Greendaughter (Book 6) by Anne Logston Page A

garlands of leaves and flowers, designs painted on each horse with colored clay, and brightly colored leather strips woven into manes and tails. The leather tack had been polished to a shiny gloss, and every scratch or tear in the leather skillfully mended. The saddlebags on each horse brimmed with goods, and additional leather sacks and wineskins had been added to the load of the one riderless horse. The humans had already mounted their horses, although Sharl was looking from one decorated animal to the other with a thoroughly disgusted expression.
    Elves crowded around Valann and Chyrie, pressing last gifts of flowers, scented herb bags, and small packets of snacks and sweets. Dusk appeared as if by magic; a handsome black-and-gold brighthawk, so named because the large predator often hunted fish in the Brightwater River itself, perched on his wrist.
    “I wish you could have stayed longer,” he told Chyrie. “Had I not been so busy last night—” He grinned slyly and shrugged. “There will be another time.”
    He reached out and took her hand, clasped it around his extended wrist. The brighthawk cocked its head inquiringly, fixed its obsidian eyes on Chyrie, then hopped from Dusk’s wrist to hers. She had no leather wrist shield like Dusk’s, and the brighthawk’s talons dug painfully into her skin, but the discomfort was drowned by the feel of the brighthawk’s mind—fierce and powerful, but at the same time welcoming and almost soothing, like the soft, comfortable feel of an old, well-worn tunic.
    “I raised him from the egg,” Dusk said quietly. “He is well accustomed to a beast-speaker’s touch and his range is considerable. He will be your companion now. It is my hope that our thoughts may touch through him.”
    Chyrie gave the hawk a nudge with her mind and it hopped to her shoulder, where the thicker leather provided more protection.
    “His mind has the feel of you,” Chyrie murmured. She smiled at Dusk. “I am honored, kinsman.”
    Dusk turned to Valann.
    “There is also a gift for you,” he said. “Chyrie mentioned that we had found some new colors you did not have. We donot know how you mix your dyes, but we have placed the raw colors in pots in your packs. You will honor us if we one day see our colors in your work.”
    Valann’s eyes widened with eagerness, and he could not suppress an involuntary glance at his saddlebags.
    “You could give me no greater a gift,” he said quietly. “When next I visit, I will find the time to give some of your folk designs of their own, if they wish it.”
    “Enough, enough,” Sharl growled. “While you spend the day taking leave of your friends, we lose daylight.”
    Chyrie scowled and Valann sighed heavily, but they led their horse to a convenient stump and mounted, Valann scrambling up first to pull Chyrie in front of him.
    “Fare well, kinsfolk,” Rowan said, reaching to touch Valann’s fingertips, then Chyrie’s. “May the road that leads you back to us be a short one. I will not ask that the Mother Forest bless you with rich soil and ripe seed, for it seems She has already done so.” She smiled. “Much of our hopes rest with you, my friends. Keep safe and happy.”
    “And you, Grandmother,” Valann said. He clasped her hand. “Happiness and prosperity to you and your people.”
    Then they had to quickly urge their horse forward, for Sharl, disinclined to wait, was already leading the others back toward the road, consulting a map that Rowan had given him.
    “Four days,” Sharl grumbled as he urged them as quickly as he could down the narrow trail leading back to the common road. “As fast as we can go on this pitiful trail, it’s going to be four days at least.” He apparently trusted Rivkah’s magic, for now that he had left the village he was speaking the human tongue, apparently as eager to be free of the elven language as he was of the elves themselves. Rivkah, however, continued to use the elven tongue, explaining that if they