Heirs of Prophecy

by Lisa Smedman

  Bobbing on the sea of human and elf faces was one she recognized. Tal. He stood amidst the throng, visible from the shoulders up, wearing chain mail over his shirt and an embroidered surcoat bearing the crest of House Uskevren. There was something wrong about his face. His deep green eyes were staring, unfocused, and his dark hair was matted and wet on one side. Something seemed to be sticking out of it, just behind the right ear, as if a twig had been caught in his hair.

  With a shudder of horror, Larajin realized that an arrow was sticking out of Tal’s head, buried nearly to the fletching in a mat of blood-crusted hair.

  He was dead.

  The view shifted, drew back. Larajin saw hands bursting out of the earth like grasping vines, twining themselves around the ankles and calves of Tal and all those around him. The hands were dark, the color of earth, and had fingernails that flashed silver, like steel. They clawed at the flesh of those above, tearing deep gashes that wept a rain of blood onto the disturbed, heaving ground.

  The elves and humans were still shouting at Larajin, calling to her, demanding she listen, imploring her to act. Unable to withstand the discordant chorus of voices that broke over her, one wave crashing in after the next, Larajin grabbed her ears with both hands and broke into a stumbling run. Somehow, despite her eyes being squeezed shut, she found her way through the elves in the clearing, running faster and faster through what must have been patches of sunlight and shadow. Blazing heat alternated with winter chill as darkness, light, darkness, then light flashed before her eyes. Something grabbed her from behind, and something else knocked against her legs, tripping her and toppling her to the ground.

  She wept with relief as darkness finally claimed her.

  Larajin woke to the patter of rain and the smell of wet leaves and soil. She lay on a bed of soft moss, covered by a light sheet, one hand outstretched. Cool, wet leather pressed against the back of her hand—the side of a tent.

  It was too dark to see anything clearly. The walls of the tent were dark, and it had been pitched deep in the forest, with a tangle of branches shrouding it from what must be an overcast sky. The resulting gloom was as dark as a cave.

  Larajin lay in the darkness, wondering what had happened. Her first thoughts were of Tal. Was he still alive? Had that truly been a vision of his death she’d seen? If so, when was it going to happen—now, or in the future? There was no way to know and little she could do to warn or protect Tal while she lay there in that tent, so far from home. The thought left her with a hollow in her stomach even deeper than her hunger pangs.

  Hours must have passed since the celebration in the forest clearing. Had they carried her to this tent to recover from the druid’s spell? Larajin was confused, groggy from her long sleep, hungry, and in need of relieving herself.

  She sat up and located the faint line of gray that was the tent flap. Through it blew a cool breeze that smelled of rain. As she sat up and crawled toward the exit, something shifted. Larajin saw the dim outline of a creature, perched on the horizontal pole just above the tent flap, peering at her. Enormous round eyes gleamed in the darkness, then blinked. The creature shifted again, and Larajin heard a rustle of feathers.

  “Goldheart?” she asked hopefully. She reached out in the darkness to stroke the tressym.

  A loud hoot filled the tent, stopping her short. The creature unfolded its wings and flapped them once, warning her away. This was no tressym. It was an owl—an enormous one, as large as a hunting dog. It peered balefully at her, snapping its beak at her questing fingers. She pulled her hand back.

  As the need to relieve herself grew more pressing, Larajin tried once again to crawl outside. The owl, however, beat its wings furiously and rose from its perch, raking the air in front of it with its talons and snapping its beak. Its message was unmistakable. It didn’t want Larajin to leave the tent.

  Warily, Larajin searched for another exit but found none. She was frustrated and puzzled. Had this creature crept inside the tent while she lay sleeping? Or had one of the elves deliberately placed it there to prevent her from leaving? She had read in one of the books at Stormweather Towers that wood elves used owls as watchdogs.

  Whatever the reason for it being there, the owl was clearly not going to let her get past it.

