by Lisa Smedman
Drakkar leaned on his thorn-studded staff, staring at Larajin, his posture one of pure malice. A strand of cobweb still clung to his jet-black hair. Absently, he brushed it away.
“Well now, if it isn’t the serving girl from Selgaunt who likes tressym so much she became one,” he wheezed, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “What are you doing, so far from home? Spying, I’ll warrant. Let’s find out what you learned.”
Studying his staff, he plucked a thorn from it. He circled around Leifander, who stared dully at the wizard as he walked by, then bent over Larajin.
He paused, sniffing the air. The floral fragrance hung heavily around Larajin. Did he realize what it signified?
He glanced at the red glow that shone between the fingers of Larajin’s right hand—the one clasping the locket—and spoke a word in the drow tongue. A moment later, the glow faded altogether, but though the visible manifestation of Sune’s magic was gone, the magic itself remained. Larajin felt its warmth flow out of the locket and up her arm to coalesce deep within her, around her heart.
Picking up a stick, Drakkar used it to pry Larajin’s lower lip down but could not force open her clenched jaw. He struggled a moment, then wheezed a warning at her.
“I’m going to release your jaw,” he said, “but no tricks—and no spellcasting. Utter one word, and you’re a dead woman. Understand?”
He laughed at Larajin as she lay frozen on the ground, perhaps savoring her anguish at being unable even to nod. His fingers moved in a spiderlike dance across her jaw. Suddenly able to open her mouth, Larajin spoke the only words that wouldn’t cause her immediate doom.
“Drakkar, please,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Of course you will.” With that brief comment, he forced open her mouth, and jammed the thorn into her tongue.
Grimacing at the bitter taste, Larajin tried to spit the thorn from her mouth, but instead it wormed its way ever deeper into her tongue. Drakkar stared down at her, waiting for whatever foul magic he’d just worked on her to take effect.
She glared up at him. Drakkar had blasted Leifander’s mind, had bound Tal in silver knowing it was poisonous to him, and now was about to subject her to some equally foul magic, then kill her. She strained her eyes, glancing at Leifander’s drooling face, at Tal’s struggling form. Two brothers whom she’d do anything to be able to save—even sacrifice herself, so strong was her love for them …
…and Larajin realized the spell the goddesses wanted her to cast. It was the most powerful one in their arsenal—the one that had already turned Maalthiir into a lovesick fool. All Larajin had to do was get Drakkar to lower his lips to hers.
The thorn wriggled deeper into her tongue. Then, all at once, the pain of it disappeared. Drakkar, as if sensing his magic had come to fruition, straightened.
“Now then,” he wheezed. “What were you doing at the tower in the forest? What did you see and hear?”
“I saw you meeting with … the drow,” she answered, keeping her voice deliberately faint and weak. “You were … talking about … the plan to …”
Drakkar leaned closer. “To what?”
Larajin whispered. “I heard you say …”
As Drakkar cocked his head, Larajin offered up one last, silent prayer to Sune and Hanali Celanil. As she completed it, magical energy flowed through her, causing her entire body to flush a deep red and the floral scent to rush from her pores. For one brief instant, the paralysis left her—but that instant was enough. Jerking her head upward, she kissed Drakkar full on the lips. Then her body stiffened and became rigid once more.
The wizard staggered back, angrily wiping the back of his hand against his lips. His face twisted in an angry sneer, and he raised his staff, clearly about to discharge the full force of its magical energies upon her—but a heartbeat later, his expression slowly began to change. The sneer softened, then left his face entirely. His eyes widened, and his lips parted in a soft smile.
“Larajin,” he sighed.
Larajin closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of thanks to her goddesses. She gave Drakkar an imploring look.
“Free me?”
“Of course, Larajin, dear. Of course.” With a wave of one dark hand, he released her.
Larajin sat up and immediately kneeled over Tal, who was still struggling against his bonds, albeit feebly. He seemed too weak to speak or even to acknowledge Larajin as she whispered encouragement to him and stroked his brow. Out of the corner of her eye, Larajin saw a dark glint in Drakkar’s eyes. She instantly understood the look for what it was.
