Heirs of Prophecy

by Lisa Smedman

  Leaning out as far as she dared, she extended her right foot and tested the ledge with it. The ice seemed solid enough. Gradually, she eased her weight onto it…

  And the ice below her right foot gave a deep, groaning crack.

  Larajin froze, poised over the gap. An instant later, the ledge she’d been trying to reach gave way. Gasping, Larajin threw her weight back, trying to reach the safety of the spot where she’d just been standing, but her left foot slipped. Thrown off-balance, she fell to her knees. She scrabbled at the ice, seeking a handhold—and found one—but then her knees slipped from the edge. Her full weight was supported only by her hands. Pain shot through her left wrist as it twisted, and that hand lost its grip.

  Just as she thought she was about to go over the edge, one scrabbling foot at last found a toehold, then the other found a foothold. She heaved herself upward, waves of agony shooting through her sprained wrist. As she pulled herself to safety, she felt her dagger catch on a outcropping of ice and yank from its sheath. It fell onto the ice and began to slide away.

  Larajin grabbed for it, but her position forced her to reach with the hand that had been twisted in the ice. Her fingers still weren’t working properly. They brushed against the hilt but would not close upon it. Despite the bright moonlight, the shadows of the splintered ice made the dagger difficult to see. Was it slipping out from under her fingertips and going over the edge?

  “Illunathros!” she cried.

  With a bright flash of blue light, the dagger illuminated—then it slipped off into space. Despondent, Larajin watched it fall toward the lake below. It flashed brightly as it tumbled end over end.

  A loud caw echoed across the lake as a small dark shape streaked through the night toward the ice tower. At the last moment before the dagger struck the surface, the weapon’s fall slowed until it was drifting down as gently as a feather. Just before it reached the water, the crow swooped low over the lake and neatly plucked it from the air with its feet. The bird wheeled in a graceful curve and began climbing toward the spot where Larajin crouched, the dagger glowing brightly in its talons.

  “Leifander!” Larajin exclaimed.

  The crow cawed again in greeting, then hovered next to Larajin, wings beating furiously. One wing lagged slightly behind the other, as if he were exhausted from a long flight.

  Larajin reached out and took the dagger from him, nodded her head in an abbreviated bow of heartfelt thanks, and secured the dagger in the sheath at her hip.

  Leifander landed, hopped sideways along the ridge toward a flat spot, then spread his wings. A moment later a ripple passed through him as he shifted back into elf form. His bare feet slid a little on the ice, and he waved his arms for a moment like beating wings before finding his balance. One arm seemed stiff, as if it pained him, and his right eye and cheek were splotchy with the shadows of fresh bruises.

  “You’re injured,” Larajin observed aloud. “What happened?”

  He winced, as if something other than his injuries pained him. “It’s nothing.”

  “Did the elf near the forked oak attack you?”

  Leifander glanced up sharply. “What elf?”

  “The one who shot an arrow at me. He spotted me as I entered the water.”

  Leifander looked grimly back at the shore. “He must have been one of those who patrol the lake. We’ll have trouble getting back. Especially now. The entire shore will be watching for us.”

  “You were gone so long,” Larajin continued. “I thought, for a moment there, that you’d joined that elf patrol and weren’t coming back. I’m sorry I doubted—”

  Leifander interrupted her with a bitter laugh. “You were right,” he said. “I did join them—for a time. The patrol needed a messenger … a swift one, with wings. I couldn’t refuse; the message was a vital one.”

  Larajin’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “And so you abandoned me,” she said. “You turned your back on your duty—and our destiny.”

  “Only for a short time,” he said, a guilty look in his eye.

  Combined with his injuries, the look told her that something had happened to change his mind. She waited, silently, for him to tell her what it was.

  “I delivered their message,” Leifander said at last. “The commander who received it knew me and had heard the rumors about me being the son of a human—and not just any human, but a powerful merchant of Sembia. She believes that hazel-eyed twins are blessed by the gods—but said half-human twins didn’t count. Worse still, she announced that half-elves are not to be counted among our allies nor to be trusted, now that Lord Ulath has declared Deepingdale neutral.”

