by Lisa Smedman
Inside, Kremlar fussed with an oil lamp, trimming its wick. The dwarf had invited them up to his personal quarters above the shop and had listened with rapt attention as Larajin told Tal and Leifander about her journey north to the Tangled Trees, repeating what the druid had told her about the twins’ destiny. Now he seemed embarrassed to be listening, like a host who finds his guests in the middle of a quarrel. When the wick was at last trimmed he stood nervously, fiddling with the rings that adorned each of his fingers.
On the balcony, Leifander spread his arms. A flutter ran through his tattooed fingers. He turned to Larajin, and gave her a long look.
“Good-bye, sister. May your goddesses protect you. I pray we never have to face each other as enemies.”
A shudder coursed through him, long black feathers sprouted at his fingertips, and his body hunched in upon itself and shrank. In no more than a few heartbeats, he had transformed into a crow. He sprang into the air and flew up the street.
Larajin ran to the balcony and watched Leifander go. He headed northwest, toward the city walls and the River Arkhen. From there, she assumed, he would wing his way north toward the ancient woods, leaving her back where she’d started, in Selgaunt.
On the street below, she heard one of the city guard call out the All’s Well. Hurriedly, she drew back from the balcony and retreated into Kremlar’s rooms.
After a glance down at the guard in the street, Tal followed her inside.
“What will you do now?” he asked. “I’d advise that you not go home. The streets around Stormweather Towers have been thick with the guard, and Drakkar has come calling twice. He’s still looking for you.”
Kremlar walked nervously to the balcony doors and shut them, turning the key in the deadbolt. Lifting the tip of his neatly braided beard to his lips, he absently chewed on it—a habit that surfaced only when he was extremely nervous.
“You could … stay here with me,” Kremlar said hesitantly.
Larajin was touched by the offer. Kremlar was desperately afraid of wizards. Years before, one had turned him to stone, after an exotic herb Kremlar had provided him proved stale. He’d stood in the wizard’s garden for three long, desperate years, sentient but unable to move, before friends found him and prevailed upon a cleric to reverse the spell.
“Thank you, Kremlar,” she said, then attempted a joke, “but your guest bed is far too small. My feet would hang out the end.”
Kremlar merely nodded.
“Wherever Leifander’s gone,” Larajin continued, “I have to try to follow him. It’s a matter of life or death.”
She stared intently at a painting on the wall without really seeing it, not wanting to even glance in Tal ’s direction. If she did, the prickling in her eyes would almost certainly turn into a flood of tears.
“Master Ferrick says our company will be riding tomorrow,” Tal said. “That’s why I was in your room when you … reappeared. I was hoping to carry some token of yours with me into battle.”
“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Larajin rounded on him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You were concerned with rescuing your twin brother,” he said in a voice bordering on annoyance. “I didn’t want to … distract you from what seemed to be your primary concern.”
Larajin bit back her reply: that Tal was her primary concern. And tomorrow he would be riding to war. On fast horses, his company could reach the edge of the elven wood in as little as a tenday. Having witnessed the swift and silent attack by the elves on the Foxmantle caravan, Larajin knew what kind of reception awaited Master Ferrick’s troops, once they reached the forest. Even if the rest of the company survived the attack, Tal would not.
“I didn’t have a chance to tell you before now,” Tal continued. “Especially with …” He shrugged. “Master Ferrick ordered us not to tell anyone when we’d ride—A careless word is oft o’erheard’ is his motto.”
Larajin was only half listening. Her mind was entirely on the immediate problem. Leifander was gone, and she was trapped, once again, in Selgaunt. She could guess where Leifander was headed—back home to the Tangled Trees—but in order for her to follow him, she’d somehow have to get out of the city.
Suddenly, she realized the answer. “Tal—how large is Master Ferrick’s company?”
Tal frowned. “Nearly two hundred riders. Why?”
“Do you think one more would be noticed?”
Tal was quick to guess her plan. He thought a moment, then answered, “You’d need armor and a surcoat and a horse.”
