by Lisa Smedman
“What were you looking at?” she asked.
He pointed at the footprint, but she glanced into the stream instead.
“The fish?” she guessed. “They look too small to eat.”
Her stomach growled. They’d had nothing since morning, when they shared the windriders’ breakfast, and it was late afternoon.
“Never mind,” Leifander said, dropping his hand.
Even if he warned her that a patrol was nearby, he doubted she would be able to move quietly. The three or four times he’d scolded her already, she’d pouted and said she was trying.
Trying his patience, was more like it.
The tressym landed beside them and began lapping from the stream. The creature—whom Larajin insisted was called Goldheart, though Leifander had never heard of a tressym naming itself before—seemed intent upon following wherever Larajin went. It had been pursuing them since they set out, wings brilliantly flashing as it flew above the trees. Leifander hoped the patrol wouldn’t spot it and send a scout back to learn what a magical creature was doing in this part of the woods.
“We’ll follow the stream,” he told her. “It flows to the north, and it’s our quickest route to the lake.”
Following it was also, he thought, one way to cover the noise Larajin was making. Unfortunately, it meant they wouldn’t be able to hear anyone approaching through the forest either, but Larajin didn’t need to know that.
“When we reach the shore, we’ll travel along it to the west. There’s a headland at the lake’s midpoint that juts out some distance. That should give us the best view, come moonrise.”
Larajin nodded, and wiggled her fingers for the tressym. It came to her as obediently as a lynx and arched its neck as she stroked its sleek fur.
“I’m going to shift into crow form, and scout ahead,” Leifander told her. “If there are any patrols in the area, I’ll see them better from the air.”
Larajin glanced up at the enormous trees that lined both sides of the stream and asked, “Won’t the branches be too thick?”
She wasn’t as gullible as he’d assumed.
“Larajin,” he said. “There’s an elf patrol close by.” He pointed to the east. “They went in that direction only a short time ago. By the grace of the gods, we were a distance behind them and didn’t stumble out into the open while they were still crossing the stream. They’re close enough that I’m worried they’ll spot the tressym. They might assume it’s a wizard’s familiar and double back. If they find you here, this close to Lake Sember, you’re a dead woman.”
Larajin nodded, her face pale.
“I’m going to try to find them and make sure they keep traveling away from the lake. They’ll trust me. I look … like one of them.”
“How will you find me again?” Larajin asked.
Leifander had to smile. “When you get to the lake, find the headland. You’ll know it by the oak tree that grows out of the bluff at the end of it. The tree was struck by lightning years ago and now has a fork near its base, and two trunks.”
Larajin gave him a wry smile. “Hardly a good omen.”
“I’ll meet you at the oak before moonrise,” Leifander continued. “Hide yourself well, and wait for me there.”
CHAPTER 11
The moon crested the trees, spilling a shimmering line of white across the lake’s surface. Lake Sember was truly as beautiful as Diurgo had said it would be. A wide expanse of deep water, the lake was bright turquoise in sunlight, a darker blue by moonlight. Its water smelled fresh and clean, tempting Larajin to slake her thirst, but instead she’d honored the prohibition against any but full-blooded elves drinking from the lake. Hanali Celanil might favor her, but she didn’t want to risk the wrath of the other elf gods.
For the hundredth time since she’d hidden herself in a clump of brambles near the lakeshore, she rose from her crouch and peered into the forest. Wind whispered through the trees, stirring branches into motion. The only other sounds were the deep croaking of the frogs that lived in the rushes farther down the lakeshore and the occasional distant splash of a fish feeding on the insects that hovered over the lake at night.
“Where are you, Leifander?” she whispered to herself. “What’s happened to you?”
She was certain she was in the right spot. A few paces away was the oak tree Leifander had described, its twinned trunks growing at angles to one another. Just beyond it was a drop of a pace or two and the water’s edge.
Beside her, Goldheart sniffed the breeze, then dropped her jaw and inhaled deeply, having caught a scent. She turned her head this way and that, as if trying to catch the direction from which it came.
