Heirs of Prophecy

by Lisa Smedman

  Larajin glanced around her, and saw that several of Doriantha’s band had their hands close to the hilts of their daggers. One had even unlimbered her bow and was silently stringing it. Larajin started to raise her hands to demonstrate that they were empty, then thought better of it. The locket that hung around her wrist could be as effective as any weapon, if the goddess so willed it. She didn’t want to remind the elves of its presence.

  Instead she nodded, and meekly followed Doriantha while the other elves waited behind. She could feel their suspicious eyes upon her back, all the way to the tent.

  The mottled texture proved to be the result of the tent’s construction. The walls were stitched together from hundreds of overlapping leaves of every shape and size. From within came the sound of a woman singing in the wild elves’ tongue. Intrigued though Larajin was, exhaustion and the raw ache of her blistered feet made her wish that Doriantha had saved this introduction with whoever waited inside until morning.

  Doriantha paused outside the tent and drummed her fingers against its taut leaf wall, then spoke a single word, “Rylith?”

  It must have been the name of whoever was inside the tent, for the singing immediately stopped. Doriantha added something more, speaking quickly in the wild elves’ tongue. Larajin heard her own name spoken by the person inside, then Leifander’s. Doriantha shook her head and answered with an Elvish word Larajin understood: “No.”

  The singing began again, and suddenly an opening appeared in its wall, just in front of where Doriantha stood. It was as if the leaves had blown away in the wind. Grasping Larajin’s arm, Doriantha led her inside.

  As they entered the tent, the wall of leaves became solid again behind them. Looking around, Larajin at first wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. It was almost as if they were standing in a forest glen on a sunny day. Instead of bare earth, as she had expected, the floor of the tent was covered in thick, lush grass, trimmed as neatly as any carpet and sprinkled with miniature white daisies. Above, against the dome of the roof, the sun seemed to be shining. It took Larajin a moment of squinting to realize that the light must have been the result of a spell. A network of branches grew out of the ground and wove its way around the interior of the tent, forming shelves, a low bed, and a bench against its walls. This living furniture was dotted with bright green leaves and tiny yellow flowers, which gave off a sweet, citruslike smell.

  Seated on the bench was an elf with gray hair and dark tree-branch tattoos on her cheeks and chin. A band of silver leaves in her hair glittered where the magical light struck it, and over her leather breeches and vest she wore a cloak that looked as though it had been woven from autumn leaves of red and orange and yellow.

  The woman gave Larajin an intense, expectant look. “You are Trisdea’s daughter?” she asked in fluent Common.

  Larajin nodded.

  The druid sighed. Larajin couldn’t tell if the sound was one of relief—or something else. Was Rylith disappointed in what she saw? Had she expected Larajin to look more like an elf?

  Doriantha placed both hands upon her chest, over her heart, and bowed low in the direction of the gray-haired woman. From the deference she paid Rylith, Larajin guessed that the druid was both important and powerful, perhaps as highly placed among her people as the Hulorn himself. Larajin, not wanting to insult her, imitated Doriantha’s bow.

  She must have done it wrong, for Rylith chuckled. She rose from her seat and strode to where Larajin stood, her leaf-cloak rustling. She bowed briefly in Doriantha’s direction, then took Larajin’s hands in hers.

  “You have come at last,” she said. “Welcome.”

  “Thank you,” Larajin fumbled. “I am glad to have finally reached the Tangled Trees and found my … my mother’s people. I hope I will be—”

  “Welcome?” Rylith asked, as if reading Larajin’s mind. The tattoos on her cheeks folded into grandmotherly wrinkles as she smiled. “Set your mind at ease, child. I will speak on your behalf.”

  Relief washed over Larajin as she met the gray-haired woman’s eyes. Rylith had a presence that was at once calming—and commanding. If she told the elves of the Tangled Trees to welcome Larajin, so it would be.

  Rylith said something to Doriantha, who nodded and picked up a small earthenware jar from one of the shelves. She passed this jug to Rylith, who unstoppered it and offered it to Larajin. The fruity smell of fermented berries rose from within. Larajin glanced down, and saw that the jar was filled with a blue-black liquid.

