by Lisa Smedman
“Close your eyes.”
She did. A moment later, she felt a tickle of fur. Goldheart was twining herself between Larajin’s arms. Larajin allowed herself a smile—whether aware of it or not, Goldheart was helping. A floral scent rose to Larajin’s nostrils, and she felt a warmth at her wrist.
“As you pray, imagine your body shifting,” Leifander continued. “The feathers come, and your body twists, and you feel your bones shift…”
He continued, describing the sensations that preceded skin-walking. Larajin listened avidly, imagining herself becoming a tressym. All the while, the manifestations of the goddesses’ presence grew stronger. Larajin could see the amber glow of her locket, even with her eyes closed.
Leifander switched the course of his instruction. “At the same time that you are imagining your body shifting, you pray. The words of the prayer are … They begin with …”
He paused, and Larajin opened her eyes a crack, to see him shaking his head in frustration.
“It won’t work,” he said. “I can’t put the prayer into words. The common tongue is too coarse.”
“Then speak it in Elvish,” Larajin said, switching to that language as the power of the goddesses swept through her, filling the air with a floral scent as thick as perfume. “Say the words of the spell, and I’ll repeat them.”
Leifander sniffed, and nodded at the bright red glow that enveloped them both. He began his prayer. Larajin echoed him, substituting the salutations and names of the goddesses she worshiped.
As she did, she imagined herself inhabiting the body of a tressym, with whiskers and wings and fur. Something tickled like a shiver down her spine, running swift as water from the nape of her neck to the tip of her … tail? Surprised, she sank—claws?—into the ice. Suddenly dizzy as she shrank to a fraction of her former size, she spread her—wings?—flapping them for balance.
She rose into the air.
As her eyes sprang open, she saw Leifander, still squatting on the ledge, but in crow form. He stared up at her for a moment with glossy black eyes, then let out a hoarse croak of amazement. Startled, Larajin began to think about the wonder of her transformation, instead of just feeling it, and for a moment she forgot how to fly. She tumbled through the air, gasping, but then instinct took over and her wings beat strong and sure.
As she rose to the level of the ledge once more, Goldheart launched herself into the air. The tressym shot past Larajin like an arrow, as if goading her into a chase. Laughing, Larajin obliged. Flying was wonderful, exhilarating—even more amazing than breathing water had been. She chased Gold-heart through the sky, and they tumbled like two kittens, high above the moonlight-dappled surface of the lake. They flew, hard and fast, in a laughing race to the lightning-struck tree at the lake’s edge.
A dark shape shot past them, cawing furiously, then made a sharp turn to the side. Only then did Larajin remember the danger. The elf who had tried to kill her earlier was down there still, somewhere on the shore, and there would probably be others scouring the edges of the lake, looking for her. She doubted they’d recognize her in tressym form, but it was best not to take any chances.
Nodding to show that she understood, she turned in a graceful arc and allowed Leifander to set their course.
CHAPTER 12
Had Leifander been in elf form, he would have wept at what he saw below. The forest looked as if giant slugs had crisscrossed it, leaving meandering trails of slimy destruction in their wake. Wide swaths of the woods lay in blighted ruin, streaked with mud brown and ash gray that stood out clearly against the surrounding green. Inside the blighted areas, sticklike trees leaned at angles or lay broken upon the ground, and what few leaves remained on them were a lifeless, mottled yellow-gray.
Patches of mist drifted here and there, spreading the blight in new directions with each shift of the breeze. It seemed never to dissipate but instead maintained its deadly potency long after the wands had created it.
To the south, thick plumes of smoke rose from the edges of the great forest: the handiwork of Sembia’s soldiers, whose encampments Leifander could see in the distance on the rolling hills of Battledale. They were burning the edges of the wood, trying to either flush the elves out or draw them into battle.
Glancing up at the flat blue sky, he offered a silent prayer to the Leaflord to send rain. The summer sun was hot, the woods below tinder-dry. If the fires spread….
