Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Goldheart nodded, then nudged Larajin’s hand again, demanding another pat on the back. Larajin obliged her, then heard the sound of footsteps coming around the bushes.

“Go,” she whispered to the tressym. “Quickly.”

Goldheart flew away just as Tal strode into sight. He glanced up at the departing tressym and said something unintelligible. After a moment, Larajin’s spell wore off. She could guess what he’d asked.

“I’m heading in the wrong direction,” she told him. “Leifander flew northwest. He seems to be following the River Arkhen. When the company sets out again, I’m going to slip away and head upriver. If Master Ferrick notices me going, will you speak to him-explain why one of his ‘soldiers’ is leaving?”

Tal stared at her a long moment before nodding. “I don’t like you setting out on your own,” he said, “but I can see your mind is made up. Just promise me you’ll be careful. That river path is a dangerous one-especially these days.”

Larajin caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, Tal. Promise me that you’ll be careful, too.”

He grunted and gave a soldier’s offhand shrug.

Larajin peered around the bushes and said, “It looks as if the others are getting ready to mount up again. We’d better get back, or they’ll think we’re both trying to slip away.”

Then, seeing the thoughtful gleam in Tal’s eye, she quickly added, “You could, you know … come with me. It would be safer.”

Tal shook his head. “I’m no coward. It’s my duty to fight, and I’m not shirking it. Even if-”

Larajin pressed fingers to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t say it, Tal,” she pleaded. “You’ll survive this war, gods willing.”

“Gods willing,” Tal echoed grimly.

Larajin rode northwest, following a trail that was little more than a footpath bordered by thick forest on the right and a sheer drop to the river below on the left. Despite the slow pace it enforced, the path beside the river offered achingly beautiful scenery-too beautiful to be anything but the work of the goddess. Tufts of feathery fern and stunted maples with dark red foliage grew out of clefts of rock in the canyon below, their leaves and branches jeweled with river mist. More mist hung in the air above the river, sparkling with tiny rainbows. Trees shaded the path itself, filtering the afternoon sun to a pleasant warmth and rustling in the breeze.

In places, the path switchbacked down to the river, allowing Larajin a chance to splash ice-cold water onto her face while her horse drank. The pools offered darting silver fish and freshwater crabs, some of which Larajin had caught and cooked over a fire the night before.

As she rode, she kept watching for the flash of color that would announce Goldheart’s return, but there was no sign of the tressym. Did that mean Leifander was traveling still? Had he veered north, already flown all the way back to the Tangled Trees? Or had he flown off in some other direction? There was no way of knowing.

Larajin was starting to wonder if doubling back to follow the River Arkhen had been the right decision. It might have been more sensible to have continued with Master Ferrick’s company to Ordulin, then ridden the Dawnpost trail west. She would have reached Archenbridge-the town where the trail she did take ended-in about the same amount of time.

Instead she’d been on the river trail for six days with no sign of Leifander and no reports from Goldheart to let her know if she was still headed in the right direction. Tal and his company would have ridden as far as Featherdale. Just three more days riding would put them at the southern edge of the forest of Cormanthor.

Larajin gasped as her horse stumbled on a loose rock at the cliff’s edge, sending her rocking backward in the saddle. For several agonizing moments her heart hammered in her chest as the horse’s hind foot scrabbled for purchase, sending a scatter of rocks and dirt into the river below. Clinging to the pommel of her saddle, she prayed for deliverance, then the horse found its footing. With a second lurch it was upright and walking again.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Larajin stared at the spot where the horse had faltered. Far below the scuffed trail, the River Arkhen dashed itself against jagged rocks in its haste to reach the sea. Larajin and her horse had nearly joined it. Breathing a prayer of thanks to the goddesses for protecting her, she vowed to pay more attention to the trail.

Ahead the path leveled and widened, turning away from the edge of the canyon, into the trees. Larajin at last relaxed, lowering the reins and letting the horse find its own way. In the distance ahead she could hear the thunder of a waterfall. Archendale must be closer than she thought.

Then she realized that the noise was coming from the east, away from the river. The waterfall at Archendale would be more to the north….

Suddenly a running figure-a woman, with a strangely hunched back-appeared on the trail ahead. She was clad in dusty trousers and a shirt several times too large for her slender frame. She had a narrow face, hair so blonde it was almost white, and an elf’s ears and eyes. She stumbled as she ran, wincing with each step of her bare feet. Her arms were thrown out ahead of her, as if she expected to fall at any moment, and her mouth was open wide, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath.

Startled, Larajin reined her horse to a stop. In the same moment the running woman saw her. The woman skidded to a halt several paces away and stared, wide-eyed. She glanced back over her shoulder in the direction of the rumbling sound, at Larajin again, then she darted off into the woods at the side of the trail.

A moment later, three riders burst into view. Seeing Larajin, they halted their horses. One of them-a man who looked like a half-ore, with hair that was receding above a bulging forehead and a muscular neck as thick as a tree trunk-glared at her, while the other two turned this way and that, peering into the woods. All three were clad in chain mail and carried shields emblazoned with a red sword. Larajin recognized them by that emblem as soldiers of Archendale.

“The elf!” the man with the thick neck shouted. “Did you see an elf run past just now?”

His horse pranced under him and snorted its impatience, as if eager to resume the chase.

Larajin felt her eyes narrow slightly, but she kept her face composed. She recognized the hand of the goddess when she saw it. After failing to intervene on behalf of the Harper agent who was beaten by the mob in his shop in Ordulin, Larajin was being given a chance to redeem herself.

“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, casting her face into a worried expression. “That must have been what I heard just a moment ago. A scream. It was just before I passed a spot near a cliff, where the trail had crumbled away. This elf of yours must have gone over the edge!”

She turned to stare behind her, toward the section of trail she’d just ridden.

“Right. Let’s take a look, lads.”

Spurring his horse forward, the leader of the soldiers rode past Larajin. Her own horse shied away, pinching her leg against the trunk of a tree. The other two soldiers followed in his wake. Larajin heard the hoofbeats abruptly slow-they must have come to the bend where the trail turned to follow the cliff edge-and she nudged her own horse forward. As she rode past the spot where the elf had darted into the woods, she glanced neither right nor left, in case the soldiers were looking.

She’d ridden no more than a hundred paces before the soldiers returned, this time riding at a trot. As they passed, forcing her horse to the side of the trail, Muscle Neck waved his thanks. The back of his right hand had a strange scar on it; a pattern of raised lines that looked like a brand.