Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“This monument,” Rylith said in a sad voice, “was erected to commemorate a pact of friendship between human and elf. For centuries, nothing has marred its surface. It has withstood frost and fire and healed itself of the willful damage of blade and hammer. Now it is a cracked mirror, a sad reflection of our current troubles.”

Larajin laid a fingertip against the monument-gently, lest the slight touch topple it. Despite the heat of the sun that glared down through the bare branches overhead, the granite was as cold as ice. She shivered, and withdrew her hand.

“The Standing Stone,” she said, remembering it from a book she’d read.

“You know its history?” Rylith asked. “The story of when it was erected and what it signifies?”

Larajin nodded. “Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “Why did we have to use magic to sneak away? Why wouldn’t the elves let me leave the tent?”

Rylith sighed. “These are difficult times. Not only do the humans march against the forest, but the war has also pitted the council members against each other. There are many on the High Council who ignore the true threat to the forest, who refuse to heed our advice. One would think they had fallen victim to-”

She stopped abruptly, then shook her head, as if to dispel some disturbing thought.

“I have much work yet to do,” she continued. “I can interrupt it for only a short time, and that time would be better spent speaking about your part in all of this than about mine.” She extended a hand to Larajin. “Come. Walk with me. This is not a pleasant spot, and there is more I need to show you.”

They walked for some time through the woods, Goldheart following above, until they had left the monument and the blighted forest behind. Up ahead, Larajin heard the sound of flowing water. It turned out to be a small creek, pebbled with rocks and surrounded by lush greenery. Rylith squatted on a sun-warmed stone, and motioned for Larajin to join her. When Larajin had settled, she pointed at a pool, on which a twig was floating. The twig drifted in a slow, lazy circle, framing their reflections. Rylith’s face, with gray hair and dark tree-branch tattoos; and Larajin’s, with unwrinkled skin and rust-colored hair hanging loose about her shoulders.

“Hazel eyes are very rare among our people,” Rylith said. “Less than ten children in an entire generation have eyes like yours. Twins born with hazel eyes are rarer still.”

Larajin wondered what this had to do with anything but told herself to be patient. Druids were never known to rush anything. Rylith would come to the point in time.

“There is a belief among our people that twins with hazel eyes are an omen of great good fortune, that the twins themselves are specially blessed by the gods-and that they will use this blessing to aid their race.”

“My brother Leifander has hazel eyes?” Larajin asked.

“See for yourself.” Rylith swept a hand over the pool of water, and the twig suddenly halted in place. For the space of several heartbeats, the pool became utterly still. Within it, Larajin could see a third face, that of a wood elf with braided bangs hung with feathers, and sharply pointed ears and almond-shaped eyes that were a hazel color just a shade darker than Larajin’s own. His face was tattooed, but lacked the narrowness of a full-blooded elf. It was also strikingly handsome.

The image was frozen, the eyes unblinking-an illusion then, and not a glimpse of Leifander in that moment.

Larajin stared at her brother’s face, trying to see a resemblance to her own, but could not. As Doriantha had observed, they were as different as day and night. Leifander looked like a full-blood elf, and Larajin a human.

Rylith moved her hand again, and the twig resumed its journey around the pool, making one last circuit, then escaping into the current of the stream. As it slipped away, Leifander’s face rippled and faded from sight.

“Until quite recently, the truth-that Trisdea bore twins-was known only to a handful of people,” the druid said. “Most of the elves in the Tangled Trees believed that she had borne only Leifander-being half human, he was such a large infant that it was easy to persuade people he’d made such a big bulge in Trisdea’s stomach on his own. That fiction became even more credible when Thamalon Uskevren took you with him, away from the Tangled Trees.”

“Was he supposed to have done that?” Larajin asked.

Rylith ignored the question. “That which is necessary has a way of happening,” she said. “All things come full circle, given enough time.”

She sighed, and continued, “There are some, however, who believe that the hand of the gods can be forced-that you and your brother should be reunited at any cost. When they first found out where you were living, they tried to force you to return to the Tangled Trees. They-”

“The elves who defended me in the Hunting Garden!” Larajin exclaimed, suddenly understanding.

Rylith nodded sadly. “Theirs was a great sacrifice, but they believed in you and in the power of the goddess that flows through you. As do I.”

Larajin shivered, despite the heat of the sun. She had been chosen by two goddesses, it was true, and with their aid had worked magic. That alone made her special, but Rylith was saying that she was more than that. She was a person whom three elves had willingly sacrificed themselves to protect. A person of whom great things were expected-by an entire race. Larajin wondered how she could ever live up to such expectations.

She thought of her twin brother. At least she wouldn’t have to do it alone.

“When I tried to leave the tent, an elf told me I had to wait for Leifander,” she said. “He was worried that I would run away, wasn’t he?”

“He was.”

“But I wanted to meet Leifander. I would have given my word to wait until he came to the Tangled Trees-and kept it. Why didn’t the elves trust me? Is it because of the war? Because I look … too human?”

“No,” Rylith answered. “When I gave the gift of foresight to you at the Turning of the Seldanqith, you did not receive it as I had hoped. You seemed … alarmed and agitated by what you heard. Instead of conveying a message of hope to the people, you-”

“I panicked,” Larajin whispered.

Rylith paused, and shook her head. “It caused great concern-and it was something I should have anticipated. I should have realized that you were not prepared-that the experience might frighten you. Being raised among humans …” She shrugged, and made a circle in the air before bowing her head and touching fingers to her forehead. “What is done is done. Everything is but a spoke in the wheel.”

“I saw my brother’s death,” Larajin said in a pained whisper.

“Leifander’s?” Rylith asked in alarm.

“No, Tal’s-my half-brother.”

“Ah.” The druid made a dismissive gesture.

Larajin felt a rush of anger at the realization that Tal’s death-the death of a mere human-meant nothing to the forest elves, but she forced it down in the hope that Rylith might be able to tell her what to do.

“What were the gods trying to tell me?” she asked. “What message should I have heard?”

“We may never know-but we may conjecture,” Rylith said. “What remains of Cormanthor-of the great wood-is faced with a terrible prospect. A war could decimate our people and destroy the forest itself. The war is also sure to claim the lives of many humans.”

Like Tal, Larajin thought grimly.

“This bloodshed was not meant to be,” Rylith continued. “Someone has tipped the balance. Now the scales must be set level again. That task rests upon you and your brother, who share a great gift. Together, you can put a halt to the slaughter before it begins.”