“Could you get them for me? Would you?”
He nodded. “You can ride with us to Ordulin and take refuge there until Drakkar has at last given up his search for you. Ordulin should be a safe place to wait this war out.”
“Thanks, Tal.” Larajin gave her half-brother a grateful hug, then she turned to Kremlar and said, “I will take you up on that offer of a guest bed, after all, Kremlar, but just for one night.”
Kremlar nodded.
The scratching of claws against glass drew Larajin’s eyes to the balcony door.
“Goldheart!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
The answer was obvious enough. The tressym was trying to get inside. She stood on her hind legs, wings folded against her back and forepaws scratching at the leaded glass. Over and over she pawed at it, then, when the people inside failed to promptly open the doors, she launched herself onto the rail of the balcony and perched there, wings flapping urgently.
“Gods protect us,” Larajin exclaimed. “Let her in, Kremlar, before one of the guard sees her!”
It was Tal, however, who grabbed the key from Kremlar, sprinted for the doors, and opened them. As the tressym leaped down from the rail and padded inside, Kremlar trotted beside her, trying to herd her along by waving his hands in shooing motions.
“Don’t let her near the furniture,” he said in an anxious voice. “That chair cost me a hundred and twenty ravens.”
Seemingly in response, Goldheart paused to knead the carpet. As her long white claws hooked its plush weave, tearing little tufts in the wool, Kremlar made a strangled noise and fluttered his hands more urgently. Goldheart looked up at the dwarf with wide, innocent eyes, then turned her back on him and walked straight up to Larajin and sat at her feet.
Yrrow?
Larajin stared down at the tressym. Was it just her imagination, or had Goldheart just spoken to her? Her ears heard a meow, but her heart heard a word: “Yes?”
A second meow, and again the echo of words in Larajin’s mind: “You called for me?”
The air was thick with a flowery scent. Kremlar, who had fallen to his knees to pat the damaged carpet threads back into place, looked up and sniffed.
“That fragrance,” he said, brows furrowed with the concentration of a connoisseur. “Sune’s Kisses, if I don’t miss my guess.”
Larajin heard all of this in a strange echo, as if Kremlar’s voice was coming from the bottom of a deep well. The only thing she heard with clarity was the voice of the tressym, who stood like a soldier at attention, wings neatly folded and forelegs stiff and straight.
“Yes, Lady?” she asked. “How may I be of service?”
This had to be Hanali Celanil’s work. Larajin could think of no other reason why the tressym would suddenly develop human speech. She dropped to her knees and mirrored the tressym’s pose, leaning forward on her hands.
“Goldheart, I need to find out where Leifander went—can you help?” As she spoke, a part of her mind registered the fact that her throat and mouth were making sounds like the meowing of a cat. Yet she could hear her words—and Goldheart’s reply—as plainly as if they were speaking in the common tongue.
“He turned into a birrrrd,” Goldheart answered with the faintest of growls. “A strange-smelling bird.” A pink tongue darted out to wet thin lips. “He flew away.”
“Could you follow him?” Larajin asked.
Goldheart’s pupils dilated. “Chase!” she said excited
ly. Her claws flexed into the carpet.
“Yes, chase,” Larajin said, “but don’t hurt him. Just follow—see where he goes, then come and find me, and tell me where he is. Can you do that?”
Larajin had no doubt the tressym could accomplish the task. No matter where Larajin had gone, in the past two ten-days, Goldheart had been able to follow her—somehow even managing to include herself in the spell Larajin had cast to transport herself back to Selgaunt. The question really was, would Goldheart do it?
The tressym considered the request, then closed her eyes for an instant. It was the feline equivalent of a smile.
“I’ll do it.”
She rose, stretched, and rubbed her cheek affectionately against Larajin’s arm, then turned and padded out onto the balcony. With a bright flutter of colorful wings, she launched herself into the air and was gone.
Tal, looking down at Larajin, uttered some garbled words. After a moment—when Larajin’s ears had stopped tingling—she was able to grasp their meaning.