“What is it?” Larajin asked.
An instant later, she heard a crackling sound that seemed to originate from somewhere out on the lake. The noise was very faint, but it seemed familiar. After a moment, she realized what it reminded her of: spring thaw, in the River Arkhen, when the ice was breaking up.
Goldheart dropped to a crouch and slunk away through the brambles. Once she was clear, she launched herself into the air and flew to the oak. She landed on one of its branches and folded her wings, staring fixedly out at the lake.
Curious, Larajin crawled out through the path she’d made through the brambles. She walked to the oak tree and crouched in the shadow of its trunk, keeping it between herself and the forest. Squinting, she tried to see what had captured Goldheart’s attention.
She spotted it almost at once. It was a finger of what looked like an inverted icicle rising slowly out of the lake some distance from the shore. A second shimmering spire followed a moment later, then a third. They were too distant to make out clearly, but she could see that each was rising from below the water’s surface, one after the other in a line as the moonbeam spread across the lake. There were four of them, each making the crackling noise as it rose, yet leaving the surface of the lake eerily still. Each had to be at least a hundred paces high.
Larajin breathed a prayer to Hanali Celanil and Sune both, thanking them for allowing her to witness this wonderful sight. She stared at the lake until the last of the crystalline towers had finished rising, then glanced at the moon. It seemed to pause for a moment, round and full, just above the tops of the trees, then it continued its ascent into the sky.
Larajin bit her lip, wondering how long the towers would remain above the lake. That part of the legend, Diurgo hadn’t known. They might remain until the moon set again—or they might sink back under the surface after just a few brief moments.
Leifander might know the answer—but Leifander wasn’t there.
Perhaps Larajin should just set out on her own for the crystalline towers. She could instruct Goldheart to wait for Leifander and guide him to the towers, once he finally arrived.
Yes. That seemed like the best idea. But first, to see if she could actually cast the necessary spell.
She glanced up at Goldheart, who once again was sniffing the breeze. The tressym stared down at Larajin, an intense expression on her face. She growled once, low in her throat, and glanced back at the forest. Briefly, Larajin considered asking the goddess to bless her with the spell that would allow her to ask Goldheart what she’d scented, then decided against it. Even if there was something threatening back in the woods, she would, if the goddesses were willing, soon be well beyond its reach.
Climbing down lower on the outcropping of rock on which the lightning-struck oak stood, Larajin kneeled and dipped her fingers in the lake. The water was deep along that section of the shore and as cool as a night breeze. To Larajin’s surprise, her touch stirred ripples that glowed a faint red, like phosphorescence in the sea. She glanced around, and noticed that the fish breaking the surface weren’t producing any such effect. The places where they leaped and landed rippled, but the water there remained a cool, dark blue. Sune was with her.
She heard a flutter of wings behind her as Goldheart flew away. Nervous, she listened for movement in the forest but heard nothing.
W
ith the realization that she was out in the open where she might be spotted by an elf patrol, Larajin decided not to tarry any longer. Touching the locket that hung at her wrist with fingers that were still wet from the lake, she began to pray. First a prayer to Sune, to make her footsteps as light as a lover’s sigh, then a prayer to Hanali Celanil, asking her to make the waters of the lake as firm as a marriage bed.
A nearby splash startled her, but when she looked up, she saw it had only been a fish breaking the surface near where she squatted. The smell of Hanali’s Heart rose from the ripples. Encouraged by the thought that the elf goddess was also listening to her prayers, Larajin quickly pulled off her boots. She stood, and placed her bare foot tentatively on the surface of the lake, testing its resistance.
Before she could step out onto the surface, however, a tickling in her nose and throat made her cough. It felt as if Sune’s warm glow was drying her throat and as if Hanali Celanil’s fragrance was cloying her nostrils to the point where it made her eyes water. Frightened, Larajin found her breathing becoming fast and shallow. That definitely wasn’t part of the spell she’d been trying to cast—what were the goddesses doing?