  Feeling her way around the tent, she located a wooden bowl and dumped out the cold food that filled it. She used it to dig a hole and relieved herself, then covered the hole with earth and settled back onto her mossy bed, glaring at the owl. Whether the creature had been left there or crawled in on its own, she’d had enough of the thing.

  “Hello!” she shouted in Common. “Rylith! Are you out there? What’s going on?”

  Lantern light flickered against the walls of the tent, and voices called out to one another in the elves’ tongue. Then one side of the tent brightened. A moment later, moving shadows appeared and grew on its side.

  The owl, which had returned to its perch, ruffled its wings a second time when the tent flap beside it opened. An elf poked his head through the entrance, peered at Larajin from under bangs that dripped with rainwater, and nodded when he saw she was awake. He said something to her in his own language, then switched to broken Common.

  “You wait,” he said. “Rylith gone.”

  “Where is she?” Larajin snapped.

  “Travel to setting sun.”

  “She’s journeyed west? Where to?”

  The elf’s only answer was a stony look. There were some questions, it seemed, he wouldn’t answer.

  Frustrated by his silence, Larajin chafed. She’d expected Rylith to come to the tent, to explain what had happened—what the purpose of her spell had been. Larajin felt no different than she had before, but the magical energy must have done something to her, had some lingering effect. She also wanted to ask Rylith what her vision had meant. Not the part about Tal dying—that was clear enough—but the multitude of voices shouting at her. Larajin didn’t have the patience to just sit in this tent and wait. She’d have to find a way to get to Rylith, wherever she was. Perhaps Doriantha could help.

  “What about Doriantha?” she asked the elf. “Is she here?”

  He shook his head firmly. “No. Gone. Go fight.”

  “Has she gone to ambush another caravan?” Larajin asked hotly. “Wasn’t killing Dray Foxmantle enough for her?”

  That earned her a blank look. Larajin tried again, using simpler words. “Who does Doriantha fight?”

  “Sembians,” the elf said, then added, with a feral grin. “Now is war.”

  “War,” Larajin echoed in a whisper.

  That was it, then. The dam holding the mutual hostilities of the elves and the Sembians in check had finally broken. Was that why she’d seen an image of Tal’s death? Was he marching, even now, toward a confrontation with the elf archer who would seal his doom?

  And what would happen to her now? This elf didn’t seem as friendly as the others had. Instead of smiling deferentially at her, he glowered. In fact, now that the glow of the ale—and whatever had been in that draught Rylith had given her—was gone, Larajin’s certainty of her welcome was fading, fast. Had the elves only been pretending to accept her as one of their own? Had she just imagined their smiles?

  For the first time since she’d set out on her journey to the Tangled Trees, Larajin realized the ramifications of her decision. The elves had seemed so benign, so welcoming, earlier in the day. Did they now see only her human features and consider her a prisoner of war?

  She rose to her feet, keeping a wary eye on the owl. “When did Doriantha leave? Can I go to her?”

  The elf shook his head. “No go. Stay. Wait. Leifander come. Then you …” Unable to find the word in Common, he linked his fingers together. “Like so again. Prophecy time come, and gods take. All be good for forest elves.”

  Larajin didn’t like the sound of that last part. What did he mean, exactly, by “gods take?” And what had he meant by that gesture? Larajin and her twin had been united that closely only once—i
n the womb. Did he mean they would be united again in death?

  The elf stared at her a moment longer, then turned and stroked the owl. Seeing her chance, Larajin quickly whispered a prayer to Sune, pleading with the goddess to provide her with a spell. If she could command the elf to take the owl away with him, she might be able to slip out of the tent and find someone to help her, but though she prayed fervently, no answer came. There was no rush of magical energy, no red glow from the locket. Even the goddess had turned her back on Larajin.

  The elf withdrew from the tent, leaving the owl. Defeated, Larajin turned her prayers toward Hanali Celanil, asking the goddess to fill with compassion the hearts of the elves who now held her prisoner.

  As she finished her prayer, she sniffed the air. Was it only wishful thinking, or was there a faint scent of Hanali’s Heart in the air? Would the elf goddess persuade her people to spare Larajin’s life?

