Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

The woman took Leifander’s hand. Steadied by her touch, he fought his way back from the brink of panic. Forcing his eyes open, he met hers in the gloom, and nodded. In response, she tugged his hand. Leifander needed no further instruction. Wading through the stinking water as quietly as he could, he set off after the woman, while her companion followed close behind. As they rounded a bend, the shouts of the guards above slowly faded into the distance.

Leifander waited in the sewer, squatting on a ledge just below a grate that gave a view of the street above. Sunlight streamed down through the grate, forming a barred square on the ledge beside where he crouched in the shadows. The man who had rescued him-Tal, his name was-had climbed up through the grate while a wagon was parked above, using it to cover his emergence from the sewer. He’d gone to find Leifander some clothes to cover his nakedness and had left the woman to wait with him.

The woman stood in ankle-deep sewage farther back in the shadows. She looked as though she’d like to be out of the muck, but there wasn’t room on the ledge for both of them, unless she wanted to risk being seen by those passing above. At least she had boots to keep her feet dry. She alternated looking up at the grate with sideways glances at Leifander, but didn’t stare at him directly. After a moment, he realized why. Humans were uncomfortable with nakedness. Several times she seemed on the verge of speaking, only to hesitate and say nothing.

Leifander’s bare feet were slimed with sewage that felt as though it had crept into every pore. He wriggled his toes and grimaced at the slippery feeling. He wished for a cool, cleansing rain, but the sky above was a flat, hot blue.

Ignoring the woman, he began to pray in his own language. The Winged Mother had sent one crow to him already. Perhaps she would send another. All he needed was one feather, then he wouldn’t have to worry about clothes or creeping about in an enemy city. He could just fly away.

“What’s that you’re chanting, Leifander? “the woman asked suddenly. “Is it an elven prayer? I’m a cleric, as well. I worship one of the elf goddesses, Hanali Celanil.”

Leifander snorted at her foolish prattle. A human claiming devotion to an elf deity? Ridiculous. He ran a hand in frustration through the tufts where his braids had been, concentrating on his prayer.

The woman didn’t take the hint. “Are you praying to Aerdrie Faenya?” she persisted. “Are you casting a spell?”

Angry, Leifander switched to the common tongue. “You’re interrupting,” he told her bluntly, then he realized what she’d just said.

This woman not only knew his name, she knew which goddess he worshiped. A suspicion suddenly dawned.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Your sister,” the woman said, finally turning to meet his eye. “Your twin sister, Larajin.”

He stared at her a moment. So it was all true. He did have a twin sister. Yet she looked nothing like him, and her mannerisms were as crass and fumbling as any human’s. How could two people who shared the same womb have turned out to be such opposites? The gods must be laughing at the joke they had played.

“You don’t look like an elf,” he told her. “Or even like a half-elf.”

Her eyes flicked to his ears and the tattoos on his face and hands. “You don’t look like a half-elf either. I’d have sworn you were a full-blooded forest elf.”

“How did you know where I was?” he asked, changing the subject. “Why did that other human-Tal-come to rescue me?”

Her face colored. “I was the one who rescued you, with Tal’s help-and with Rylith’s. We were beside a stream, near the Standing Stone, and when I looked into one of its pools I saw-”

Leifander’s mouth dropped open. “You were with Rylith? Rylith of the Circle of the Emerald Leaves?”

“Why does that surprise you?”

Leifander shook his head. “Your father said you knew nothing of the forest elves-nothing about our people-until a few months ago. Why would one of the high druids of the sacred circle take you under her wing?”

“Our father, you mean,” she corrected him.

Leifander dismissed that with an impatient wave.

“Rylith says that twins with hazel eyes are favored of the gods,” she continued, “and that their birth is an omen of good fortune to come. You and I have a … a special destiny.”

Leifander merely nodded. Any child could have told him that. Who did this human think she was, to parrot back to him his own people’s lore? He frowned at the wall, not looking at her. Yet despite himself, he listened.

“Rylith says our half-sister Somnilthra prophesied that we would heal a great rift. Rylith says this rift is the one between human and elf-the one that led to this war.”

Leifander quickly turned his head. “The High Council has declared war?”

“Yes, but Rylith says there’s still time to stop it-some action that you and I can take that will prevent the war from happening. I must confess, I haven’t a clue what it might be.”

Leifander shook his head. “Why would we want to stop the war?”

That seemed to surprise her. It took Larajin a moment to find her voice. When she did, her tone was incredulous.

“Because … people will die.” When he shrugged, she quickly added, “And not just humans. The war could wipe out the forest elves and raze the forest.”

“Nonsense,” Leifander retorted. “The humans will never defeat us. They can’t even see in the dark. Some of us may fall, but the forest will remain ours forever.”

Above them, a wagon rumbled over the grate, then stopped, blocking the sunlight.

“Why don’t you care if there’s a war?” Larajin asked, her voice rising in exasperation. “There must be someone you love, someone you don’t want to see killed.”

Leifander lowered his eyes. “She’s already dead.”

It had been said in a whisper, more to himself than to Larajin, but she’d heard him nonetheless. Her expression changed in an instant.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

He glared at her. “Humans killed her. Red Plumes, from Hillsfar. She ventured too close to their city, and they tried to capture her for their ‘games.’ I’m told she died bravely, killing two of them before she herself was slain.”

Pride should have flared in his heart, but the pain was still too new. Chandrell had been his first love-worshiped from afar since she was a woman of fifty-eight years, and he a mere boy of twenty-one. Officially, he had yet to reach maturity, though the blood of a man already flowed hot in his veins. When she’d kissed him on the cheek after he’d done her a slight favor, he’d vowed to ask her to leap the bough with him, once he was at last old enough. He had prayed to his goddess that she would find no other lover before then.

Chandrell had been killed more than two years ago, but thinking of her still made his eyes sting. He’d succeeded in damping down his emotions all that time, but they squeezed out in the form of a single tear.

“I’m sorry,” Larajin said softly, “but it would seem your quarrel is with Hillsfar, not with Sembia.”

“It’s with humans!” Leifander snapped, angrily wiping the tear away. “They should all be put to the sword.”

“Then you might as well start with yourself,” she spat back. “Or at least, half of yourself.” She thrust a hand out, offering the magic dagger. “Here. Be my guest.”

Leifander knocked her hand aside. This stupid woman was missing the point. Humans-Sembians, specifically-started the war with their magical depredations upon the forest. They had been the ones to break the ancient pact, and now they had to pay. If it meant a war, so be it. The elves would give a good accounting of themselves. Even if they were outnumbered, they would be fighting in the forest, on their own terms. The forest would protect them-and they would protect it, in turn.