Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“Twins?” Leifander echoed.

Could it be true? He could feel his eyes widening. According to the ancient tales, twins were favored of the gods-twice blessed and destined for great and noble deeds.

He was too upset to say more. All he could do was stare at Thamalon. With a growing horror, he realized that what Thamalon was saying must indeed be true. Now Leifander knew why the druids had chosen him to convey their message, why they had said that by doing so, he would learn who his father was. They’d told him the truth, but now Leifander wished they hadn’t. His father … a human? He couldn’t believe it. He wouldn’t believe it.

But part of him had already accepted this terrible fact. He thought back to the taunts he’d endured in his youth-taunts thrown at him by an elf many years his senior who had teased Leifander by calling him “round ears.” At the time, he’d shrugged it off-his ears were as pointed as any other elf’s-but Leifander’s adoptive father had taken the incident more seriously, and had come to blows with the man. Later, when the fellow disappeared, there had been rumors that Leifander’s father had killed him. At the time, Leifander had dismissed this as idle gossip, knowing there was nothing that could have prodded his father into so brutal an act.

He realized, now, that he’d been wrong. His adoptive father must have known all along that Leifander was indeed half-human. He’d killed the man to spare Leifander the shame of it.

A part of Leifander, however, still struggled with the revelation. How could he be part human? He had the look of a full-blood elf! Then he realized that subtle hints had been there, all along. He’d always been tall and somewhat heavyset for his age. His deep auburn hair was much darker than the autumn-leaf red of the other elves. Added all together, it seemed like damning evidence against him being a full-blooded elf.

He stared at Thamalon, searching for any resemblance, but just could not see it. Thamalon looked so human, and yet this man’s blood flowed in his veins.

Human blood.

With that thought came a second realization, even more terrible than the first. If human blood flowed in Leifander’s veins, that meant his life expectancy would be half what it should be-less than two hundred years. He stared at Thamalon with narrowed eyes, suddenly hating him.

Leifander started to turn, intending to stride back down the hall to the nearest balcony and fly off into the night, but Thamalon stepped forward and caught his arm. Though the fingers that gripped him were strong, the touch was a light one, imploring, rather than commanding.

“Please,” Thamalon said. “Stay a little longer. I would like to speak with you further, my son.”

Leifander tried in vain to keep from wincing at the word. “I must leave,” he snapped. “Tonight.”

“Must you?” Thamalon asked. “A pity. I’d have liked to have told you more about your mother.”

Thazienne, having been roundly scolded, was keeping her silence, but her eyes spoke volumes. She shook her head, obviously still not believing a word of it.

Thamalon turned to her. “Please leave us, Thazienne. I wish to speak to Leifander in private.”

Thazienne opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. Lips pressed together in a tight, angry line, she turned on her heel and strode away.

Thamalon watched the door close behind her, then turned back to Leifander. His eyes lingered on the ring at Leifander’s throat.

“I think there will be much for us to speak about,” he said. “Did you know that your mother was a Harper?”

Surprised, Leifander shook his head. If it were true, not even the elves of the Tangled Trees had known it. What other surprises did this man have in store?

His curiosity piqued, he said grudgingly, “I’ll stay … until I’ve heard you out, but then I must go.”

“Fair enough,” Thamalon said. He motioned to a bench under one of the windows. Leifander sat on it, on the far side from where Thamalon settled. Sire this man might be, but father? Never.

The older man looked off through the window at the stars, and absently tapped a finger against his chin, thinking.

“Well then,” the human mused. “Where to begin?”

Larajin followed the wild elves east through the forest. The route they took was a winding one, along game trails all but invisible to Larajin’s eyes. Even before dusk fell, she was completely turned around. When the darkness became complete, she would have lost her way entirely, save for the firm grip Doriantha had on her elbow.

Larajin expected the elves to halt for the night, but they stopped only briefly to eat a few handfuls of dried berries and to drink from a stream. Then they journeyed on through the darkness, winding their way between the trees as if they had the eyesight of owls. Even Larajin, with her excellent night vision, was hard-pressed to keep up the pace.

By the time morning dawned, she was exhausted. Even if they had stopped long enough for her to perform the morning devotions, she would have been too tired to do them properly. She kept hoping that Doriantha would at last announce that they had reached the Tangled Trees, but the march east continued as the sun rose in the sky. The farther they got from Rauthauvyr’s Road, the thicker the forest became. Larajin stumbled over roots and fought her way through prickling branches, skinning her hands and muddying the knees of her trouser skirt in scrambles up steep slopes.

The elves seemed unperturbed by the forest, moving through it with the quiet canniness of wild animals. Their bare feet skipped lightly across moss-slick stones that sent Larajin skidding into icy streams. They deftly avoided the broken branches of wind-fallen trees that snagged and tore Larajin’s clothing and knew how to space themselves so that a branch bent by the elf ahead did not strike the person following.

After receiving yet another stinging slap in the face from the bent branch of a fir, Larajin wondered if the elves were deliberately leading her through the densest forest growth in an effort to test her ability to follow them. Resolving not to appear weak, she blinked the grit out of her eyes and stumbled stubbornly on, hot, sweaty, and footsore. More than once she heard low mutters from those ahead, always including a word that was spoken as though it were a curse-a word in the Elvish tongue she was coming to recognize-the word for human.

Larajin glanced up at the sky frequently, hoping to see Goldheart winging her way above the treetops. Once, she saw a flash of crimson and her heart leaped-until she realized that it was only the brilliant red plumage of a woodpecker. Reminding herself that she had released the tressym from any further obligation, Larajin eventually stopped looking for her. It was all she could do to keep her exhausted eyes open-and to watch for the next tree root.

When the elves paused at a stream to drink, Larajin noticed with dismay that sweat had long since washed away the gold eye the priest had painted on her midriff. She offered a quick prayer of apology to Sune, asking forgiveness for her disheveled condition, and another to Hanali Celanil. She’d had no opportunity to sing the Song of Sunrise that morning or pay reverent homage to the sunset the night before. Perhaps these transgressions were the reason Sune was ignoring her prayers. It was Hanali Celanil who answered. The air filled with the floral scent of Hanali’s Heart, and Larajin’s exhaustion floated away, the blisters on her feet closed, and the ache in her muscles eased.

Thankful for this boon, Larajin pulled the tressym’s broken feather from the pocket of her shirt and cast it into the water, commending it to the goddess. The broken feather twirled a moment in a pool, flashing red and turquoise and yellow, then it was caught by the current and carried away.