  Time would tell.

  CHAPTER 6

  The sun was rising when Leifander at last flew away from Stormweather Towers. He had sat with Thamalon Uskevren in the indoor garden throughout the night, at first only grudgingly listening, then, as Thamalon talked about Trisdea, gradually asking more and more questions. The old man had managed to convince him that he too loved the Tangled Trees—that his attempt to create a market for the forest’s wild nuts and fruits had been made with the elves’ welfare in mind. By the end of their talk, Leifander was thinking that if he had to have been sired by a human, he was glad that it had been someone who could see the beauty of the forest as clearly as any elf. When Thamalon tried to persuade him that there were other humans who felt the same—who did not want war with the people of the forest—Leifander had believed him.

  Almost.

  Angrily, Leifander shook his head. He flapped his wings harder, beating the weak notion from his mind with strong, sure strokes. Just because one human was benevolent toward the elves didn’t mean the rest could be trusted, he reminded himself. Thamalon was an aberration: hardly representative of his race. Just look at the sprawling city below, at the people scurrying through it like ants. If their leaders told them to kill every last elf, they would do it without question.

  As the pink rays of the sun slanted over the river, illuminating the walls and towers that surrounded the city, dark shapes began to rise into the air above a wide swath of greenery, itself enclosed by walls. Hearing the hoarse caws of his feathered kin, Leifander wheeled toward the flock. The crows—more than a hundred of them—were rising from their nesting place, a grove of trees beside a lake far too symmetrical to be natural. Now they were wheeling in the air above the lake, forming up for the flight to their daytime feeding grounds.

  Leifander joined them, losing himself in their mid-air teasing and games. He tested his speed in a race against another young male, dived playfully at a female who avoided him with an adroit slip to the side, then found a strong current of salt-tanged air coming off the sea and showed off with a series of dives and loops that left the others croaking with envy. These birds were animals, not skinwalkers, but Leifander felt at home among them. They were his totem animal, their souls kindred to his own. Among them, he could lose himself in simple, mindless play. He could—

  Flashes of sunlight from the ground below caught his eye. Wheeling in a tight circle, he passed over a wide, cobblestoned plaza a second time, and saw a group of several dozen archers beside caravan wagons, their brightly polished helmets reflecting the sun like mirrors. They looked as though they had lined up to receive rations—or perhaps a shipment of arms. Curious, he dived from the flock for a closer look. It wouldn’t hurt to do a bit of spying while he was there.

  Settling onto the cool slate of a rooftop beside the plaza, Leifander hopped to the edge. From this vantage point two stories above the plaza, he could catch the scents of freshly sawn boards and the stink of the humans below, already sweating in their armor. The archers were carrying strung bows, and a few held quivers of arrows, but none had yet been nocked. Man-shaped targets—some made of wood, others sacks that had been stuffed with straw—lined two sides of the plaza, half hidden behind potted trees. Behind the targets, the ground floor windows of the shops had been closed and shuttered. Each of the streets leading to the plaza had been blocked by a wooden bar, beyond which a soldier stood guard. It looked as though the humans had assembled to practice their archery, but as yet the targets were unfeathered by arrows.

  The four wagons were larger than those usually found in caravans and had been drawn up in a line. They looked newly made and were as yet unpainted. They were without horses, their traces and harnesses coiled in a heap in front of each wagon. Strangely, though, a driver sat in each wagon’s seat, just ahead of the enclosed cargo area, holding the reins as if driving an invisible team.

  A sergeant shouted orders, and the archer closest to the back of each wagon opened its rear doors. His curiosity fully aroused now, Leifander hopped sideways along the edge of the rooftop, trying to see inside. He had almost reached a good vantage point when he saw a flash of a mailed arm as one of the archers pointed him out. A heartbeat later, the archer beside him raised his bow and nocked an arrow.

  Leifander hurled himself sideways, wings flapping, as the arrow skittered against the slate tile beside him, knocking loose a tile. As the archer below laughed and swiftly drew another arrow, he hopped back out of sight. They probably thought him nothing more than a crow—but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t skewer him with an arrow, just for sport.

