Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“Is this the shapeshifter?” the deformed man asked.

“It is, Lord Mayor.”

The first man cocked his half-serpent head and stared at Leifander through a slitted eye. “Fascinating.” A human tongue flickered in and out through his lips, then he added, “Have him change, Drakkar.”

The man with the staff-Drakkar-twitched his lips into the briefest of condescending smiles. “Lord Mayor, we have taken away his magic. With it, he would have escaped by now.”

“What did he use, then? A wand? Or was it a ring, or a cloak?”

“None of those things, Lord Mayor.” Drakkar gestured with his staff, indicating Leifander’s forehead. “He used feathers woven into his hair and a bone.”

Leifander jerked his head to the side, hiding his shame.

“Magical feathers?” the deformed man panted, his eyes glittering with desire.

“It would appear not, Lord Mayor. My spells could detect no glamor upon them, nor on the bone. The fellow must be a cleric of some heathen elf god. The feathers and bone were specific to his religion-useless to anyone else.”

The human side of the mayor’s face twisted into a pout, hiding his fang. “Talos take him, then!” he cursed. “He’s of no use to me. Dispose of him.”

Leifander flinched, waiting for the dark-skinned man to strike him with his staff, but Drakkar merely leaned upon it. “He is of use to me,” he said softly. “This man was caught spying on our new war wagons. I would find out how much he has learned-and if there are other spies here in Selgaunt that we need to worry about. You will recall those wild elves that crept into the Hunting Garden last winter.”

The mayor made a derisive noise-half snort, half hiss. “Do what you want, but be sure to kill him afterward,” he ordered. He met and held Drakkar’s eye a moment, then held up a malformed hand. “There are deeper secrets than your war wagons that need burying.”

The Hulorn turned, fumbled the door open with awkward hands, and shambled from the room.

Leifander gave Drakkar a bold stare, making plain his defiance. He would not reveal a thing. If the torture became too much to bear, he would dash his head against the stone again and again until death claimed him. Indeed, there was little reason not to begin before the agony started. He whispered a prayer to the Winged Lady, imploring her to enfold his soul as it flew toward her, and lifted his head. But before he could begin, Drakkar kneeled swiftly by his side and grabbed his braid, yanking his head upward.

“None of that,” he warned. “I want you alive and awake for a little while yet.”

Still holding Leifander by the hair, he laid his staff on the floor, considered a moment, then plucked a thorn from it. Forcing Leifander’s head to the side, he held it against the cold stone with one knee. From a pocket he pulled a wooden stick and used it to lever Leifander’s mouth open, then he jammed the thorn into Leifander’s tongue.

Drakkar released Leifander, stood, and began to chant.

Gagging, Leifander tried to force the thorn from his tongue but could not. He twisted his tongue this way and that, trying to scrape the thorn out with his teeth. He could feel its sting, could feel his tongue swelling from the injury done to it, but could no longer feel the thorn itself. It seemed to have vanished, deep inside his flesh.

Drakkar finished chanting and stared down at Leifander.

“Where are you from, and when did you arrive in Selgaunt?” he asked.

Leifander’s mouth spoke of its own accord. “The Tangled Trees. Last night.”

His eyes widened in alarm, as he realized that he was the victim of a spell that was compelling him not only to speak-but to speak the truth.

Drakkar nodded. “Why did you come to Selgaunt?”

“To deliver a message.”

“From whom, and to whom?”

“From the druids of the Circle of Emerald Leaves. To Thamalon Uskevren.”

“Why to him?”

“He is my father.”

Drakkar’s eyebrows raised. He glanced at Leifander’s ears, at his tattooed face and asked, “What was the message?”

Leifander tried to clench his teeth shut or bite his traitorous tongue until his jaw ached, but it was no use. He answered every question the evil wizard asked, even giving the full strength of the wood elves’ forces and naming the leaders of each patrol. Tears welled in his eyes and trickled down his temples, dripping onto the floor, and still his betrayal continued. Leifander was unable to consolidate his will enough to strike his head against the floor, unable to do anything but answer.

Drakkar paused, and for a moment Leifander thought the questions were over, then he spoke again, as if musing aloud. “Your forces are weak, then. The High Council must know that this is a war your people cannot win. I wonder-would the elves accept an offer of support, if one were forthcoming?”

It had been phrased as a question, and so Leifander was compelled to answer. “It would depend on who the offer was from.”

Drakkar’s lips twitched in the faintest sketch of a smile. “What if it came from Maalthiir, first lord of Hillsfar?”

This time, Leifander answered willingly, in a harsh voice. “Maalthiir!” he spat. “We’d rather accept the aid of a demon.”

“And why is that?” Drakkar asked, unperturbed.

“He’s banned all but humans from his city. Elves found within its walls are used as fodder for the gladiatorial games. The Red Plumes are known throughout the forest for the atrocities they commit. The council would never trust him. Never.”

“What if such an alliance was the only way to save the forest?” Drakkar asked. “Pride can’t harvest nuts from a blighted tree or shelter you from your enemies.”

Leifander desperately wanted to say no, that the elves would fight to the last man, woman, and child, but he was haunted by the destruction the magical blight had already caused. He imagined elves standing homeless amid the skeletal trees of a destroyed wood.

“They … might,” he conceded, “but I think … not.”

“I see.”

Drakkar sounded pleased. He’d obviously been fearing an elf alliance with the cities of the Moonsea. Leifander’s rejection of any such notion had clearly set his mind at ease.

“This past winter, three wild elves appeared in Selgaunt in the Hulorn’s hunting garden,” he told Leifander. “Who were they, and why were they here?”

“I don’t know.”

The answer had been a truthful one, but Drakkar’s eyes narrowed. He tried again. “You must,” he growled. “They were protecting a girl-a human. A servant of the Uskevren house. Who is she?”

Once again, Leifander’s tongue spoke the truth. “I don’t know.”

“Gods curse you!” Drakkar kicked Leifander in the ribs, making him wince, then a cunning look crept into his eye. “Let’s see if you’re lying,” he spat. “Tell me, shapeshifter … what is your true name?”

“I … don’t know,” Leifander gasped. The kick must have cracked a rib. It hurt to breathe. “My mother died giving birth to me. If she gave me a true name, I don’t know it.”

Drakkar thought a moment, then tried again. “Do you know the true names of any of the elves of the High Council?”

Leifander fought the compulsion to speak as long as he could, but at last his answer burst forth. “Yes.”

“Whose?”

“Lord Kierin of Deepingdale.”

Drakkar’s eyes gleamed. “What is his true name?”

“His true name … is …”

With a supreme effort of will, Leifander wrenched his head to the side, mashing his cheek into the cold stone as he spoke, slurring his words. He must not betray his adoptive father’s sworn friend. He would not.

Drakkar bent over him, wrenching his head back. “Again. What is Lord Kierin’s true name?”