic of Sune-or Hanali-or both.

I'm somebody, she thought to herself. Somebody who three elves just died to protect. Not just a servant-a square peg in a round hole-but something… else.

Everything was the same in the Uskevren household, but for Larajin, everything had changed. Master Thamalon the Elder, engrossed in his business meetings and haunted by memories of his past, was no longer just her employer. He was her father, and the people who had died when the original Stormweather Towers burned were Larajin's own kin. Mistress Shamur now was someone to be doubly cautious around. Larajin didn't even want to imagine the icy treatment she'd get, if the mistress knew that Larajin was the result of her husband cheating on her.

Mistress Thazienne-Tazi-was still the same roguish troublemaker she had always been, but now Larajin saw her with a different eye. The same blood flowed in their veins. Perhaps Larajin might be just as adventurous, one day.

Master Thamalon the Younger was still as much of a playboy and spendthrift as ever. Knowing that he was her half-brother gave Larajin a new empathy for the struggles he faced. Though she had heard the details only secondhand, while waiting at the Uskevren table, she now could appreciate the dangers Thamalon had faced while patching up the Foxmantle trade agreement.

Larajin even saw Tal in a new light, not just a friend who deliberately stepped over the line that divided master and servant but as a brother. She prayed that Tal would react in his usual, relaxed way to the news that they were kin.

Only one person in the Uskevren household had not changed, in Larajin's eyes. Mister Cale was still the same mysterious, slightly ominous figure he had always been.

Larajin edged past Mister Cale and marched briskly to the servant's change room to put on a uniform. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him staring at her. Hard.

He sees the change in me, she thought. I wonder if he can guess why.

Larajin, for the life of her, had no idea what lay ahead. But she knew the answer was waiting for her somewhere. Not here in Stormweather Towers, nor even in the Hunting Garden whose artificial solitudes had called to her all these years, but elsewhere: among the wild elves of the Tangled Trees.