Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“We commend you, Leifander of the Tangled Trees, for your brave rescue of your companion on Rauthauvyr’s Road and your daring attack on the wizard whose evil magic was blighting the wood. You proved the High Council correct in our assumption that the depredations upon our wood were caused by human hands. More than that, you have laid the blame squarely at Sembia’s doorstep.”

Sembia? That was the name of the realm from which the man they said knew his father hailed.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Leifander asked tentatively. “Now we know the name of our enemy. We know which caravans to strike.”

In his heart, though, he didn’t care which of the caravaners died. They were all human and equally deserving of the elves’ wrath.

Klanthir sighed. “If only it were merely a matter of striking caravans…. Now that the Council knows who perpetrated this blight, they are speaking of war. If it comes to that, the balance will be forever tipped, and in a direction not in our favor. Long gone is the glory of Cormanthor and Myth Drannor. Though we hold the wood still, we are a scattered people. A war against Sembia will be a war we cannot win.”

“Not so!” Leifander cried, unable to contain himself. “We may be outnumbered, but one elf is a match for any four humans. They will never take our wood! We know it too well. On our home ground we cannot fail.”

“That is so,” Klanthir agreed, “but the wizard you met cannot be the only one working magic along Rauthauvyr’s Road. So great is the destruction-so widely are the seeds of the blight scattered-that one wand could not have sown them all.”

“There is yet time for us to act,” Rylith added. “The man I spoke of earlier-Thamalon Uskevren-is the head of a powerful merchant family. His voice speaks loudly in the Sembian council. If he could be persuaded to counsel against rash action, a war might yet be averted.”

With a sinking feeling in his heart-for he could guess the answer-Leifander asked, “What is my part in this?”

“Go to the city of Selgaunt, and find Thamalon Uskevren,” Rylith said. “Speak to him. Remind him of the love he once had for … the Tangled Trees. Plead with him to steer Sembia toward a course of action that will placate the High Council-one that will heal the rift between elf and man.”

“I have never been to a human city,” Leifander said. “I couldn’t…”

It was a half-hearted protest. Already his mind was turning over the possibilities. He would deliver his message to Thamalon Uskevren, then press the human for information about his father, insist that he arrange a meeting between father and son.

“Don’t worry,” Rylith said with a twinkle in her eye. “Selgaunt is not far-as the crow flies. Now listen closely, while I relate what you are to say.”

Larajin kneeled on a carpet of fragrant rose petals, her reflection rippling in the pool beside her. The cleric who kneeled in front of her rinsed his brush in the water, scattering flakes of gold, then dipped it again into a pot. Concentrating on Larajin’s bared midriff, he applied moistened gilt paste to her skin with delicate, tickling strokes, marking her as one of the novices who would be traveling to the temple in Ordulin.

The temple of Sune was tranquil at this hour of the morning, filled with the soothing sounds of fountains and harmonious voices chanting the Song of Sunrise under the direction of the Heartwarder. The clerics stood in a group on the other side of the sacred pond, arms stretched to the skies, moving slowly in perfect unison through the ritual exercises that accompanied the song. Closer at hand, flowers, kissed by the first pink rays of the sun, slowly opened their blossoms, while brilliant yellow songbirds flitted from branch to branch amidst the topiary.

In this peaceful setting, Larajin could almost forget the fact that a powerful wizard wanted her dead; the Hulorn’s men were no doubt scouring the streets outside even now, searching for her. Exhausted from having been up all night, she sighed, wishing that she could lie down beside the pool and be lulled into a peaceful slumber.

When she’d arrived at the temple just before dawn, it hadn’t seemed to matter that she was no more than an initiate. While Habrith had a quiet word with the temple’s Heartwarder, the clerics had welcomed her, given her their blessings, and clothed her in Sune’s vestments: a crimson robe, cut to reveal her midriff, sandals embossed with Sune’s winking eye, and a red silk scarf to tie back her hair. They had noticed the locket at her wrist and recognized it for what it was-a devotion to Hanali Celanil-but had just smiled, and commented that it must be difficult to serve two goddesses who were rivals for the same heart.

Yes, Larajin thought, she could happily tarry here forever, safely hidden within these walls. She looked up, and saw the tressym perched on the wall above, intent upon the songbirds. Larajin shook her head, willing the creature to go away. She didn’t think the clerics would react kindly to having their songbirds being killed and eaten. The tressym leaped into the air and dived into the courtyard. Larajin tensed-but the tressym bypassed the songbirds, instead gliding to a graceful landing beside the sacred pool.

The tressym bent to sniff the water, then began lapping delicately. Once she finished her drink, she stretched with catlike grace, extended one brilliant wing, and preened red and turquoise feathers with long, sure strokes of her tongue.

“She’s a beauty,” the young cleric said, pausing in his art to admire the tressym. “Is she yours?”

“She seems to think so,” Larajin quipped. “Or perhaps she thinks that I am hers.”

The cleric laughed. Auburn-haired and long-lashed, he wore the garb of the temple: tight-fitting crimson hose capped by a padded codpiece, and a crimson shirt whose short sleeves revealed finely chiseled muscles. The shirt ended well above his midriff, exposing the deep red lines tattooed into his flesh: the pattern of Sune’s lips, symbolically pressed against his belly in a sacred kiss.

He dabbed his brush back in the pot, and paused a moment before continuing his work. “Will your journey be a lengthy one, Mistress?”

Larajin did not know how to answer him. She was about to leave behind everything she knew and everyone she loved. Would she find protection among the wild elves of the Tangled Trees? More than that, would she find family, a new home?

“Mine will be a long journey,” she told the cleric, the exhaustion of not having slept making her words heavy. “One I may be on for the rest of my life.”

The cleric applied one last tickling brush stroke, then regarded the finished work appreciatively.

“Indeed? Then may Sune watch over and protect you for all of the days of your journey … and all the days of your life.” He brushed his lips against her midriff, sealing his design with a kiss.

Larajin flushed as the warmth of his lips spread up and down her body. The blush spread to her very toes and fingertips-which, she saw, were surrounded by a faint red aura-and prickled through her scalp. When the magic that had accompanied the blessing took hold, it left her feeling rested and refreshed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“My pleasure, Mistress.” He gathered up his brushes and pot of gilt paste. “I hope to see you again, should your journey at last come to an end.”

Larajin’s eyes lingered on the cleric as he departed the courtyard-he was very good looking, even for one of Sune’s chosen.

She rose and cast a pebble into the pool and watched as ripples spread across it. No answer was given to her silent question. Perhaps even the goddess did not know what Larajin would find amidst the Tangled Trees. Unless the answer was the thing that was reflected in the pool: herself.