“You needn’t be jealous,” she told the wizard. “He’s only a … my brother.” She blinked. Why had she said that? She’d intended to say that Tal was a friend, yet something had compelled her to blurt out the truth instead.
The thorn. Like the one that had pierced her foot earlier that evening, it had vanished, but its magic was still strong.
Drakkar’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “This werewolf is your brother? Who is he?”
Finding herself unable to lie, Larajin let the truth tumble out. “He’s the youngest son of the Uskevren household, Talbot.”
“How is he the brother of a serving girl?”
“His father Thamalon had a—dalliance—with my mother. Tal is my half-brother.”
“Ah.” The explanation seemed to satisfy Drakkar. He glanced at the slack-jawed Leifander, who starred dully back at him. “And the elf? He claims to be Thamalon Uskevren’s son. Is he your brother, too?”
Larajin blinked in surprise. Drakkar already knew about Leifander’s parentage? The spell compelled her to answer.
“Yes. He’s my brother too.”
The wizard merely grunted.
“Drakkar,” she continued. “You know I can’t lie to you. If I promise to prevent either of my brothers from harming you, will you reverse the spells you cast on them? Please … for my sake?”
Drakkar glanced briefly at Tal, then stared at Larajin, a look of intense longing on his face. “Answer one question for me, first.”
Larajin braced herself.
“Do you love me?”
“No.”
He winced.
Larajin had to speak quickly, or all would be lost. “Can’t you understand how it pains me to see my brothers like this?” she asked Drakkar. “Imagine how you felt, just now, when I admitted I didn’t love you. My anguish is equal to what you just felt, but at least you have hope, that one day, if you redeem yourself…”
She let her voice trail off, wary about saying too much. She wanted to give Drakkar the illusion that she might love him, one day. If she continued speaking, however, the truth would come out. She didn’t even trust herself to look at Drakkar, lest the thorn compel her expression to show what she truly felt. Fear. Disgust. Hatred.
“Very well!” Drakkar cried.
He made a quick hand gesture and spoke a word in the drow tongue. With a faint hissing sound, the magical coils vanished. Tal groaned and rolled over onto his back, staring at the sky. Dark singe lines crisscrossed his flesh, but at least he was alive.
“And Leifander?” Larajin asked.
Drakkar beckoned for Leifander to approach him. Leifander blinked in confusion a moment, then at last grasped what the wizard wanted. He walked to Drakkar, obedient and docile, and gave the wizard an innocent, trusting look as Drakkar’s questing fingers moved across his scalp.
“Ah!” Drakkar grunted after a moment or two. “There.”
He plucked something out of Leifander’s scalp, and held it up for Larajin to see. It was another thorn. Drakkar flicked it away into the forest.
Leifander’s eyes cleared instantly. With a harsh caw, he leaped for the wizard’s throat. Larajin, however, had anticipated this, and shouted a single command: “Stop!”
Once again, the fragrance of Hanali’s Heart filled the air as the locket at Larajin’s wrist pulsed red. Suddenly rigid, Leifander strained against Larajin’s spell a moment or two, the
n, finding himself unable to attack Drakkar, he whirled on her.
“Why?” he asked in a strangled voice.
“I made a promise to Drakkar,” Larajin said, “that if he restored your mind, I wouldn’t let you harm him.”
“My … mind?” Leifander rubbed a temple and looked around like a sleeper who had suddenly awakened. He saw Tal groaning on the ground, and added, “What happened here?”
Drakkar continued to eye Leifander warily. His fingers hovered over on his staff, ready to pluck a thorn at the first sign of trouble.
“I’m having a talk with Drakkar,” Larajin answered. “Just like Doriantha is talking to Maalthiir.”
Understanding bloomed instantly in Leifander’s eyes.
“I see.” He glanced at Drakkar, then feigned disgust. “Fine. Talk to him, then.” Deliberately, he turned his back on her.
Larajin turned her attention back to Drakkar, whose posture was still tense and ready. Infatuated with her he might be, but he was still cautious.