“That creature spoke to you?” he’d asked, a perplexed frown on his face. “What did it say?”
“She’s going to follow Leifander and tell me where he’s flown to,” Larajin explained. “I’m going after him.”
Tal’s face clouded. “Why bother?” he grumbled. “He already said he wouldn’t help you.”
“He’s my twin brother, Tal,” she said. “It’s important that we’re together—the gods themselves are working to bring that about. Somehow, we’ve got to try to stop this war. I don’t know how—I just know that we must.”
She reached up and brushed an unruly strand of dark hair away from Tal’s eyes.
“You’ve got to believe me, Tal. This is important. For everyone. Especially for you.”
Tal’s face paled. “Let’s get ready, then,” he said brusquely. I’ll fetch you a uniform, and ready a horse. In the morning, we’ll ride.”
Disguised as a soldier of Master Ferrick’s company, Larajin slipped out of Selgaunt without incident. Guards in the gatehouse that opened onto the High Bridge gave the riders only a bored glance as they rode from the city. Larajin, clad in a mail shirt and surcoat, her hair tucked under a wide-brimmed cap, was no more to them than another soldier.
The company rode north throughout the morning, making good progress. When the sun reached its zenith, they stopped to water the horses and eat a quick meal. As she dismounted, Larajin spotted a familiar flash of color in the distance. Goldheart had returned and had landed behind a clump of bushes not far from the road.
Taking her leave of the other soldiers—pretending she was going to relieve herself behind the bushes—Larajin sought the tressym out. She cast the spell that would allow them to communicate and quickly learned that Goldheart had indeed been able to follow Leifander. The route he’d taken, however, was a surprise. Instead of winging due north, as Larajin had expected, he’d followed the River Arkhen. He’d flown upriver for several miles, continuing to follow the river almost until dawn, then at last shifted back into elf form to enter the Reverie.
“You did well, Goldheart,” Larajin said, stroking the tressym. Goldheart gave a rumbling purr of pride, closing her eyes in a catlike smile. “Now I want you to return to where you last saw Leifander, find him again if you can, and continue to follow him until he ends his journey—until he spends more than a single night in one place. Can you do that?”
Goldheart nodded, then nudged Larajin’s hand again, demanding another pat on the back. Larajin obliged her, then heard the sound of footsteps coming around the bushes.
“Go,” she whispered to the tressym. “Quickly.”
Goldheart flew away just as Tal strode into sight. He glanced up at the departing tressym and said something unintelligible. After a moment, Larajin’s spell wore off. She could guess what he’d asked.
“I’m heading in the wrong direction,” she told him. “Leifander flew northwest. He seems to be following the River Arkhen. When the company sets out again, I’m going to slip away and head upriver. If Master Ferrick notices me going, will you speak to him—explain why one of his ‘soldiers’ is leaving?”
Tal stared at her a long moment before nodding. “I don’t like you setting out on your own,” he said, “but I can see your mind is made up. Just promise me you’ll be careful. That river path is a dangerous one—especially these days.”
Larajin caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, Tal. Promise me that you’ll be careful, too.”
He grunted and gave a soldier’s offhand shrug.
Larajin peered around the bushes and said, “It looks as if the others are getting ready to mount up again. We’d better get back, or they’ll think we’re both trying to slip away.”
Then, seeing the thoughtful gleam in Tal’s eye, she quickly added, “You could, you know … come with me. It would be safer.”
Tal shook his head. “I’m no coward. It’s my duty to fight, and I’m not shirking it. Even if—”
Larajin pressed fingers to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t say it, Tal,” she pleaded. “You’ll survive this war, gods willing.”
“Gods willing,” Tal echoed grimly.
Larajin rode northwest, following a trail that was little more than a footpath bordered by thick forest on the right and a sheer drop to the river below on the left. Despite the slow pace it enforced, the path beside the river offered achingly beautiful scenery—too beautiful to be anything but the work of the goddess. Tufts of feathery fern and stunted maples with dark red foliage grew out of clefts of rock in the canyon below, their leaves and branches jeweled with river mist. More mist hung in the air above the river, sparkling with tiny rainbows. Trees shaded the path itself, filtering the afternoon sun to a pleasant warmth and rustling in the breeze.
