Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Darkness fell swiftly as the sun sank behind the southernmost tip of the Thunder Peaks, just west of Archendale. Exhausted after her flight from the soldiers, Kith sank into a curious squatting position, her arms curled around her knees, and seemed to fall into a deep trance-the Reverie. Larajin made sure the horse hadn’t slipped its hobbles-it was munching contentedly on some shoots of grass in the tiny clearing where she’d left it-then she lay down near Kith. She whispered her evening prayers, staring up through the branches at the bright pinpoints of the stars above, then she watched the moon slowly rise into view above the treetops. Its pale light flooded the forest.

Was Tal also staring up at the moon from his soldiers’ camp? If her calculations were correct, in just a few more days his company would reach the forest of Cormanthor. She wondered if his last glance at the sky would be framed by the branches of trees, as was hers.

And what of Leifander-where was he? As to that, Larajin could not even hazard a guess. She whispered a prayer to Hanali Celanil, praising her for the beauty of the sky above and pleading with her to send word through her chosen messenger, as soon as she was able.

Larajin must have drifted off to sleep. She fell into a vivid dream in which she was soaring up through the air, rising toward the vivid stars above. All the world lay below her, a vast crazy-quilt of forest, lake, field, and town. Somewhere down below, there was something she was searching for, but when she tried to think of where it might be, her thoughts became hazy and confused. She realized she was not flying herself but was being carried by a giant eagle. Its wingtips brushed against her bare feet with each downstroke.

Larajin rolled over in her sleep, and the tickling against her foot stopped.

The dream resumed, but this time the eagle was gripping her in its feet. They completely enclosed her head. One of its talons was piercing the soft flesh of her-

With a start, Larajin awoke. Something was poking her cheek. It felt like the point of a dagger. Fumbling for her own dagger, she yanked it out of its scabbard.

“Illunathros!” she shouted, scrambling to her feet.

The trees all around her were bathed in the brilliant blue light of her enchanted dagger.

Sitting at her feet, wincing at the sudden glare, was Gold-heart. One paw was still raised. She had been kneading Larajin’s cheek. Lowering her paw, she butted her head against Larajin’s leg and began to purr.

A pace or two away, Kith sprang out of her crouch. She cried out as she spotted the tressym. A moment later, her alarm turned to a sigh of wonder as Goldheart unfolded her wings, shook them once delicately to smooth the feathers, then settled them against her back once more.

“This is Goldheart,” Larajin explained. “The companion I mentioned earlier.”

Kith fell to her knees in front of Goldheart and tentatively held out a hand. The tressym, after a quick sniff, lowered her head, indicating that the elf had permission to pat her. Kith stroked the tressym’s head, hesitated, then ran her hand the length of Goldheart’s back, fingers lingering upon the wings. The expression on her face, at first rapturous, soon turned to equal parts anguish and longing. She jerked her hand back and turned away, as if the very sight of the tressym pained her.

“What’s wrong?” Larajin asked.

Words choked their way out of Kith’s mouth. “I … had wings once. Gone, now.”

“Wings?”

Kith fumbled at the ties that held her shirt closed, then yanked it down to her elbows, exposing her back. Under that baggy shirt lay the source of Kith’s pain: two crudely hacked stubs where wings had once been. The severed limbs were healed over, but only just. The scars were still raw and red, the skin puckered and dotted with crude stitch marks. It looked as though muscle and bone had been severed with an axe, one brutal chop at a time. Larajin wondered how anyone could survive the agony that must have caused.

Kith’s shoulders shook as she struggled to suppress her sobs. Goldheart, also staring at the elf’s back, growled low in her throat, then, deliberately, she walked up to Kith and gave the elf’s bare leg a gentle nudge with her cheek.

Kith yanked the shirt back up over her shoulders, wincing at its touch as she turned back to Larajin.

“You ask why I go Evermeet,” she said. She jerked a thumb at her shoulder. “This be why. My shame. After I escape first time, arena let wizard take my wings, for his spells. How can I return to flock now? I must seek great healing, before return.”

“Goddess grant it to you,” Larajin whispered.

She realized what Kith was: an avariel elf-a breed of elf so rare that the books in Stormweather Towers had referred to them as mere legend. And here that “legend” stood in front of Larajin, broken and dejected. She wished she knew a healing spell that would regrow Kith’s wings, but such powerful magic was beyond her. Her spells could close a wound, or slow bleeding, or even splice a shattered bone, but they could not regrow flesh and feather from air.

Kith’s eyes dropped to Goldheart, who was still rubbing against her leg.

“Companion-to-Larajin, I know you mean comfort, but beautiful wings make sadness.”

Turning away, Kith strode out of the circle of light cast by the dagger, into the moonlight-dappled forest. Larajin was about to run after her but paused as she heard Kith settle again, a short distance away in the woods. From that spot came the soft sound of a woman weeping.

Torn between her desire to comfort Kith and the certain knowledge that Goldheart must be bearing urgent news, Larajin hesitated. A familiar tingle began in her ears and lips. As it grew, she heard the tressym’s meows turn into intelligible speech.

“She aches like a wounded bird,” Goldheart observed, peering off into the darkness where Kith had disappeared. “Someone should give her a swift death.”

“She needs healing,” Larajin answered curtly, “and I can’t give it to her.”

Frustrated, she dropped to her knees in front of the tressym.

“I am glad to see that you are safe, Goldheart” she said. “Did you follow Leifander? Where is he now?”

“He nested for one night in a place not far from here, and another night in a place that lies a day’s flight in that direction,” Goldheart said, nodding toward the northwest as she spoke. “The place was at the edge of a great wood and had many trees heaped in piles. The humans and elves there busy themselves day and night building walls and practicing with their long-claws.”

Larajin nodded. Goldheart must be describing a town in Deepingdale, known for its timber trade. She guessed that the “long-claws” were swords or daggers.

“He then flew toward the forest, stopping here and there to meet with groups of elves-but only nesting for one night in a single place. For the last two nights he has nested in the same spot: on a hill with no trees, only stones on top. I left him there this morning, and flew back to find you. I have been a day and most of this night returning.”

Larajin mulled that over. “Can you describe the stones on the hill?” she asked.

Goldheart thought a moment, then scratched at the ground with a paw, leaving a half-circle mark. “They formed a bent line, like this.”

“How many stones?”

“Many.”

Larajin held up one hand, fingers splayed. “This many?”

“More.”

She laid the dagger down, and held up her other hand. “This many?”

Goldheart studied her hands as the dagger’s light waned. “Perhaps.”

Larajin sat thinking as the dagger’s light gradually went out. The moonlight was bright enough that she could still see the tressym clearly. Thanks to the elf blood that flowed in her veins, she could even see the colors of her wings.