“Drakkar, like you, I’m half human and half elf,” Larajin continued. “I’ve faced a lack of acceptance because of it, but I’m not a traitor to my people.”
“Nor am I!” Drakkar wheezed. “My people—”
“You’ve turned your back on your human side,” Larajin said, “and that saddens me.” She let the words hang in the air a moment, then added, “Do you know what would make me very happy?”
Drakkar’s face brightened. “What?”
“If this war had never begun.”
Drakkar shook his head. “But it has. It can’t be stopped.”
Larajin looked him square in the eye. “Yes it can. You can stop it by returning to Selgaunt and using your influence with the Hulorn to persuade him to petition against the war.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Larajin could see Leifander begin to smile.
“It would also please me if you would speak to Lord Maalthiir and try to make him realize that the forest elves are too strong and that his plans to carve a road through the forest will never succeed.”
“But they will!” Drakkar said. “We’ll use the wands I created—using the mist, we can clear a road in a tenday.” He was obviously trying to impress her.
Larajin shook her head slowly. “Causing further destruction to the forest would make me very sad. And very unhappy with you, Drakkar.”
The wizard’s face fell.
“Finally, you could speak to the drow and convince them that they’re better off in their lairs below ground—that the forest is no place for them.”
“I would do anything for you, Larajin, but I cannot accomplish the impossible,” Drakkar said. “The drow aren’t likely to—”
“Very well,” Larajin interrupted, “but my first two requests—you will speak to the Hulorn, and to Maalthiir, won’t you?”
For a moment, defiance flickered in Drakkar’s eyes, and Larajin thought she had lost him. He gave a great sigh, like a lovesick youth.
“For you, Larajin … I’ll do it.”
Beside Larajin, Leifander had to pretend to cough, to cover his wide grin. Tal had risen feebly to a sitting position and was gaping at what he heard.
Larajin ignored him.
“There is one thing more you could do for me, if you would,” she told Drakkar.
Drakkar’s eyebrows lifted. “What is it, my dear?”
She lifted her foot slightly. “This thorn hurts,” she said simply. “Could you please remove it?”
“Of course!” Kneeling at her side like a Sembian gallant, Drakkar removed her boot and plucked the thorn from the sole of her foot.
“And this one, too?” Larajin asked, pointing at her tongue.
“Yes. Immediately.”
Somehow she kept her face neutral while Drakkar’s fingers probed inside her mouth. When the thorn was gone, relief washed through her.
“Thank you,” she said, then she let a touch of haughtiness creep into her voice. Deliberately she adopted the same tone Thazienne used to such good effect on her hordes of lovesick suitors. “Well, Drakkar, what are you waiting for? The Hulorn is going to be the toughest to convince. You’d better start back for Selgaunt at once.”
“I…” Once again resistance flickered in Drakkar’s eyes—then was gone, as a rush of floral scent filled the air. “At once, my dear,” he said, bowing. “At once.”
He disappeared with a soft pop.
Leifander turned to Larajin, no longer trying to hide his grin, and asked, “Do you think he’ll do it?”
Larajin nodded. “I’ve never felt the power of the goddesses so keenly as when I cast that spell upon him. He’ll do it.” She shrugged. “As to whether it’s enough to put an end to this war, well, we’ll see.”
She groaned, at last acknowledging the pain of her injured arm. During the exhilaration of working her magic upon Drakkar, she’d been able to ignore it, but the pain was washing over her in waves, making her feel faint and queasy.
“Now,” she told him, “I have to mend this arm of mine.”
EPILOGUE
Two figures stood in the forest, watching through a gap in the trees as soldiers with red plumes on their helms trooped past along the road. Riding beside them in an open carriage were four men. Three were officers—one with a vertical scar across his face, another burly and bald, the third a wiry, thin man with fair hair. They stared at the soldiers under their command and shook their heads, as if mightily displeased. The fourth man—who had close-cropped red hair and eyebrows that met in a V—kept turning to look south, back the way they had come, a lovesick look on his face.