  His voice dropped to a pained whisper, and he glanced across the lake at its tree-lined shore.

  “I was raised in this forest and am the son of a noble warrior. I’m as much an elf as any of them. I look like an elf, I dress and act like an elf—I am an elf—and yet all they see now is my human half.”

  “Did they attack you?” Larajin asked softly.

  “They claimed I was a traitor. They didn’t believe I had only gone to Selgaunt at the druids’ request. They tried to hold me, but I escaped. In doing so, I condemned myself. As long as this war continues, I won’t be welcome among my people. Neither there,” he said, pointing at the forest, “nor in your realm.”

  He gave Larajin a determined, fierce look and added, “I’m committed to what you called Our destiny’ now. Fully. I want this war to end. Let’s see if Somnilthra can tell us how to fulfill that destiny.”

  Larajin glanced at the woman entombed in the ice next to them. “This is her, then?” she asked.

  “Of course.” Leifander cocked his head. “You must have known that, or you wouldn’t have chosen this tower to climb.”

  Larajin started to smile, but just then the spire of ice shuddered. There was a deep groan, and a crack appeared above them. Splinters of ice, sparkling in the moonlight like shards of glass, tumbled free and fell onto the twins.

  Unsteady on the slippery ridge, Larajin grabbed for Leifander’s hand. As she steadied herself, her legs cramped from the cold that was seeping up through her bare feet, and she shuddered.

  Leifander glanced sharply at her. “You’re freezing!” he exclaimed. “Your fingers are nearly blue. Don’t you have a spell that can warm them?”

  Larajin shook her head. “No more than you have a spell to heal your bruises, it would seem. I tried praying, but the goddesses didn’t answer.” She touched his injured shoulder gently. “I could heal you, however.”

  “No time,” he said, glancing pointedly at a crack just above where they stood. “Besides, the bruises are only a minor inconvenience. I wish I had a spell that could help you, but the Lady of Air and Wind answers prayers for heat with violence; all she knows is the fury of the lightning strike, and the blazing heat of the wind-whipped forest fire.”

  He glanced pointedly at Larajin’s magic dagger. “That blade produces a cold blue light,” he said. “Will it also produce a warm one?”

  “I don’t know,” Larajin answered—then an idea occurred to her. “If it did, we could use it to melt a hole in the ice and reach Somnilthra.”

  “I heard you shout a word as the dagger fell,” Leifander continued. “What was it?”

  “Illunathros.”

  Leifander nodded, as if recognizing the word, then stared at the dagger.

  “Why isn’t it glowing now?” he asked.

  “Its magic only activates if I’m holding it,” Larajin said.

  “Can I see it?”

  Larajin pulled the dagger from its sheath and handed it to Leifander, who turned it over in his hands, peering closely at it.

  “Ah,” he said. “I thought so. You see here—the Uskevren crest? It’s a later addition, welded onto the hilt. The blade itself is of elven make.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The word that activates its magic—it’s Espruar. Translated, it would be ‘cold illumination of the moon.’” He paused, lost in thoug
ht, then snapped his fingers. “That’s it.” He held the dagger up, and looked into Larajin’s eyes. “I’d like to try something … the word, in Espruar, for ‘warm light of the sun.’”

  Larajin nodded her consent.

  Leifander held the dagger aloft and spoke a single word, “Solicallor!”

  The blade glowed a dull orange, like metal freshly pulled from the forge. Though she stood a pace away from Leifander, a wave of heat washed over Larajin. Leifander drew his breath in with a hiss. The hilt itself must have been uncomfortably hot, but he clung to it with determination. He held the dagger toward Larajin, and she warmed her hands over its ruddy glow. Before its heat faded, he rose to his feet and thrust the blade into the ice next to them.

  The ice melted away. Trickles of water flowed from the hole the dagger’s heat bored in the tower, only to slow and freeze again into dripping icicles near their feet. Leifander methodically pushed the dagger deeper into the ice, forcing it in until his arm was inserted up to the shoulder and the blade was no more than a finger’s width from Somnilthra’s cheek. He withdrew the blade and handed it to Larajin. Even as she took it, the glow faded and the metal cooled. She tucked it away in its sheath.