  “A mild draught,” Rylith said. “One that will help you to relax and to sleep. Your arrival is fortuitous. Tomorrow is the Turning, an important day among our people. The dance begins at dawn. I want you to be well rested. Until then,” she added, glancing at Doriantha as she spoke, “I think Larajin should remain here with me, in my tent.”

  Doriantha nodded and returned Rylith’s glance with a look bordering on relief. The warrior’s shoulders, set so square a moment ago, at last relaxed. For the first time, Larajin realized that she’d made it as far as the Tangled Trees only thanks to Doriantha and was very thankful that Doriantha had been the first elf she’d met. Any of the other elves in the patrol would have taken one look at Larajin’s too-human face, and feathered her with an arrow on the spot. Now, noticing the looks that Rylith and Doriantha exchanged, Larajin wondered what secret they shared.

  “What’s going to happen tomorrow?” Larajin asked.

  Rylith nudged Larajin’s hand, motioning for her to drink. “Trust in me,” she said. “You’ve come too far not to. Tomorrow you’ll get your answers.”

  Exhausted, aching in every muscle and nearly asleep on her feet, Larajin shrugged. What, really, did she have to fear? If the druid wanted to harm her, she could have done so long before now. The awe in which Doriantha regarded Rylith suggested that the druid’s magic was strong. Larajin had no more reason to mistrust Rylith than she did to trust the elves of Doriantha’s patrol who waited outside the tent with daggers and bows.

  She nodded, and swallowed the liquid. It turned out to be as sweet as it smelled, though it burned like one of the Uskevren’s strongest brandies. Wiping her lips with her hand, Larajin handed the jug back to Rylith. When she saw the blue-black stain the liquid had left across the back of her hand, she imagined her lips were a dark blue. The thought made her giggle and hiccup. As giggle and hiccup alternated, she became more relaxed. Doriantha disappeared somewhere into the distance, and Rylith’s face and the walls of the tent began to blur, then soft, wrinkled hands were leading Larajin to bed.

  Gratefully, she sank into the blankets, and nuzzled her face into the sweet-smelling blossoms that grew on the vine-woven bed.

  Tomorrow, she told herself, echoing Rylith’s words. I’ll find my answers then.

  Larajin squatted on the ground, surrounded by hundreds of elves who were drumming, feasting, and singing. They had gathered in a sun-dappled clearing in the forest, at the center of which was an ornately carved wooden pole. As thick as Larajin’s waist and about one and a half times the height of an elf, the pole had been inscribed with Elvish runes that spiraled from the bottom to the top, which was carved in the shape of an acorn.

  All around this pole, elves danced. Drums of every description guided their footsteps. Enormous hollow logs boomed low when struck with massive clubs by teams of drummers, taut-skinned drums clenched between knees were pounded with bare palms, dancing fingers tapped hand drums, and ornately carved hardwood sticks clicked together. The primitive music struck a chord deep in Larajin’s soul. Excitement filled her as her heart kept pace with the frenzied rhythm.

  The elves had been drumming and dancing since dawn, when a camp crier, perched high in a tree above, announced that the sun had crested the treetops. Now the sun was almost directly overhead, and they were hot, sweaty, and drooping, pausing only long enough to slake their thirst with large quaffs of nut-flavored ale that had been chilled in a shaded forest stream. Yet despite the growing heat of the day, the dancing and drumming c
ontinued without pause, fresh dancers springing to their feet to replace those who flagged.

  Larajin watched, fascinated. The elves of the Tangled Trees looked just as savage as those portrayed in the master’s books, but had a proud, noble quality about them that the engravings had failed to capture. Their tattooed faces, red-blond hair twisted with feathers and bones, bare feet, and rustic leather breeches and vests might give them a primitive appearance that would be scoffed at in fashion-conscious Selgaunt, but their dances were every bit as intricate as a quick-step quadrille or tarantella. The movements were physically demanding, suggestive of martial prowess—even the women’s parts. Dancers hurtled into the air, propelled over the heads of their partners, spun furiously in a low squat that erupted into a sudden back flip, or leaped into the air, heels kicking high above their heads. Larajin was dizzy just watching.

