Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

As if feeling Leifander’s stare burning into him, the white-haired man turned. At the same time, a sharp pricking in Leifander’s shoulder reminded him of the swordswoman at his back. He stepped forward briskly, and-in deference to the mission the druids had assigned him-placed a hand over his heart and gave the human at the window a courtly bow.

“Thamalon Uskevren, I presume?” he said in the common tongue.

“I am indeed he who bears that name.”

Startled, Leifander looked up. Thamalon had spoken in the language of the forest elves-and not in the harsh, guttural accent humans normally mangled the language with. Instead, every syllable was perfect, articulated with flowing grace. Leifander wondered where and how Thamalon, a human of the south, had learned the tongue.

The sword pricked Leifander’s back. “Well?” the woman demanded. “Are you going to introduce yourself? Let’s hear this message that you snuck into Stormweather Towers to deliver.”

Something flashed in Thamalon’s deep green eyes-a warning to his daughter? One hand patted the air, instructing her to lower her rapier.

“A little less impetuosity, Thazienne, if you please,” he said in the common tongue.

A moment later, Leifander heard steel slithering into a sheath behind him. The woman-Thazienne-stepped from behind him and stood to the side, malicious curiosity dancing in her eyes as she waited to hear what he had to say.

Leifander cleared his throat and held Thamalon’s eye. He’d deliver his message quickly, then get on to the important part-asking this man for information about his father.

“My name is Leifander,” he said in his own language. “I am an elf of the Tangled Trees. I bear a message from the Circle of the Emerald Leaves.”

He paused, watching to see if Thamalon recognized the name. Thamalon nodded briefly. He did.

“The druids wish you to raise your voice in the Sembian council to state that the elves have attacked Sembia’s caravans with good cause, to revenge the magical blight humans brought to the great wood. While most of the elves wish war, there are some … who will work for peace.”

Thamalon’s eyes bored into Leifander’s. “But you’re not one of them, hmm? You’d rather fight.”

Leifander squared his shoulders. “I do as I am bid.”

“Odd, that the druids would choose you to deliver their message. Are you certain there isn’t another message you came to deliver, a message from …?” Thamalon let his sentence trail off, turning it into a question.

Thazienne stood with arms folded across her chest. “Father! How can you listen to this nonsense? He’s an assassin-or at the very least, a spy. I caught him in my room, creeping around in the dark.”

Thamalon gave a barely audible sigh. “Hardly the first time a young rogue was found there,” he muttered. His eyes, however, remained locked on Leifander’s. “I’m waiting,” he reminded the elf.

Leifander cleared his throat a second time. He decided to say as the druids had bade him, ask Thamalon for whatever information he could provide about his father, then be quit of this place.

“I am told, Thamalon Uskevren, that you have a fondness for the Tangled Trees. That you traveled there some years ago.”

Thamalon’s eyes brightened with anticipation. “Go on.”

“While there, you had union with a woman of my people. That union produced a child.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Leifander noted that Thazienne’s mouth had dropped open. He hadn’t realized that she understood the language of the forest elves-and neither had her father, from the startled look that Thamalon shot her.

Leifander kept an eye on Thamalon, watching for confirmation that the story the druids had told him was true. It came, in the form of a slowly creeping flush that spread upward from the collar of Thamalon’s doublet, not quite reaching his cheeks. Thamalon’s expression, however, remained utterly unchanging, as if his features had been set in wax.

“Go on,” he repeated, this time in a voice crackling with tension. “You’ve come with a message from Larajin, haven’t you? Is that where she’s run to-the Tangled Trees? Is she safe-is she well?”

Puzzled, Leifander faltered to a halt. He’d spoken the words that Rylith had made him memorize-a message designed to play upon Thamalon’s sympathies for the elves by reminding this human that he’d sired a half-elf child. That child, according to Rylith, lived in Selgaunt, and was named Larajin. It seemed this Larajin had flown from the nest. If Leifander revealed the fact that he knew nothing of her whereabouts, would Thamalon dismiss him without answering the questions that burned inside Leifander?

Thazienne ran fingers through her hair, then broke the strained silence with a question. “Father? Is what this wild elf’s saying true? Is Larajin really your daughter?”

Thamalon closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering strength. “I’m afraid she is.” He shot Thazienne a look. “And you are to tell no one-not even your mother-what you have just heard. Am I understood?”

Thazienne started to arch a mocking eyebrow, then thought better of it. “All too well, Father,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face. “These … impetuosities … do happen.”

Thamalon glowered at her.

Leifander cleared his throat to remind them that he was still there.

“Sir,” he said, “having delivered my message, I wish to speak to you about another matter. The druids told me that you know my father. He is an elf, living here in Selgaunt. I was hoping you could give me news of him.”

Thamalon at last tore his eyes away from his daughter. “What is his name?”

Leifander blushed. “I … don’t know.” He reached inside his vest, feeling for his mother’s ring. “The druids told me you would know him by his ring. He gave it to my mother, just before he left the Tangled Trees.”

Thamalon stiffened as he glanced at the ring. His face blanched still further, and his voice grew strained when he asked, “What was your mother’s name?”

“Trisdea. She was a priestess and warrior among her people. She died giving birth to-”

“Trisdea was also the name of Larajin’s mother,” Thamalon interrupted. “But that can’t be. They said…”A troubled look came into his eyes. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

Thazienne snorted. “The same age as Larajin? How convenient,” she said, in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “Father, you can guess what’s coming next. This elf is going to tell you some ridiculous story-that he’s Larajin’s twin, or something.”

“No,” Leifander protested. “My father was-”

“Then he’ll try to claim his inheritance,” Thazienne continued, “just like the last Uskevren ‘heir’ did. This fellow may have learned your dark secret, but whatever he says next will be lies and nonsense. He hasn’t got a shred of proof that-”

Thamalon turned on his daughter, his voice pitched dangerously low. “Look there,” he said, pointing a quivering finger at the ring that hung at Leifander’s throat. “That ring. I was the man who gave it to his mother, twenty-five years ago, as a token of my affection. Leifander is indeed … my son.”

Thazienne’s mouth fell open in mute surprise. Her eyes darted from the ring to her father, then back to Leifander again. She gaped at him, as if seeing him for the first time. The shock she must have felt, however, was a pale shadow of Leifander’s own.

“I’m no human!” he said, spitting out the word. “Nor even half-human. You’re wrong!”

“I’m afraid not,” said Thamalon. “Your story meshes with my own, like two hands folded together. I lay with Trisdea, and later, during my second visit to the Tangled Trees, learned that she had become pregnant by me. The elves told me that she died giving birth to that child-that although there was a cleric present at the birth, his magic could not save her. That her death was the will of the gods. They also told me she bore twins, but that only one lived. Now I see that they lied.”