Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Between the throbbing drumbeats, Larajin heard a cry of pain, echoing out of the forest. Startled, she sprang to her feet and glanced around, thinking that someone had been injured, but an elf woman beside her shook her head and gestured for her to sit down again. The woman patted her stomach, then mimed holding a baby in her arms.

Larajin nodded, understanding. The cry was that of a woman in labor. Seating herself again, she wondered if she, too, had been born during a gathering like this, surrounded by enormous trees in a leaf-shadowed tent smelling of the moss that lined its floor, while outside, elves drummed and danced. It was a far cry from the formal halls of Stormweather Towers, where births took place in rooms with scrubbed stone floors, clean beds, and trained midwives.

Taking another sip of ale, Larajin basked in the warm glow it left her with and nodded in time with the music. Despite having been there less than a day, she was already coming to understand the forest elves. In just one morning she had learned the polite way to eat, with just her first two fingers and thumb instead of the whole hand. The elves had also taught her the proper way to greet a friend, with one hand on her heart. Especially honored guests were greeted with both hands-in the manner that Doriantha had bowed to Rylith. They had even suggested, tapping a finger against her cheek, that she adopt their custom by getting a facial tattoo. Giddy with ale, she was actually considering it.

Larajin nodded and smiled at the elves around her, thanking them for each new bit of lore. Despite the fact that they were instructing her in matters of formal etiquette-something Erevis Cale had tried to drum into her ever since she was born, much to her dislike-she felt at home there, a lost daughter returned to her roots. The forest elves were a strange and wild folk, to be sure, but being among them somehow felt … comfortable. Like her, they didn’t worry about getting dirt on their knees or brambles in their hair.

Larajin shared their love of the forest and their delight at being surrounded by green and growing things. Having nothing but an open sky overhead made her feel free. She felt at home there-more than she ever had within the dusty confines of Stormweather Towers-and safe from Drakkar’s threats. The forest elves had accepted her, would protect her.

Some of their customs were strange, but they fit her more comfortably than did a servant’s quiet obedience. These people had a way of holding themselves, of walking and sitting, that mirrored her own. For the first time, her own mannerisms seemed natural. She missed Tal, and her friend Kremlar, and dear old Habrith, but in the Tangled Trees, she was among her own people. Here, at last, was a place she could call home.

As the sun climbed still higher in the sky, a patch of bright sunlight found her. Filtered through the branches though it was, the sunlight was hot on her shoulders and the crown of her head. Larajin rose to her knees, intending to shift to a patch of shade, when, as one, all of the drums stopped. She looked up, and saw Rylith standing rigidly at the center of the clearing, one hand extended overhead, face upturned and fingers splayed as she reached toward the sun. Around her, all of the dancers had sagged to the ground. They sat, panting, eyes locked on the druid.

As Rylith stood, stiff asa statue, a haze of heat formed in the air above her outstretched hand. Small as a clenched fist, confusing to the eye, the shimmer flickered rapidly back and forth between flame-white and shadow-black. At the same time, a beam of sunlight lanced straight down onto the pole while an ink-dark shadow seeped out from its base and began to creep upward in a slow spiral. Light and shadow met at the acorn atop the pole and crackled there with magical energy. Even though she sat a good distance away, Larajin’s nose tickled, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. She felt as if a thunderstorm was crackling overhead, about to break over her.

A gasp whispered through the crowd when Rylith clenched her hand shut around the flickering heat haze. She lowered her hand to her chest, as if clutching something precious, then lifted it to her lips and whispered to it. Her gaze ranged over the assembled crowd, and as it lingered, then passed over each elf, he or she gasped expectantly, then gave a disappointed sigh.

Then the druid seemed to find what she had been searching for. She stared in Larajin’s direction, and Larajin, still half sitting and half kneeling, twisted around to glance behind her. Several of the elves seated behind her were leaning forward expectantly, eyes locked on the druid. Their faces fell. Turning around again, Larajin saw that Rylith had moved away from the pole and had stepped to within a few paces of her. The druid gestured with her free hand for Larajin to rise.

Uncertain why she had been singled out, Larajin obeyed and found she was unsteady on her feet. With an effort, she regained her equilibrium. She didn’t want to embarrass herself by falling over, not with the elves all around her looking up at her with expectant faces. Rylith stepped closer, and Larajin could hear the whirring of the magical energy the druid cupped in her hand. It was a high-pitched, fluttering noise, like the sound of a hummingbird’s wings.

Rylith was speaking, addressing the crowd. The language of the forest elves flowed swiftly from her lips, as clear and high as a mountain stream or the ripple of a wind through the wood. Larajin caught only a word or two-her own name, and Leifander’s, and the Elvish word for twins-then Rylith opened her hand. In one swift motion, before Larajin could jerk away, the druid threw the ball of magical energy. It shot forward with the speed of an arrow. In the instant that it entered her, Larajin saw a tiny white feather strike her chest, then flutter to the ground.

She gasped as sunlight flared in her eyes, washing her vision white. Waves of heat and cold gripped her body, which felt as though it was expanding, growing as large as the world itself. Thoughts whirled through her mind-a multitude of voices in three choruses: those who had died, those who yet lived, and those who had yet to be born. They had a message to impart, a message of hope and despair, joy and grief, urgings and warnings. A message she struggled to understand but could not, since it was being shouted in the Elvish and common tongues at once, each drowning the other out. The emotions behind the message, however, came through like breaking waves. The voices expected her to say something, do something, to be something.

Bobbing on the sea of human and elf faces was one she recognized. Tal. He stood amidst the throng, visible from the shoulders up, wearing chain mail over his shirt and an embroidered surcoat bearing the crest of House Uskevren. There was something wrong about his face. His deep green eyes were staring, unfocused, and his dark hair was matted and wet on one side. Something seemed to be sticking out of it, just behind the right ear, as if a twig had been caught in his hair.

With a shudder of horror, Larajin realized that an arrow was sticking out of Tal’s head, buried nearly to the fletching in a mat of blood-crusted hair.

He was dead.

The view shifted, drew back. Larajin saw hands bursting out of the earth like grasping vines, twining themselves around the ankles and calves of Tal and all those around him. The hands were dark, the color of earth, and had fingernails that flashed silver, like steel. They clawed at the flesh of those above, tearing deep gashes that wept a rain of blood onto the disturbed, heaving ground.

The elves and humans were still shouting at Larajin, calling to her, demanding she listen, imploring her to act. Unable to withstand the discordant chorus of voices that broke over her, one wave crashing in after the next, Larajin grabbed her ears with both hands and broke into a stumbling run. Somehow, despite her eyes being squeezed shut, she found her way through the elves in the clearing, running faster and faster through what must have been patches of sunlight and shadow. Blazing heat alternated with winter chill as darkness, light, darkness, then light flashed before her eyes. Something grabbed her from behind, and something else knocked against her legs, tripping her and toppling her to the ground.