The two figures surreptitiously watching the soldiers from the woods—a wild elf with tattooed cheeks and hands and glossy black feathers in his braid; and a woman wearing a red scarf in her hair and a heart-shaped locket at her wrist—turned to each other and grinned, as if sharing a great secret, then they glanced at the woman next to them.
This woman was older than the other two, with gray hair and a face creased with wrinkles and tattooed in a tree-branch pattern. She crouched near the base of an enormous standing stone whose glossy gray surface was carved with Elvish script. She ran a hand across the surface of the stone, then peered closely at it, and smiled.
“It is done,” she told the other two. “The prophesy is fulfilled. The rift is healed, and the crack has vanished.”
She lifted her wrinkled face to catch the sun, and savored a moment of birdsong that echoed through the wood.
“The gods themselves are singing,” she added, standing. “What will you do now?”
The man’s eyes ranged over the trees, and the new vegetation that was growing in a blighted patch of wood. As he considered his answer, a wren burst out of a clump of undergrowth, winging its way toward him. It landed on the man’s shoulder, tail flicking, as a winged cat padded out of the bush. The tressym glanced around the clearing and spotted the bird on the man’s shoulder. It crouched, tail lashing, about to spring—but then a sharp word from the woman in red brought it to heel. Obediently it padded over to her and wove itself in and out through her ankles, then settled at her feet—only occasionally glancing slyly up at the bird.
The man lifted the wren gently from his shoulder and lifted it to his lips.
“Take more care,” he whispered in its ear. “The war may be over, but for a nestling like you, the woods still hold many dangers.”
The bird cocked its head, as if listening to the advice, then it sprang into flight. The tressym, still lying at the woman’s feet, lifted its head sharply, then glanced up at its mistress and decided against pursuit.
Lisa Smedman The man at last answered the gray-haired woman’s question. “I’m a creature of the great forest,” he told her, “and the forest needs our protection, still. The drow are growing in boldness and number—” his eye fell on the carving on the standing stone—“and someone has to ensure that the ancient pact is honored.”
The gray-haired woman nodded. “And you?” she asked the younger
woman.
“I’m returning to Selgaunt,” the woman answered. “I want to see my family again and study in Sune’s temple. Perhaps,” she added, a mischievous smile on her face, “I may ask my father to donate a little of the family fortune toward setting up a place of worship dedicated to the goddesses: Sune and Hanali Celanil both. I’ve already decided on the vestments the clerics will wear. They’ll be made from a cloth dyed Sune’s crimson, and embroidered in gold with Hanali Celanil’s hearts.”
The older woman nodded, a pleased look in her eye.
“May the goddess grant you your every wish,” the man said. He gave her a formal bow, both hands on his heart.
The younger woman smiled and started to place her hands on her own heart—then impulsively, she gave him a hug instead. As she broke away, laughing, the tressym at her feet brrowed, and looked up at her questioningly.
“Yes, Goldheart, it’s time we were off.” She turned to the older woman. “Good-bye, Rylith.”
“Farewell. We’ll see you again, soon enough. There’s much you’ve yet to learn about the elf goddess.”
“That’s true,” the woman said.
She kneeled beside the tressym, hands braced on the ground in front of her, and spoke the words of a prayer. Swiftly, a transformation came over her. She shrank, sprouted whiskers and fur, and wings grew from her shoulders. In another moment, she was indistinguishable from the tressym beside her, aside from the fact that her wings were a uniform crimson color, rather than a peacock’s rainbow.
Launching herself into the air, she flew away, the tressym following close behind.
On the ground below, the man and woman closed their eyes, savoring the floral scent she left in her wake.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Lisa Smedman is the author of five SHADOWRUN® novels:
The Lucifer Deck, Blood Sport, Psychotrope, The Forever Drug, and Tails You Lose. She also wrote the novel The Playback War, set in FASA’s VOR: THE MAELSTROM universe.
Lisa has had a number of short science fiction and fantasy stories published in various magazines and anthologies, and has had two of her plays produced. In 1993 she was a finalist in the Writers of the Future contest.
