Lisa Smedman: Heirs of Prophecy

Bare-chested and clad only in rough leather breeches, the elf stood in a forest, surrounded by the trunks of massive trees, thick ferns hiding all but the top of his fringed moccasins. He gripped a knife with a hilt made from a deer’s hoof in one hand, a short bow in the other. Underneath the illustration was the caption: Wild Elf Warrior of the Tangled Trees .

Larajin ran a finger along the top of her own ear. It was smooth and round-a legacy of her human father, Master Thamalon Uskevren the Elder. From her mother-a “wild elf” of the Tangled Trees-Larajin had inherited her rust-colored hair, slim build, and impulsive nature.

What had her mother been like? Beautiful, certainly, to have lured the master’s affections away from his wife. Well respected by her people, Habrith had said, but Habrith-who was like an aunt to Larajin-had refused to tell her more. She said only that Larajin would find out on her own in due time, when the moment had ripened.

Larajin knew she would one day travel to the Tangled Trees, but something was holding her back. It was fear, perhaps, or the comforts of Stormweather Towers, or the fact that the few Elvish words she’d managed to glean from dusty old tomes would not enable her to make her complicated story understood.

A thud startled Larajin out of her reverie. She peered around the high back of the armchair in which she sat, thinking that someone had entered the library-that she was about to be caught handling the master’s precious tomes. She saw with relief that the door to the library was still closed and realized the noise had just been a book falling over on one of the shelves. From elsewhere in Stormweather Towers came the sound of raised voices, but in the hall outside the library, all was quiet.

On the carpet at her feet, a tressym sighed contentedly, eyes closed. The catlike creature sat like a sphinx, forepaws extended and wings tucked tightly against her back. Even folded flat, the wings were exquisitely beautiful. Unfolded, they rivaled a peacock’s feathers, with spots of brilliant turquoise, vibrant yellow, and ruby red, all edged in tabby-stripe black.

As if sensing Larajin looking at her, the tressym opened luminous golden eyes and inclined her head.

Brrow? she asked quizzically.

Larajin bent down to stroke silky, blue-gray fur. As always, she was amazed at how the tressym trusted her. Anyone else foolish enough to try to pat the creature would have had her hand shredded by those sharp claws.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she chided. “You’re a wild creature-you should have flown back to wherever you came from, after I healed you. Why do you keep sneaking into Stormweather Towers? Don’t you know your being here is dangerous-for both of us?”

The only answer was a rumbling purr. The tressym closed her eyes and in a moment was fast asleep.

Larajin settled back into the armchair and turned the page, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell of age-spotted paper and old leather. The book was a history of the founding of Sembia, an unfortunately rather dry account of what must in fact have been truly heroic events. Larajin would liked to have learned more, for example, about the great clash between humans and elves at Singing Arrows in the year 884 DR. What had prompted the historians to give such a bloody battle so poetic a name? Also given short shrift was the visit to the Elven Court of Sembia’s first Overmaster, Rauthauvyr the Raven, in 913. Instead of describing elven customs, the author dwelled interminably on arcane legal arguments about whether or not Sembia had the right to construct a road.

There was one tantalizing detail, however. A footnote at the bottom of a page containing a list of the members of the council noted that these were not the “true names” of the elves. It added that every elf was given both a true name and a common name by his parents on the day that he was born.

Larajin had been named by her adoptive human mother, the servant Shonri Wellrun. Now she wondered-had the elf woman who died giving birth to her twenty-five years ago lived long enough to give her daughter a true name?

Lost in thought, Larajin heard the tressym hiss, but she paid it no heed, assuming the creature was reacting to something in a dream. A long shadow fell across the pages, and a hand reached down and jerked the book out of her lap, causing Larajin to shriek in alarm.

“This is the final stone, girl,” a deep voice growled.

Blushing furiously, Larajin looked up into the stern face of her nemesis: Erevis Cale, head servant and butler to the house of Uskevren. Tall and implacable as a tower, he glared down at her, a terrible wrath in his deep-shadowed eyes. The sleeves of his gray shirt were smudged with what must have been soot, judging by the strong odor of smoke that clung to him, and there was a small cut on his bald scalp, as if he’d banged his head on something.

“B-but, Sir,” she sputtered, “it’s long past dark, and my chores are done. I know that’s a rare and valuable book, but I took great care with it and didn’t bend any-”

“And what of the tallow you were melting on the stove?”

The quiet words stopped her cold, more than any shouted rebuke might have done. Her eyes widened as she remembered the last task she’d been assigned that evening: softening tallow for the servants who topped up the lamps in the evening. Despite the close summer warmth of the library, her stomach felt like sharp icicles had suddenly sprouted inside it. A question rose in her mind, one she dared not whisper aloud: How much of the kitchen had been burned?

Behind Cale, the tressym launched herself into the air, seeking the safety of the rafters. For the first time since the creature had followed Larajin back to Stormweather Towers, some eighteen months before, the butler ignored the fact that it had once again crept indoors. Instead he merely stared at Larajin, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

“Get up,” he ordered. “This time the master himself will deal with you.”

As she was marched to the door, Larajin heard him add, under his breath, “And this time, by the gods, I’ll finally be rid of you.”

The hallway to the master’s study had never seemed so long. Steered by Cale’s heavy hand on her shoulder, Larajin dragged her feet along the plush carpet, unwilling to face the disappointment she knew she would see in the master’s eyes. Gilt-framed portraits of the Uskevren ancestors glared down at her from either side, and a suit of plate mail holding an axe stood as if waiting for Larajin to place her neck on the chopping block.

From behind the heavy oak door of the master’s study came the murmurs of two voices. As Larajin and Cale approached, the door opened. Through it came one of the kitchen staff-Aileen, a girl with wispy blonde hair who hid a shrewish disposition behind pretty smiles-carrying an empty decanter. She wore the formal Uskevren servant’s uniform: a white dress slashed with blue, and a gold vest and turban bearing the Uskevren crest with its horse-at-anchor design. Tiny silver bells sewn onto her turban tinkled as she stopped short, obviously surprised to find Cale and Larajin in the hallway.

Larajin was suddenly aware that she had mislaid part of her uniform-again. Her own turban was lying forgotten in the library, and her long hair hung uncombed and tousled about her shoulders. Aileen noted this with a quick glance and crinkled her nose.

Aileen had halted with one hand still on the door behind her, which remained open a finger’s width.

“The master has a visitor, Sir,” she told Cale in a mincing voice. “He instructed that…”

Her eye fell on Larajin’s shoulder, and the sooty mark Cale’s hand had left there. Her lips twitched into a smirk.

“The master instructed that whoever caused the fire atop the stove be brought to him straight away.”