Telling herself to have faith—the signs of the goddesses’ blessings were all around her—Larajin took a step out onto the lake, but instead of finding solid footing, her foot plunged beneath the surface. Unbalanced, she tumbled into the water.
The fall saved her life. In the same moment that she tumbled forward, an arrow whistled overhead, so close that it plucked at her hair, giving it a painful yank. Had her spell worked, allowing her to step out onto the water’s surface, the arrow would have buried itself in her back. As it was, it cut into the water next to her with a vicious splash.
Breaking the surface, Larajin saw an elf standing next to the forked oak tree—a forest elf, his face shadowed with tattoos, with a powerful short bow in his hand. It must have been his scent that Goldheart had caught just before she growled and flew away.
All of these thoughts flashed through Larajin’s mind in a heartbeat. Meanwhile the elf, in a motion nearly too swift to follow, swept a hand to his quiver and plucked an arrow from it, then nocked it against the bowstring. Seeing an easy target, he took his time, sighting down the length of the arrow.
Larajin did the only thing she could, forcing her body back under the water with a powerful stroke of her hands. The arrow thwooshed down into the water a mere palm’s breadth from her as she turned and swam, keeping below the surface. Then another arrow, and another arrow cut the surface, questing for her.
Forcing herself deeper, she stroked away from the spot where the elf archer stood. As long as she stayed below the surface, the water would slow the arrows, preventing them from reaching her, but with bright moonlight illuminating the lake, the elf would have no trouble spotting her when she resurfaced. With only one meager gasp of air in her lungs, she knew she’d never be able to put enough distance between herself and the archer.
Even so, she resolved to try. She swam on, gradually releasing the air in her lungs, trying to conserve it for as long as possible. Sparkles appeared before her eyes, and a dizziness gripped her, but still she swam on. If she broke the surface at the last possible moment, then immediately dived again, perhaps the elf wouldn’t spot her. But not yet—not just yet…
Larajin swam and swam—and continued to swim long past the moment she should have been gasping for air. That was when she noticed the glow around her nose and mouth and felt the cool trickle of water down her nose and throat.
At first she assumed that the pressure of the water was forcing lake water into her nostrils, but instead of the harsh burning that usually caused, she felt a cool, soothing relief. In wonder, she opened her mouth and swallowed some of the water—and was immediately rewarded with a burst of energy that strengthened her muscles and cleared away the sparkles in her head. With a growing sense of wonder, she blew the water out again—and inhaled.
She was breathing water!
With a laugh that released the few tiny bubbles of air that had been in her lungs, Larajin gave thanks to the goddesses for their blessing. She had prayed for a spell to walk on water, but they had responded instead with what she truly needed: a spell that would save her life.
Swimming was easier than walking, especially with the strength that breathing water gave her. With sure, clean strokes, Larajin headed toward the distant shimmer of moonlight on water—the spot where the bases of the crystalline towers broke the surface.
As she swam, she wondered where Leifander was. Had he said or done something after meeting the patrol that caused them to suspect he had human blood in his veins? Had the same archer who was just shooting at Larajin already taken Leifander’s life?
Realizing that she did not have the answers, Larajin pushed these morbid thoughts firmly out of her mind. There had to be some other explanation for Leifander not having met her, she told herself. But when she thought of one, it was just as unpalatable.
Perhaps, she thought, Leifander had been lying when he said he’d help her try to fulfill Somnilthra’s prophecy and end the war. Leifander could easily pass for a full-blooded elf. The patrol would have received him with open arms, not with a flight of arrows. Had he abandoned Larajin and their quest?
There was no use in thinking about that now. Instead, Larajin had to focus on the task at hand, locating Somnilthra and somehow awakening her.
With smooth, sure strokes, she swam toward the crystalline towers.
Soon the base of one of the towers loomed ahead in the water, shimmering like a crystal, its edges distorted by ripples. As Larajin swam nearer, the water grew colder, eventually reaching the chill temperature of glacial runoff. She shivered and felt her skin prickle with goosebumps.
