Elven Star – The Death Gate Cycle 2. Margaret Weis & Tracy Hickman

“Maybe it’s because we’re near the dwarven kingdom. That’s got to be it, kid. What else would it be?”

“I don’t know,” Rega said, staring intently into the shadows. “I don’t know. I hope you’re right. Come on!” she added suddenly, “Let’s end this.”

Roland lowered his sister over the edge of the moss bank. She rappelled skillfully down the side. Paithan, waiting below, reached up his hands to steady her landing. The look she gave him from her dark eyes warned him to stand clear. Rega landed tightly on the wide ledge formed by the fungus, her lips curling slightly as she eyed the ugly gray and white mass below her feet. The rope, tossed over the edge by Roland, snaked down and landed in a coil at her feet. Paithan began attaching his own length of rope to a branch.

“What’s this fungus attached to?” Rega asked, her tone cool and business-only.

“The bole of a tree,” said Paithan, his tone the same. He pointed out the striations of the bark, wider than both elf and human standing side by side.

“Is it stable?” she asked, looking over the rim uneasily. Another moss bank was visible below, not that far if you had a rope tied securely around your waist, but a long and unpleasant drop if you didn’t.

“I wouldn’t jump up and down on it,” suggested Paithan.

Rega heard his sarcasm, cast him a angry glance, and then turned to shout above. “Hurry up, Roland! What are you doing?”

“Just a minute, dear!” he called down. “Having a little trouble with one of the tyros.”

Roland, grinning, sat down on the edge of the moss bank, leaned up against a tree limb and relaxed. Occasionally he poked at one of the tyros with a stick, to make it bellow.

Rega scowled, bit her lip, and moved to stand on the edge of the fungus, as far from the elf as she could possibly get. Paithan, whistling to himself, fixed his rope tightly around the tree limb, tested it, then began to fasten Rega’s.

He didn’t want to look at her, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes kept darting glances in her direction, kept pointing out things to his heart that his heart wasn’t the least bit interested in hearing.

Look at her. We’re out in the middle of this Orn-cursed land, alone, standing on a fungus with a twenty-foot drop beneath us and she’s as cool as Lake Enthial. I never met a woman like her!

With luck, whispered a certain vicious part of him, you’ll never meet one again!

Her hair is so soft. I wonder what it looks like when she lets it down out of that braid, falling over her bare shoulders, tumbling around her breasts. . . . Her lips, her kiss was just as sweet as I’d imagined . . .

Why don’t you just throw yourself off the edge! The nasty voice advised him. Save yourself a lot of agony. She’s out to seduce you, blackmail you. She’s playing you for a foo-

Rega sucked in her breath and backed up involuntarily, hands clutching at the tree trunk behind her.

“What is it?” Paithan dropped the rope, sprang over to her.

She was staring intently straight ahead, straight out into the jungle. Paithan followed her gaze.

“What?” he demanded.

“Do you see it?”

“What!”

Rega blinked and rubbed her eyes. “I-I don’t know.” She sounded confused. “It seemed … as if the jungle was . . . moving!”

“Wind,” said Paithan, almost angrily, not wanting to admit how frightened he’d been, or the fact that the fear hadn’t been for himself.

“Do you feel any wind?” she demanded.

No, he didn’t. The air was still, hot, oppressive. His thoughts went uneasily to dragons, but the ground wasn’t shaking. He didn’t hear the rumbling sound the creatures made moving through the undergrowth. Paithan didn’t hear anything. It was quiet, too damn quiet.

Suddenly, above them, came a shout. “Hey! Come back here! You blasted tyro-”

“What is it?” Rega yelled, turning, standing back on the ledge as far as she dared, trying hopelessly to see. “Roland!” Her voice cracked with fear. “What’s the matter?”

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