Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Larajin frowned, wondering if she was interpreting the druid’s words correctly. “You expect Leifander and I to stop the war?”

Rylith stared into the trees, as if looking past them into a great distance. “Years before you and your brother were born, your sister Somnilthra prophesied that two children born to Trisdea would end her life but would save many more. That they would ‘heal a great rift, and end a great strife.’ That rift can be no other than the one between elf and human. That strife is this war.

“You and your brother are in balance-male and female, human and elf. Who better to balance the scales of fate?”

Larajin felt a tangle of conflicting emotions: relief that the war could still be halted and Tal’s life saved-and dread.

“But … I wouldn’t know where to begin. I couldn’t-”

Not alone .

Startled, Larajin looked around. The voice was achingly beautiful and had come from everywhere at once, its syllables formed from the sighing of wind through branches, from the distant trill of birdsong in the wood, from the gurgle of the stream that flowed past the rock on which Larajin sat. A fragrance filled the air-heady and sweet, the smell of flowers-and not just any blossoms, but those of Hanali’s Heart. Larajin looked down, and saw floating on the pool a single red petal, flecked with gold. For a moment, she thought the locket at her wrist had fallen open, but a quick glance told her that it was still securely fastened. She reached for the floating petal-

And jerked her hand back in alarm as Leifander’s face appeared once more in the pool. This time, the image was moving, not still. Leifander lay on his back on a stone floor, his eyes wide and his mouth opened in a scream. He wrenched his head to the side as a squirming rat landed on the floor beside him. The rat lunged at Leifander’s face, drawing blood. Leifander shook his head violently, dislodging the rat, but three more scurried in to lap at the hot, dark blood that trickled down his cheek.

“Why doesn’t he throw them off?” she shouted, leaping to her feet in alarm as one of the rats ran across the vision in the pool, seemingly toward her own foot. “He’s just lying there!”

Rylith glanced up at Larajin in alarm. “What is it? What do you see?”

Larajin was transfixed by the image in the pool. Standing up had somehow shifted it, giving a view of more than just Leifander’s face. She could see manacles on each of his wrists and ankles, holding him spread-eagled on the floor-and more than a dozen rats, swarming around his body. They didn’t look like ordinary rats.

Larajin dropped to her knees, lowering her face almost to the surface of the water. The result was as she’d hoped-one of the rats loomed larger. Now that she could peer at it closely, she saw that its front legs were hairless and pink, and ended in tiny human hands.

“I recognize that creature!” she cried. “It’s a rat from the sewers under the Hunting Gardens. Leifander must be in the Hulorn’s dungeon.”

Rylith’s face paled.

Larajin stared in horror at the pond. She reached out for Leifander, but as her fingers touched the surface of the pool his image rippled, then was lost among the pebbles at the bottom of the pond. All that remained was the speckled red petal, bobbing amid sparkling reflections of the sun.

A different voice, equally melodic, but pitched in a different key, said, Go to him .

This time, Larajin didn’t look around. She knew where the voice was coming from. It was Sune this time. Scooping the petal from the pond, she turned to the druid.

“That spell you used-the one that brought us here. Can you use it to send me back to Selgaunt?”

“I could, if I had visited Selgaunt, but I have never been to that city. The spell can only deliver me to somewhere I can recall well-to a place I can visualize as clearly as the palm of my own hand.”

“What if I was the one who visualized where we were going? Would the spell work then?”

Rylith shook her head. “It would have to be a place of refuge, a place in which you felt utterly safe, and you would have to be the one to cast the spell.”

“I see.” Larajin scooped the petal from the stream. “Teach me.”

Rylith shook her head. “Impossible! Only a druid of the inner circle can cast that spell.”

“Could a cleric do it?”

“One who had studied for many years, certainly.”

“I don’t have years,” Larajin gritted. “Tell me what to do.”

“You will never succeed.”

“I’ve got to at least try.”

Rylith opened her mouth to protest, then set her lips in a grim line. “Yes, I suppose you do.” She took a deep breath. “First, you’ll need something sacred to your goddess.”

“Which one?”

“Whichever favors you more.”

Larajin considered, uncertain of the answer. Would it be Sune or Hanali Celanil? Both had blessed her in the past. Should she use Sune’s red scarf or the locket that symbolized Hanali Celanil? Then she realized that she didn’t need to choose. There was one thing sacred to both goddesses. She held up the red petal.

“That will do. Now use it to draw a circle.”

Larajin frowned. How was she supposed to do that? With several dozen petals, she might construct a circle on the ground, as Rylith had done with her powder. With a lump of coal or a stick of chalk, she might draw a circle on the stone on which she squatted, but this petal was neither.

Then she realized the answer. Carefully, she lowered the petal to the pond, and dropped it so the eddying current would catch it. As before, the petal began to drift in a circle.

Larajin looked up. “What comes next?”

“Visualize a place of refuge-a place where you feel secure and safe. A place you know intimately. Close your eyes, if that helps.”

Larajin did. She could only think of one place, in all of Selgaunt, that fit the description: her bedroom in Storm-weather Towers. She concentrated on it, fixing every detail of the room in her mind. The narrow bed, the table her adoptive father had made her, the three-legged stool near the window, the simple trunk that held her clothes, and the shelf on the wall that held her collection of treasures-snail shells, pretty stones, an eagle’s feather, and a jar of perfume given to her by her friend Kremlar-all came to her mind’s eye.

The sounds of the stream and the forest boughs creaking faded, until all Larajin heard was Rylith’s voice.

“Now, if you knew how to cast the spell, you would speak the word that activates it and step into the circle.”

Larajin’s concentration faltered. “What word?”

“Therein lies the problem. The word is unique to each individual casting the spell. I cannot teach it to you-it comes from the gods. After years of study, as I have said.”

Rylith’s voice had a finality to it that made Larajin’s heart sink. Even so, she kept her eyes closed, keeping the image of her bedroom foremost in her thoughts. There had to be a way. Surely one of the goddesses would take pity on her and whisper the answer.

Larajin waited, but no more whispers came. She began to pray.

“Lady of the Heart of Gold, hear my prayer. Lady Firehair, hear my prayer. Place on my lips the words that will return me to Selgaunt, that will help me to save my brother’s life. Help me to …”

Larajin felt the whisper enter her, felt it make its way to her heart and resonate there. It rushed from her chest to her neck to her cheeks, suffusing them with a hot warmth. It flowed to her lips, making them tingle. She spoke a word that was half in the common tongue, half in the language of the wood elves. Her ears heard it as two separate words, sung by two voices that were in perfect harmony.

“Relthwin . Refuge.”