  Or perhaps it was the lingering effects of the draught Rylith had given her the night before, combined with the ale. She took another long swallow and wiped the foam from her lips, savoring the warm, muzzy glow the ale provided. With each sip, the world seemed somehow brighter, warmer, more welcoming. The ale was also helping to ease the ache in her legs and lower back left by the long march through the forest.

  Every now and again, a wooden platter of food passed round from hand to hand, always finding its way to the spot where Larajin sat. She recognized none of the dishes but savored their exotic tastes. There were slices of sticky-sweet orange fruit, squares of roasted meat flavored with salt and the smoke of an open campfire, crisp curl-topped ferns cooked with pungent mushrooms, and brown bread crunchy with seeds and nuts. All of it had been prepared over simple cookfires inside the brown leather tents that surrounded the clearing.

  Glancing over the heads of the dancers, Larajin caught sight of Rylith. The druid was walking around the pole in a slow circle that had begun in a crouch at dawn, fingers tracing the spiraling script. Several times, she glanced up at the acorn at the top of the pole—or perhaps to the sky above it—but most of the time her attention was on the ground. She seemed to be measuring the shadow cast by the pole. All morning it had been growing shorter until it was less than a palm’s width long.

  Nobody had taken the time yet to explain to Larajin what was going on, but she found that she didn’t care. Rylith had indeed spoken to the elves, and as she’d promised, Larajin was a welcome guest. Even the elves of Doriantha’s patrol, who had been so suspicious, had in the morning greeted Larajin with welcoming smiles.

  Every elf Larajin had met that morning, in fact, had been overly attentive to her, greeting her with the same bow that Rylith had. They made sure her ale cup was full, and that the platters of food did not pass her by. The fierce challenges of the night before were gone, replaced by coy, curious glances.

  No wonder, Larajin thought. The elves of the Tangled Trees received few human visitors and fewer still who claimed to have wild elf blood flowing in their veins. No, forest elf, Larajin corrected herself. That was what these people called themselves, and so should she. Though Larajin was willing to embrace them as kin, it would be another matter altogether to get them to see her in the same light. They were obviously still a bit wary of her completely human appearance—more than once, she caught them staring at her. Which was strange, since they shouldn’t have been surprised by the way she looked, after having Leifander grow up among them.

  Larajin returned her attention to the dancers. She longed to ask the elves next to her what the celebration was all about, but the few words of Forest Elf that she spoke had proved barely enough to do more than exchange names. All she could make out was that the dance had something to do with the sun and the year, which was either beginning or ending—or both. Perhaps it was a primitive version of the Midsummer Night celebrations she’d attended a year before in the temple of Sune. She wondered if it would end, like them, with couples slipping away to consummate their flirtations.

  Between the throbbing drumbeats, Larajin heard a cry of pain, echoing out of the forest. Startled, she sprang to her feet and glanced around, thinking that someone had been injured, but an elf woman beside her shook her head and gestured for her to sit down again. The woman patted her stomach, then mimed holding a baby in her arms.

  Larajin nodded, understanding. The cry was that of a woman in labor. Seating herself again, she wondered if she, too, had been born during a gathering like this, surrounded by enormous trees in a leaf-shadowed tent smelling of the moss that lined its floor, while outside, elves drummed and danced. It was a far cry from the formal halls of Stormweather Towers, where births took place in rooms with scrubbed stone floors, clean beds, and trained midwives.

  Taking another sip of ale, Larajin basked in the warm glow it left her with and nodded in time with the music. Despite having been there less than a day, she was already coming to understand the forest elves. In just one morning she had learned the polite way to eat, with just her first two fingers and thumb instead of the whole hand. The elves had also taught her the proper way to greet a friend, with one hand on her heart. Especially honored guests were greeted with both hands—in the manner that Doriantha had bowed to Rylith. They had even suggested, tapping a finger against her cheek, that she adopt their custom by getting a facial tattoo. Giddy with ale, she was actually considering it.