In places, the path switchbacked down to the river, allowing Larajin a chance to splash ice-cold water onto her face while her horse drank. The pools offered darting silver fish and freshwater crabs, some of which Larajin had caught and cooked over a fire the night before.
As she rode, she kept watching for the flash of color that would announce Goldheart’s return, but there was no sign of the tressym. Did that mean Leifander was traveling still? Had he veered north, already flown all the way back to the Tangled Trees? Or had he flown off in some other direction? There was no way of knowing.
Larajin was starting to wonder if doubling back to follow the River Arkhen had been the right decision. It might have been more sensible to have continued with Master Ferrick’s company to Ordulin, then ridden the Dawnpost trail west. She would have reached Archenbridge—the town where the trail she did take ended—in about the same amount of time.
Instead she’d been on the river trail for six days with no sign of Leifander and no reports from Goldheart to let her know if she was still headed in the right direction. Tal and his company would have ridden as far as Featherdale. Just three more days riding would put them at the southern edge of the forest of Cormanthor.
Larajin gasped as her horse stumbled on a loose rock at the cliff’s edge, sending her rocking backward in the saddle. For several agonizing moments her heart hammered in her chest as the horse’s hind foot scrabbled for purchase, sending a scatter of rocks and dirt into the river below. Clinging to the pommel of her saddle, she prayed for deliverance, then the horse found its footing. With a second lurch it was upright and walking again.
Glancing back over her shoulder, Larajin stared at the spot where the horse had faltered. Far below the scuffed trail, the River Arkhen dashed itself against jagged rocks in its haste to reach the sea. Larajin and her horse had nearly joined it. Breathing a prayer of thanks to the goddesses for protecting her, she vowed to pay more attention to the trail.
Ahead the path leveled and widened, turning away from the edge of the canyon, into the trees. Larajin at last relaxed, lowering the reins and letting the horse find its own way. In the distance ahead she could hear the thunder of a waterfall. Archendale must be closer than she thought.
Then she realized that the noise was coming from the east, away from the river. The waterfall at Archendale would be more to the north….
Suddenly a running figure—a woman, with a strangely hunched back—appeared on the trail ahead. She was clad in dusty trousers and a shirt several times too large for her slender frame. She had a narrow face, hair so blonde it was almost white, and an elf’s ears and eyes. She stumbled as she ran, wincing with each step of her bare feet. Her arms were thrown out ahead of her, as if she expected to fall at any moment, and her mouth was open wide, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath.
Startled, Larajin reined her horse to a stop. In the same moment the running woman saw her. The woman skidded to a halt several paces away and stared, wide-eyed. She glanced back over her shoulder in the direction of the rumbling sound, at Larajin again, then she darted off into the woods at the side of the trail.
A moment later, three riders burst into view. Seeing Larajin, they halted their horses. One of them—a man who looked like a half-ore, with hair that was receding above a bulging forehead and a muscular neck as thick as a tree trunk—glared at her, while the other two turned this way and that, peering into the woods. All three were clad in chain mail and carried shields emblazoned with a red sword. Larajin recognized them by that emblem as soldiers of Archendale.
“The elf!” the man with the thick neck shouted. “Did you see an elf run past just now?”
His horse pranced under him and snorted its impatience, as if eager to resume the chase.
Larajin felt her eyes narrow slightly, but she kept her face composed. She recognized the hand of the goddess when she saw it. After failing to intervene on behalf of the Harper agent who was beaten by the mob in his shop in Ordulin, Larajin was being given a chance to redeem herself.
“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, casting her face into a worried expression. “That must have been what I heard just a moment ago. A scream. It was just before I passed a spot near a cliff, where the trail had crumbled away. This elf of yours must have gone over the edge!”
