Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

As floral scent rose into the air, Larajin opened her eyes. Beside her, Rylith was staring at the water, her eyes wide with surprise. Larajin looked down and saw a glowing circle on the surface of the pool. She stepped forward, placing her foot in the center of it. The water was only ankle deep, but her foot found no bottom. Instead she plunged downward, into water as clear and cold as ice.

Opening her eyes at the last moment, she saw a rippled surface above her, and Rylith’s face. The druid had a hand raised, as if bidding her farewell, then something dived toward the water and hit it with a splash.

After an instant of disorientation that sent her perceptions folding in upon themselves, Larajin’s foot struck something solid. Landing heavily, as if from a height, she sprawled onto a hard wooden floor beside a bed. Dripping wet, she lifted her head and peered around. She saw that she had indeed returned to her bedroom, and her heart was filled with a fierce joy.

An instant later, Goldheart landed with a wet thud on the floor beside her. On all four feet-instead of in the sprawling heap in which Larajin had landed. The tressym looked up at Larajin with the indignant expression that only a wet feline can muster, then ruffled its feathered wings and shook itself like a bird.

A moment later, the door opened, and Tal strode in, clad in the mail shirt and surcoat Larajin had seen him wearing in her vision, his sword at his hip. He didn’t see Larajin and the tressym at first-he was on the opposite side of the bed, and his attention seemed to be fixed on the shelf on the far wall, which held Larajin’s collection of treasures.

“Tal!” she exclaimed. “Thank the goddess-you’re alive!”

Tal spun around, scabbard whirling. “Larajin!” he exclaimed, staring at her with a mixture of guilt and astonishment on his face. “Where did you come from?” He frowned. “Why are you dripping wet?”

Instead of answering, Larajin stood, gaping at her half-brother. This wasn’t the Tal she remembered. His fingernails were elongated, almost like claws, and there was a heavy growth of beard on his face. His mouth and nose seemed distorted somehow, as if they’d been pulled forward by an unseen hand. His ears were slightly pointed and had tufts of hair growing out of their tips. A terrible thought occurred to Larajin. Had the Hulorn worked his dark magic upon her beloved half-brother? He smelled musky, almost like a dog.

Beside her, Goldheart hissed, her tail fluffed as big as a bottle brush. The tressym’s gold eyes were wide, pupils dilated, as if she was ready to attack.

“Tal … what’s happened to you?”

Blushing furiously, Tal raised an arm to hide his face. “I … can explain this, Larajin. It’s nothing, really. Just a … spell that went awry. I’m fine, really. I’ll be back to normal soon enough.”

Larajin wanted to demand a proper explanation, but already time was slipping away. If she didn’t hurry, Leifander would be dead.

“I’ve got to get to the Hulorn’s palace, and quickly,” she told him. “There’s someone in his dungeon I need to rescue-someone who is very … important to me. He’ll die if I don’t reach him in time. Will you help me?”

Instantly, Tal was all business. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”

“I’ll explain on the way. And you can tell me what happened to you.”

Tal nodded grimly, and rubbed the heavy beard on his cheeks. He eyed the tressym, which had backed into a corner and seemed disinclined to get near him.

“Let’s go,” he said. “But first, I need to find a scarf to hide my face.”

With one last, desperate heave, Leifander yanked at the bolt that held his left wrist to the floor. At last the rusted bolt cracked, then pulled free. Nearly weeping with relief, Leifander wrenched himself up off the floor-as much as he could, with his right wrist and both ankles still manacled-and flailed at the rats that had been worrying his flesh. The manacle around his wrist connected with a dull thud, slamming down like a hammer onto one of the rats. Leifander had the satisfaction of hearing a squeal as the injured rat scurried away.

Another rat took its place a moment later-and met the same fate. With a fury born of pent-up frustration, Leifander thrashed this way and that, killing five or six of the foul creatures.

Finally sensing their danger, the remaining rats paused in their attack and hunkered just outside his reach, watching and waiting. It was as if they knew that the elf would tire soon enough-then they would feed.

The oil lamps had burned out some time ago, leaving Leifander in near darkness. A faint, gray circle of light came from the hole in the ceiling above-the ventilation pipe that the rats had come through. Now that the lamps were no longer filling the air with nose-clogging soot, Leifander could smell leaves and blooming flowers on the faint breeze that blew down through it.

The other end of the pipe must be above ground, he thought, in a garden, perhaps.

That gave him hope.

Still keeping a wary eye on the rats, he resumed his prayer to the Winged Mother. He’d repeated it dozens of times already. The goddess must surely hear it soon.

“Lady of the Skies, hear my plea. Send me the means to work my-”

The words tangled into a cry of pain as a rat sank filthy fangs into a tender spot on the bottom of his foot. His left foot-the one spot he couldn’t reach, with his right wrist still manacled to the floor. He tried to kick the rat off, but the manacle around that ankle allowed little movement. The rat clung to his foot, eyes gleaming in the darkness. Leifander heard a chewing sound as it began to feed.

Afresh wave of pain lanced into him as a second rat, made bold by the success of the first, sank its fangs into his heel. A third rat scurried up onto his ankle and bit him there. Straining, Leifander was just able to reach it and knock it off, but the other rats were rushing forward. Leifander felt tiny human hands pulling at his toes, as if his foot were a cow’s udder, being milked of its blood.

Gritting his teeth, Leifander resumed his prayer as best he could while the rats worried and gnawed at his left foot.

“Aerdrie Faenya, hear your priest in his torment!” he shouted at the hole in the ceiling. “Enfold me in your protecting wings, I beg of you!”

Nothing. The only sounds were the gnashing teeth of the rats and a scraping sound in the ventilation pipe above that was probably more of their foul brethren, come to join the feast. It felt as though the rats were flaying his foot, peeling back the callused skin to expose the soft and bloody tissue beneath.

He tried again. “Lady of Air and-”

He gasped at a fresh wave of pain and heard a cracking, grating sound. The rats had gnawed one toe down to the bone. He gulped back a cry.

“Lady of Air and Wind, send me aid.”

A tear squeezed out of one eye. Down in this foul, close place, would his pleas even be heard?

Above him, a creature squeezed out of the ventilation pipe and began to fall toward him. For a moment, Leifander thought it was another rat. He raised his free hand and balled his fist, preparing to punch it out of the air, but an instant later the creature spread its wings, breaking its fall. It flew in a tight circle around the room. As it let out a loud caw, Leifander burst into relieved laughter. His prayers had been answered! There was no way a crow-even a young one like this-would have pushed itself through that narrow ventilation pipe without the hand of the goddess guiding it.

The crow hovered just above Leifander, wings fanning his face with a welcome breeze. Leifander spotted a loose feather in its tail and blessed the goddess for her gift. In another instant, he’d be able to transform, to slip wings and tiny crow’s feet out of the manacles and fly away. Ignoring the pain of the rats still gnawing at his foot, he strained up for the feather.