The lake water was too dark for her to see any details, even with her excellent night vision; for that she would have to break the surface. She hesitated a moment just beneath the surface of the lake, wondering if the transition back to breathing air would be painful—if she would cough and sputter like a drowning person, with a fierce ache in her chest. She summoned her courage and thrust her head above the water.
Miraculously, the lake water she’d drawn into her lungs a moment before turned to air, and she was breathing again. With her first exhalation, she whispered a prayer to the goddesses. Still treading water, she craned her neck to stare up at the closest of the four towers.
Paddling closer, she touched its slippery, cold surface. She pressed a hand to it and felt it give slightly, as if melting back. The towers were just as they had appeared: cold spires of ice, as slippery as inverted icicles. Inside each of them, high above the surface of the lake, Larajin could see dark shapes entombed in the ice—the bodies of elves.
Fortunately, the towers were cracked and craggy, as rough as a freshly splintered rock face, with plenty of handholds and footholds. Climbing shouldn’t be too difficult—but which tower to choose?
Shivering, Larajin realized she’d have to make up her mind soon, or she’d be too chilled to climb. Deciding at last, she chose the tower that had been the last to rise and swam to it. This tower was the smallest of the four, with just four bodies entombed inside it, and thus probably the most recent. If it had indeed grown like an icicle, from base to point, Somnilthra would be lying in repose near its craggy tip. She would probably be the last dark figure, nearly two hundred paces above the surface of the lake.
Hauling herself out of the water, Larajin carefully began her climb. The summer air warmed her skin, but soon her hands and feet grew first cold, then numb. The going was slow. More than once she was forced to double back and find a new route, after reaching a spot where the ice became a sheer wall, too steep to climb without a pick and rope.
High above her, the moon climbed to its apex in the sky. Below, the shimmering trail it etched across the surface of the lake grew shorter.
Best not to look down, she thought. The water was more than a hundred paces below her, and the distance made Larajin dizzy.
Resolutely, she continued her climb, searching out handholds and footholds in the craggy ice.
The towers continued to make cracking noises, just as they had done since they rose. Every now and then Larajin heard a deep groan then a loud snap as a piece of ice broke free. A few heartbeats later the shard hit the water below with aloud splash, making her cringe.
When Larajin was level with the third of the dark shapes inside the tower she paused to peer through the ice at it, just as she had done as she’d passed the first two. The third elf was a male, dressed in the formal garb of the Gold elves. Laid out in a reclining position, hands folded upon his breast, he looked as though he was sleeping, despite the frost on his skin and the ice that pressed tightly against him on every side.
Shivering, her hair and clothes still damp from her swim across the lake, Larajin pressed on. She followed a ridge in the ice that led up and to her right, where she could see a ledge near the spot where the last body lay. If she made it to that spot, she would be as close to the body as she could get.
As she worked her way closer to the ledge, Larajin caught glimpses of the figure entombed inside the ice. The body was female—a fact Larajin noted with relief—a slender woman with delicate features, long pointed ears and coppery-red hair in two braids that lay upon her shoulders. A forest elf, judging by her leather breeches and ornately beaded boots and vest. The ice that entombed her—Larajin was peering up through more than an arm’s length of the stuff—distorted the woman’s features, making it impossible to see whether or not she resembled Leifander. Larajin could see a dark crescent—a tattoo—on one of her cheeks.
Was it a stylized moon, the symbol of the goddess Somnilthra had worshiped? Larajin prayed it was—that she wouldn’t be forced to climb another of the towers.
She needed to get closer, to reach a ledge she’d spotted that was level with the body. Unfortunately, as she drew nearer to it, she saw there was a gap nearly a pace wide between the ledge and the ridge she’d climbed along. She knew it was crazy to risk a jump—the ice was too slippery for a safe landing—but by stretching, she just might be able to reach it with one foot. Then it would simply be a matter of transferring her weight with a slight hop, and she would be across.