Leifander flew grimly on, every now and then glancing behind him to see how Larajin was faring. To his great surprise she’d mastered skinwalking in a fraction of the time it should have taken—moments, instead of days—and now was indistinguishable from the tressym that seemed to accompany her everywhere.
The speed with which she’d learned it made him jealous. As twins, they were both destined for greatness, but Larajin seemed far more favored by the gods than he. Magic came to her easily, without effort. Even the difficult balance she had chosen—giving equal reverence to two goddesses, one human, one elf—didn’t seem to slow her down. Any spell she turned her mind to, she accomplished, whereas Leifander had learned his magic only through long periods of fasting and solitary prayer, perched high in a sacred oak.
It didn’t seem fair. Why, if they were twins, had the gods apportioned out their blessings in such unequal measure?
Behind him, he heard a plaintive mewing. Glancing back, he saw that one of the tressym—Larajin—had once again dropped behind and was flying in a circle just above the treetops. It was a warning sign that Leifander recognized. Her spell was coming to an end—much sooner than he’d expected. She needed to land.
At least he had one advantage. Unlike Larajin, who could skinwalk for no more than a morning or afternoon at a stretch, he could maintain animal form for days on end, shifting endlessly back and forth between crow and elf. Larajin had to pray anew each time her spell began to falter and hope that one of her goddesses would answer.
Leifander swooped back to where Larajin circled, surveying the forest below for a place to land. They’d come far already. They’d left the crystalline towers two nights before, crossed the River Ashaba, and had come to a place above the Vale of Lost Voices. The slash in the forest below was the trail that linked Essembra and Ashabenford. Rauthauvyr’s Road lay perhaps ten or fifteen miles to the east. If they paused only briefly then flew on through the afternoon and evening, they could reach Moontouch Oak by the next day’s dawn—assuming Larajin’s strength and magic held out.
As he drew nearer to the spot where Larajin and-Goldheart circled, Leifander caught a glimpse of movement in the forest below. Several dark shapes were moving along the trail—two or three, maybe more. He cawed and banked sharply to the left, trying to direct Larajin to a clearing a safe distance from the moving figures, but with catlike perversity she ignored his warning. Instead she dived down and landed on the trail itself, in a spot that would place her directly in the path of whoever—or whatever—was moving along it. Even the tressym had better instincts than that. It circled above the spot where she’d landed, refusing to join her.
Angry, Leifander changed his course, flying toward Larajin. She ought to have more sense than to risk exposing herself to what might turn out to be an elf patrol. He swooped down to treetop level, angling toward the trail.
Leifander gave a strangled caw as he passed over the trail and got a good, close look at the figures moving along it. They were enormous spiders—four of them. Bloated and hairy, as large as dogs, they moved in a tight group like a pack of trained hounds. Even from treetop level, Leifander could smell the foul stench that clung to them like mold to a dead leaf.
What were they doing in this part of the wood? Had they been feeding on the corpses of the human caravan drivers along Rauthauvyr’s Road? Or was there a more sinister reason? Leifander prayed it was not so. This part of the forest was supposedly free from drow.
The spiders glanced up at Leifander as he soared past them. More than one set of legs flailed in the air in his direction, as if t
he creatures wished they could climb into the sky. Leifander flew on, shuddering. One bite from those venomous creatures would cause a slow numbness to spread through the body until it was paralyzed, and the spiders would feed….
Larajin had landed about a hundred paces up the trail, where the spiders couldn’t see her, but they could see the tressym that fluttered nervously above the spot where she stood. They paused, questing Larajin’s scent. Avile chuckling sound filled the air, and they broke into a skittering run.
Frightened, Leifander flew as quickly as he could to the spot where Larajin had landed. He saw her on the trail below, crouched on the ground with arms outstretched and head bent. She must have just completed shifting back to human form. Unable to do more than caw at her, Leifander was forced to land and shift. As he rose to his feet, the spiders came into sight.
Larajin, however, gave them no more than a quick glance.