  “What do we do now?” she asked. “How do we awaken Somnilthra?”

  Leifander gave her a startled look. “I thought you knew.”

  Larajin shook her head. “You’re the elf!” she protested.

  “Half-elf—as are you.” His eyes grew thoughtful, then twinkled. “Do you suppose, if we put those two halves together, we might come up with the answer?”

  The tower gave another shuddering rumble, and a piece on the far side broke free and fell to the lake below with a splash. Larajin stared at Somnilthra, but despite the cracking of the ice and the rumbles that coursed through her tower, the entombed elf lay silent and still.

  “I know a spell that can be used to contact an elfin the Reverie,” Leifander said at last, “but I don’t know if it will reach all the way to Arvanaith.” He glanced at Larajin. “Have you been blessed with any spells that magically alter speech?”

  Larajin nodded eagerly. “Only one,” she said. “It lets me speak to Goldheart.”

  “The tressym?” Leifander’s eyes brightened. “That’s good. It means you’re touching the creature’s mind. If the gods are willing, they might grant you the power to also touch the mind of someone so long in the Reverie. If we pray together, to our respective gods, we might be able to reach Somnilthra. I can locate her spirit in Arvanaith, and you can touch her mind and hear her whispered thoughts.”

  Larajin stared at the hole the dagger had melted in the ice. It almost reached Somnilthra, but not quite.

  “Do you think she’ll hear me?” she asked doubtfully.

  Leifander shrugged. “We won’t know until we try.”

  He kneeled and spread his hands behind him in a pose that reminded Larajin of Kith’s bow. A loud rumble came from the crystalline tower next to them, reminding Larajin that they didn’t have much time left. The moon was steadily slipping toward the horizon, and she could see that the towers were slowly descending toward the surface of the lake.

  She bowed her head and cupped her hands over her midriff, gently pressing the locket at her wrist against the spot where the mark of Sune had been. She began to pray. Beside her, she heard Leifander doing the same in the melodious language of the forest elves.

  Inside the ice, moonlight shifted on Somnilthra’s face as the moon set. Or had that been her eyelids flickering? Larajin concentrated on Somnilthra’s tattooed cheek and prayed even more fervently.

  “Hanali Celanil hear me and bless me,” she whispered. “Sune hear me and answer. Give me the power to speak to my sister, and be heard. Bless her with speech, and give me the power to hear her in return.”

  The locket grew warm and began to glow a dull red, and the scent of Hanali’s Heart rose around her. Encouraged by these signs, Larajin leaned closer to the hole in the ice and cupped her hands around it, as she would around someone’s ear.

  “Somnilthra,” she said into the darkened tunnel. “Can you hear me?”

  A part of her was startled to realize that she was speaking fluent Elvish. Another part of her, embraced by the love of the goddesses, remained serene and listened for the answer. When it came, it was little more than a sigh, one laden with the exhaustion of many long years in Reverie.

  Yes?

  Leifander glanced up, an exuberant look in his eye. Had he heard the voice too?

  Who…?

  After that single word, the voice faded beyond hearing. Larajin tapped her brother’s shoulder.

  “Keep praying,” she hissed.

  Nodding grimly, Leifander bowed his head and resumed his chant.

  At the same time Larajin spoke again—quickly—into the hole.

  “Somnilthra, it is your half …” She paused, then amended her words. “It is your sister and brother, Larajin and Leifander, the twins. The rift you predicted between human and elf has come to pass. Sembia and what remains of Cormanthor are at war. You prophesied that we could end the strife between the two races, but we don’t know how. Tell us what to do!”

  Inside the ice, Somnilthra’s head shifted ever so slightly, as if she were trying to turn her face in their direction. The skin above her eyebrows was creased, in what Larajin imagined to be a frown. Her voice, heavy from the Reverie, drifted gently into Larajin’s ear, though her sister’s lips did not move.