  Hopping across this rooftop to seek another, Leifander heard the sergeant shouting at his men to stop wasting their arrows, then voices arguing, pitched too low for him to make out the words. A moment later came an order to “mount up” followed by creaking noises below.

  By the time he risked a peek down into the plaza again, all of the archers had disappeared. For a moment, Leifander wondered where they had gone but then saw the wagons shifting as the men inside them repositioned themselves. The sergeant walked from one wagon to the next, closing the rear doors, then strode out of the plaza at a brisk pace. From somewhere out of sight, came his shout: “Ready?”

  The drivers stiffened in their seats. “Ready!” the lead one cried. “Ready!” the next called out, then the next, and the next.

  The wagons ceased swaying and grew still. Soon the only sounds came from outside the plaza, the murmur of citizens going about their business, and the rumble of carts through the streets.

  For several long moments, nothing happened. The drivers sat ready in their seats, hands occasionally flicking the reins. A whistle shrilled and as one, the drivers dropped the reins and lunged sideways on their seats, pushing hard on levers that Leifander assumed were brakes.

  Hinges squealed and, with loud thumps and bangs, the sides of each wagon fell open, revealing a flat platform behind the driver’s seat. Archers stood on it, facing outward, arrows nocked and bows at full draw. Taking only a heartbeat to aim, they loosed their arrows, which sang through the air toward the targets. They drew again, and shot, and again, and shot, filling the plaza with a deadly rain of arrows. Many struck the wooden walls or shutters of the buildings behind—but many more thudded into their targets. One of these, battered by a flurry of arrows, topped sideways and fell, like a man slowly dying. Others jerked and tore apart into sprays of straw. Only after each archer had shot an entire quiverful of arrows did the thrumming bows at last fall silent.

  A whistle shrilled a second time, the archers lowered their empty bows, and the sergeant strode back into the plaza.

  Leifander grimaced at he had just witnessed: a deadly trap that would take the forest elves completely by surprise—a trap that could be made even more deadly still if any of the hidden warriors were capable of wielding magic. The elves would come willingly to the bait, thinking the unguarded wagons soft and ripe, like jawa fruits ready to be plucked and peeled. When they attacked the “caravan,” they would be cut down in droves.

  Leifander crouched and spread his wings, p
reparing to take off from the rooftop. He needed to get back to the forest as quickly as he could, to warn the others. He—

  Could not move. His body had become as rigid as a statue. He tried to draw in his wings, but though his muscles ached with the strain, not a single feather ruffled. His legs were likewise frozen in place, and though he continued breathing, his breath came short and shallow, drawn in and out of a chest that barely moved. With a rising panic, he realized he must be the victim of a spell.

  He heard the scrape of a boot on the slate behind him and tried to cock his head but could not. Peripheral vision showed him the outline of a human climbing up from behind the peak of the roof and silhouetted against the morning sun, but the only detail he could make out was the fellow’s raised hand. With a sinking heart, he realized he must be a wizard or cleric—one who had crept up on him and used a spell to immobilize him.

  In the plaza below, the archers were pointing in his direction and talking in low voices. Cursing himself for a fool, Leifander realized that he had tarried there too long—that the humans must have been anticipating a spy. Whether they thought Leifander a wizard’s familiar or knew that he was a shapeshifter didn’t really matter. Either way, he had been caught and now would be executed. Worse yet, he had failed his people. If he didn’t manage to warn the elves about what the wagons concealed, he wouldn’t be the only one to die.

  Darkness descended in the form of a large leather sack that engulfed him, then was drawn shut.

  When Leifander regained his senses, he was still in darkness—in his elf form, lying naked on a cold stone floor. His body was bruised and aching, as though someone had taken the sack he’d been in and beaten it against the wall—though he doubted that even humans would be so stupid as to try to kill a spy before questioning him. No, the ache in his bones was probably the aftermath of the spell that had immobilized him.