“It’s Dray!” she said, pointing into the trees at a spot where the mist had blighted the underbrush, opening up the forest to view. “Something’s happened to him.”
Leifander gave the briefest of glances in the direction she’d indicated and saw a human, either unconscious or dead, who appeared to have been hung by his doublet upon the broken branch of a massive oak tree like a coat upon a hook. The man’s feet dangled a full pace above the ground, just above where drifting mist had discolored the trunk.
Leifander had no time to wonder who the fellow was or how he’d wound up hanging from the tree. The spiders were almost upon them.
“Pray to your goddess!” he shouted at Larajin. “Either skinwalk or do something to help me fight the spiders.”
He heeded his own advice. Touching the feather in his braid, he uttered a quick prayer to the Lady of Air and Wind, beseeching her for just a fraction of her power. At the same time he raised his right hand and fluttered it, as if fanning a breeze.
The spell came—swiftly, thank the goddess. Leifander’s hand speeded to a blur, and a roaring wind sprang from it. He directed the wind at the spiders, no more than a dozen paces away. As it struck, they slowed and hunkered to the ground. Struggling like men in a gale, they at first were blown backward a step or two, but after a moment’s confusion they bent low and used their claw-tipped legs to drag themselves slowly forward.
“We’ve got to shift,” Leifander shouted at Larajin over the roar of wind. “These spiders can climb trees. Flying is the only way we’ll escape them. You go first!”
Larajin shook her head and pointed stubbornly at the spot where the man was hanging. “We can’t just leave Dray. The spiders will kill him.”
“He’s probably already dead.”
“What if he’s still alive?”
“Why do you care?”
“He tried to save my life,” Larajin said. “I owe the same to him.”
That, Leifander could understand, even if he didn’t like it.
He nodded at Larajin and said, “Then we’ll make a stand.”
It didn’t look hopeful, however. The spiders had taken advantage of the twins’ exchange of words and were making headway against the wind. Even with it howling against them, so close were they now that the stink of them filled the air, making Leifander gag.
Larajin clasped the locket around her wrist and called, “Keep your spell going. I’m going to try something.”
She began to pray.
Had he the time, Leifander would have told her that it was probably too late. His spell was already failing. The fluttering in his hand was slowing to the point where his fingers were no longer a blur, and the strength of the magical wind was starting to drop. Made bolder, the spiders forced their way closer—too close to keep them all within the blast of wind. With a triumphant chitter, one of them suddenly found itself unimpeded, and leaped forward. It bit down, grazing Leifander’s forearm even as he jerked it back.
Leifander quickly shifted the aim of his spell and forced the spider back, but too late. A numbness seized his arm, and it felt as if he had banged his elbow against something hard. His fluttering hand slowed, nearly stopped, then one of Larajin’s hands began to glow.
In that same moment, the air was filled with the sweet scent of blooming flowers. She grabbed for his wounded forearm, and the numbness disappeared. For a wild moment Leifander thought that negating the venom was all she intended—that it wouldn’t be enough. In another instant they would be swarmed by the spiders. Already the foul things were crouching, preparing to leap.
The tressym dived from the sky, howling a challenge. Brilliant wings flashing, it hurled itself straight at the spider closest to Leifander and Larajin—then swerved at the last moment, just out of reach. Legs bunched and the spider leaped, trying for this new prey. The tressym, however, was too swift for it. The spider fell back to the ground, venom dripping from its mouth.
The distraction was only momentary, but it was enough. Larajin’s hand slid down Leifander’s arm, toward his hand.
“Sune and Hanali Celanil, lend me a little of the water of Evergold—add your holy waters to my brother’s storm!” she shouted.
A rush of energy flowed through Leifander and pulsed from his fingertips. His hand again blurred and seemed to fuse with Larajin’s. A spray of rain erupted from their fingers.
The rain, blown horizontally by the wind, shimmered with a golden glow. It struck the closest spider as it was preparing to leap, pitting its hairy flesh like sling stones. Chattering with rage and pain, the spider turned and tried to run but only managed a step or two before collapsing into a tangled heap of broken legs.
