Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“Your people understand nothing of pride, of honor,” he told her. “That’s what this war is about. Our dignity!”

“This talk about ‘your people’ and ‘my people’ is nonsense,” she shouted back at him. “I’m a half-elf-and so are you!”

Leifander’s rebuke was cut short by a grating noise overhead. Looking up, he noticed that Tal had returned.

“By the gods, keep quiet!” he hissed down at them. “I could hear you halfway down the street.”

He lay prone on the road under the wagon and was reaching for something beside him. He found it, and passed a sack down to Larajin, who sheathed her dagger and waded forward to grab it. She opened it and began thrusting clothes at Leifander, not bothering to wait until he took them, just piling them on the ledge at his feet, together with a waterskin.

“Here,” she said tersely. “Wash the worst of the sewage off, and disguise yourself with these. Unless you’d rather let a mob drag you through the streets.”

Leifander picked up the nearest piece of clothing, a pair of white hose. Larajin was right, of course. If he was going to try to summon one of his feathered kin, he’d have a better chance of it away from the stinking sewer, and that meant going up onto the street. He had to pass as human, at least temporarily. He poured water over his legs and calves, rinsing off as much of the sewage as he could, then grudgingly yanked the hose over his wet feet. He put on a matching white doublet with sleeves slashed in gold and royal blue. There were leather gloves to cover his tattooed hands and black velvet slippers for his feet, and a gold turban set with tinkling silver bells, that sat awkwardly on his ears. In order to get it to fit, he had to tuck the points of his ears inside it. He grimaced, feeling foolish, then picked up the last item of clothing-a scarf similar to the one that Tal had worn and obviously intended to serve the same purpose-and wrapped it around his face, hiding his tattoos. It smelled strongly of perfume-a welcome change from the sewer.

Tal grinned down from above. He was no longer wearing the scarf that had covered his own face. He looked like any other human, which made Leifander wonder what he’d been hiding.

“Not bad,” Tal said. “You look just like one of our-”

The wagon he was hiding under creaked as someone got into it, interrupting whatever he’d been about to say. Tal glanced back over his shoulder. From that direction came the sound of restless hooves against cobblestones.

“Let’s get moving,” he hissed, extending a hand down through the hole where the grate had been.

Leifander took it and allowed Tal to help him climb out of the sewer. He wriggled out onto his belly-soiling the fresh white clothes on the dirty cobblestones-and a moment later was joined by Larajin. The wagon above rolled away justas Tal slid the grate back into place. Suddenly exposed, the three lay at one edge of a crowded street.

There were humans everywhere-nobles strutting along with parasols to shade themselves from the late afternoon sun, peddlers pushing carts filled with rattling wares, gilded carriages rattling past, and throngs of humans carrying packages, boxes, and sacks, winding their way through the crowd. No one seemed to pay the slightest attention to the three “humans” who had appeared on the road after the wagon pulled away, though one or two did wrinkle their noses as they passed, no doubt smelling Larajin’s filthy boots. As Tal, Larajin, and Leifander stood, brushing themselves off, only one or two heads turned. After a few brief, puzzled frowns they turned away, more concerned with going about their own business than satisfying idle curiosity.

“Come on,” Larajin said, taking Leifander’s arm. “My friend has a perfume shop, just a little down the road. We can hide there until we figure out how to get out of the city.”

Leifander shook off her hand. Remembering his manners, he pressed a hand to his heart and gave her a brief bow.

“I thank you for helping me escape,” he said, “despite the fact that had you arrived a moment later, I would have accomplished an escape on my own.”

Ignoring Larajin’s skeptical look and Tal’s snort of disbelief, he continued, “I do not require any further assistance. We may share the same parents-” At this, Tal’s eyebrows rose-“but that puts you under no obligation. Good-bye.”

He turned to go, but Larajin caught his arm a second time.

“Th-the prophecy!” she sputtered. “The war.” She glanced at Tal with troubled eyes, as if expecting him to lend his voice. “Rylith says we’re the only ones who can stop it. She’s a druid-a fellow elf. If you won’t believe me, surely you’ll believe her.”

Beside her, Tal was looking increasingly nervous.

“Uh, Larajin,” he whispered. “People are listening.”

It was true. At the mention of the word “elf,” more than one head had turned. Their argument was starting to attract attention, but Leifander didn’t care. Exhausted from his long battle with the rats, itching in the hot clothes, still smelling of the sewer, and with the gods-cursed bells on the turban tinkling in his pinched ears, he’d had enough. He wanted to be rid of the two humans, to get away on his own somewhere where he could summon a crow, skinwalk, and launch himself into the clean blue sky and be quit of the stinking city.

“Larajin,” Tal whispered again. “If we stand here and argue, the guards might see us. If he wants to leave, let him.”

“Tal, it’s not that simple,” Larajin pleaded. “I have to make Leifander understand. If there’s war, you’ll…” She hesitated, blinking back tears. “The elves will kill you.”

Now people were stopping and staring. “Elves?” one noblewoman asked in a fluttering voice.

“Should we call the guard?” a man asked, looking nervously around.

“They’re just talking about the war,” another muttered, shaking his head and walking on.

“That’s right,” Tal said quickly. “Nothing to get alarmed about. We’re just-” Whatever else he had to say was drowned out by the rumble of a passing carriage.

Leifander was feeling claustrophobic again, hemmed in by the crush of people in the street. Tal and Larajin might have been trying to help, but they were only drawing unwanted attention.

“Black Archer pierce you both!” he hissed, yanking his arm out of Larajin’s grasp.

Larajin’s face paled. “Take it back!” she cried. “You’ve cursed him-take it back.”

Leifander touched his forefinger to his lips through the fabric of the scarf, then flicked the curse up toward the heavens. “No.”

“Take it back!” Larajin said again, in a high, tight voice.

Stubbornly, Leifander shook his head.

“Gods curse you!” she screamed, lunging at him and slamming both palms into his shoulders.

Taken by surprise, Leifander tripped backward over the curb. He fell heavily but sprang to his feet a moment later. Only when he heard the gasps of the crowd that had formed a circle around them did he realize what was wrong. His turban had been jostled off when he fell. The crowd was staring at his ears, their faces frozen in horror.

The silence broke. “An elf!” one man howled. “A spy! Call the guard!”

Pandemonium broke out all around them. People collided with one another, some scrambling to get away, others struggling to draw daggers or swords and lunge forward. Still others turned with gallant concern as the noblewoman who had spoken earlier fainted, crumpling slowly to the ground in a heap amid her skirts.

Leifander spun, looking for an exit, but found none. He thrust out his hands, tattooed fingers splayed, then remembered at the last moment that he was unable to skinwalk. Nearly weeping with frustration, he wished for a feather-just one tiny black feather-so that he could fly.