  To heal the splinter in the stone, you must use a heart. Hate may win wars, but only love will conquer them. Harness love, and you will win everything. Unharness hate, and you will lose everything, even your very lives.

  “But what does that mean?” Larajin asked, speaking louder now. “How do we use love to conquer war?”

  Somnilthra sighed—a sigh deeper than any Larajin had ever heard before.

  Your gods will show you the way. Once again, her voice was growing faint. I must…

  And it was gone.

  Leifander rose to his feet. Despite the fact that he was barefoot on the ice, he was sweating.

  “I couldn’t stay in contact with her any longer,” he said, shaking his head. “She drifted away.”

  The spire of ice shuddered under Larajin’s bare feet. She peered down at the surface of the lake—closer now than it had been when they started their prayers.

  “Could you hear Somnilthra when she spoke?” Larajin asked.

  Leifander nodded. “I heard her words, but I don’t know what they meant. We need wisdom—a wisdom well beyond our twenty-five years. Someone older, wiser, and more versed in the ways of magic must answer the riddle we’ve just been given.”

  They glanced at each other and said the name at the same time: “Rylith.”

  “The last time I saw her was several days ago, at the Standing Stone,” Larajin said. “The gods only know where she is now.”

  “The gods aren’t the only ones who will know where she is,” Leifander said. “The other members of the sacred circle will know where she is—or, at least, should be able to get a message to her.”

  “Where can we find them?” Larajin asked. “Are they far from here?”

  Leifander pointed to the northeast. “The druids—at least one of them, at all times—maintain a constant vigil at Moontouch Oak. It lies in that direction.” Then he added with a chuckle, as if at a private joke, “It’s not far, as the crow flies.”

  “How many days on foot?”

  His mirth vanished. “At least eight … possibly ten or twelve. The forest is quite thick, and there’s the River Ashaba to ford.”

  Larajin winced. “That’s too long,” she said grimly. “By then Tal might be—”

  She caught sight of a familiar figure winging its way toward them across the lake. She waved to attract Goldheart’s attention, and the tressym did a graceful loop. Larajin was relieved by the creature’s playful antics. Whatever Gold-heart had been up to, she at least hadn’t gotten feathered by elven arrows.


  Goldheart landed on the ridge beside them and rubbed against Larajin’s leg. She filled the air with a loud purring, as if relieved to see that Larajin had survived her brush with the elf archer.

  “Easy for you to say, Goldheart,” Larajin chided. “You flew away when things got dangerous. By the time the elf shot that first arrow, I’ll bet you were already halfway to …”

  All at once, a thought occurred to her. Maybe it wouldn’t take a tenday, after all, for them to reach Moontouch Oak. Maybe there was a quicker way.

  “Leifander,” she asked slowly. “Could you teach me how to skinwalk?”

  “Impossible,” he snorted. “It takes months of study and prayer. I fasted and prayed in the treetops for many days before I was able to call the Crow to me. You’d need to do the same to seek out your totem animal. Without it—”

  Larajin glanced pointedly at Goldheart. “What if my ‘totem animal’ was already here?”

  Slowly, Leifander’s eyebrows raised. He glanced down at the tressym, which looked up at him with luminous yellow eyes.

  “She is sacred to my goddess,” Larajin reminded him, kneeling down to stroke Goldheart’s silky fur. She peered up at Leifander. “Will you teach me what to do?”

  “I can try,” Leifander conceded at last. He glanced at the first of the crystalline towers, which already was visibly lower in the water. “Your lesson will have to be a quick one.”

  “Let’s begin then.”

  Leifander gave a resigned sigh. “Start by assuming the same posture as the tress—as your totem. You see? Just as I assume the posture of the crow.” He squatted, holding his arms to the side.

  Larajin studied Goldheart, who was sitting with catlike grace on the slippery ledge, her wings neatly folded. Larajin kneeled beside her—aware that her legs were articulated in the wrong direction but trying for the same pose as best she could—and straightened her arms, placing her palms flat on the ice. She hunched her shoulders, imagining wings.