With the closest spider down, Leifander was able to direct his magical wind full force at the remaining three. He drove the magical rain at them, and as it struck it created sizzling pits in their flesh. The spiders cowered, trying to protect their heads by lowering them to the ground—then as one they turned and bolted. Blown by the wind at their backs, they skidded down the trail, chattering in terror as they tried to outrun the deadly rain. They made it no more than a few dozen paces, however, before crumpling to the ground like the first. There they seemed to melt, like lumps of dark clay in the rain. Still the shimmering drops, blown by the relentless magic wind, drove into them.
When nothing was left but a few scraps of hair and broken bits of leg, Larajin let go of Leifander’s hand, and the spells ceased. Her eyes closed in relief, and she whispered a prayer of thanks to her goddesses.
Leifander echoed it. “Our spells…” he said slowly, nodding down at the little that remained of the spider that had fallen closest to them. “They shouldn’t have been able to do that.”
Larajin gave him an exhausted smile. “Not on their own, but together …”
He nodded, understanding. “The gods joined forces—through us—just as Hanali Celanil and Sune come together in you to augment your magic.”
He closed his eyes for a moment and offered a contrite word of thanks—not just to the Winged Mother, but to Larajin’s goddesses as well—for this twist of fate. Thanks to Larajin’s stubbornness, they’d come close to being killed, but as a result, he had learned an amazing truth. Their spells, when joined, could be as powerful as those of the mightiest cleric.
It was something worth thinking about.
But first, there was the matter of the man in the tree to deal with. Larajin was already hurrying through the woods toward him, feet slipping on the rotted vegetation underfoot. Leifander jogged after her, and as he drew nearer to the oak tree, he got a better look at the man hanging from it.
The fellow was in his early twenties—fully adult, when measured in terms of the human life span—and had a handsome face. His jaw, framed by a thin line of neatly trimmed beard, hung slack, and his eyes were closed.
Was he a friend that Larajin knew from Selgaunt, perhaps? He was certainly dressed like a Sembian, in a doublet of blue and purple, dark blue hose, and what remained of a lace-collared shirt, its sleeves torn off at the shoulders. One of the sleeves had been tied around his arm in a makeshift ba
ndage that was dark with dried blood.
As he drew closer to the oak, Leifander could see that the fellow was indeed breathing. Eyes roved beneath the closed lids, as if he were dreaming. Not unconscious, then, but the victim of some sort of spell.
Goldheart, having followed Larajin and Leifander, landed on a branch just above the sleeping man. With catlike curiosity, she stalked along the branch, sniffed him, then pawed at his cheek. When he did not respond, she settled back onto her haunches, considered a moment, then began to groom herself, as if she’d lost all interest in the fellow.
Leifander, however, remained curious. The magic that had induced the man’s slumber must have been powerful. Either the person who had left him hanging on the tree—or someone who had come along the trail later, after the blight had revealed the spot where he hung—had stripped the fellow of his valuables without managing to wake him. A scabbed-over crease in his earlobe showed that an earring had been torn from it, and the little finger of his left hand was twisted at an odd angle and swollen to twice its size, as if someone had wrenched a ring from it.
As Larajin reached up to grab the man’s legs and lift him down, Leifander saw clumps of loose earth around the base of the tree, partially hidden by the blighted vegetation. Suddenly he realized the oak’s significance.
“Don’t!” Leifander shouted. He leaped forward and knocked Larajin’s arms down. “You’ll be caught up in the spell.”
Irritation smoldered in Larajin’s eyes. “It’s only a sleep spell,” she said. “It doesn’t rub off on other people.”
“It will if you touch the tree.”
Larajin gestured up at the tressym. “It didn’t affect Goldheart.”
“Of course it didn’t,” Leifander answered, exasperated at Larajin for missing a simple explanation. “She’s a magical creature.”