  Larajin nodded and smiled at the elves around her, thanking them for each new bit of lore. Despite the fact that they were instructing her in matters of formal etiquette—something Erevis Cale had tried to drum into her ever since she was born, much to her dislike—she felt at home there, a lost daughter returned to her roots. The forest elves were a strange and wild folk, to be sure, but being among them somehow felt … comfortable. Like her, they didn’t worry about getting dirt on their knees or brambles in their hair.

  Larajin shared their love of the forest and their delight at being surrounded by green and growing things. Having nothing but an open sky overhead made her feel free. She felt at home there—more than she ever had within the dusty confines of Stormweather Towers—and safe from Drakkar’s threats. The forest elves had accepted her, would protect her.

  Some of their customs were strange, but they fit her more comfortably than did a servant’s quiet obedience. These people had a way of holding themselves, of walking and sitting, that mirrored her own. For the first time, her own mannerisms seemed natural. She missed Tal, and her friend Kremlar, and dear old Habrith, but in the Tangled Trees, she was among her own people. Here, at last, was a place she could call home.

  As the sun climbed still higher in the sky, a patch of bright sunlight found her. Filtered through the branches though it was, the sunlight was hot on her shoulders and the crown of her head. Larajin rose to her knees, intending to shift to a patch of shade, when, as one, all of the drums stopped. She looked up, and saw Rylith standing rigidly at the center of the clearing, one hand extended overhead, face upturned and fingers splayed as she reached toward the sun. Around her, all of the dancers had sagged to the ground. They sat, panting, eyes locked on the druid.

  As Rylith stood, stiff asa statue, a haze of heat formed in the air above her outstretched hand. Small as a clenched fist, confusing to the eye, the shimmer flickered rapidly back and forth between flame-white and shadow-black. At the same time, a beam of sunlight lanced straight down onto the pole while an ink-dark shadow seeped out from its base and began to creep upward in a slow spiral. Light and shadow met at the acorn atop the pole and crackled there with magical energy. Even though she sat a good distance away, Larajin’s nose tickled, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. She felt as if a thunderstorm was crackling overhead, about to break over her.

  A gasp whispered through the crowd when Rylith clenched her hand shut around the flickering heat haze. She lowered her hand to her chest, as if clutching something precious, then lifted it to her lips and whispered to it. Her gaze ranged over the assembled crowd, and as it lingered, then passed over each elf, he or she gasped expectantly, then gave a disappointed
sigh.

  Then the druid seemed to find what she had been searching for. She stared in Larajin’s direction, and Larajin, still half sitting and half kneeling, twisted around to glance behind her. Several of the elves seated behind her were leaning forward expectantly, eyes locked on the druid. Their faces fell. Turning around again, Larajin saw that Rylith had moved away from the pole and had stepped to within a few paces of her. The druid gestured with her free hand for Larajin to rise.

  Uncertain why she had been singled out, Larajin obeyed and found she was unsteady on her feet. With an effort, she regained her equilibrium. She didn’t want to embarrass herself by falling over, not with the elves all around her looking up at her with expectant faces. Rylith stepped closer, and Larajin could hear the whirring of the magical energy the druid cupped in her hand. It was a high-pitched, fluttering noise, like the sound of a hummingbird’s wings.

  Rylith was speaking, addressing the crowd. The language of the forest elves flowed swiftly from her lips, as clear and high as a mountain stream or the ripple of a wind through the wood. Larajin caught only a word or two—her own name, and Leifander’s, and the Elvish word for twins—then Rylith opened her hand. In one swift motion, before Larajin could jerk away, the druid threw the ball of magical energy. It shot forward with the speed of an arrow. In the instant that it entered her, Larajin saw a tiny white feather strike her chest, then flutter to the ground.

  She gasped as sunlight flared in her eyes, washing her vision white. Waves of heat and cold gripped her body, which felt as though it was expanding, growing as large as the world itself. Thoughts whirled through her mind—a multitude of voices in three choruses: those who had died, those who yet lived, and those who had yet to be born. They had a message to impart, a message of hope and despair, joy and grief, urgings and warnings. A message she struggled to understand but could not, since it was being shouted in the Elvish and common tongues at once, each drowning the other out. The emotions behind the message, however, came through like breaking waves. The voices expected her to say something, do something, to be something.