Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“To get to this hill, how would you travel?” she asked. “What would you see below as you flew?”

Goldheart thought a moment. “The place with the walls and piled-up trees, the edge of the forest, a river … then the hill.”

Larajin fell silent, considering this information. She had spent many long hours in the library at Stormweather Towers, reading every book she could find that described the history and geography of ancient Cormanthor, but none of the information she’d gleaned on the former elven kingdom mentioned a hill like the one Goldheart had just described.

Larajin did remember a map that showed the river Gold-heart was probably talking about. It was called the Glaemril. It was reputed to be easy to cross. With Goldheart scouting from above and giving directions, Larajin could make her way to the hill where Leifander had camped, but she couldn’t ride as fast as the tressym could fly-especially through thick forest. By the time she reached the hill, Leifander would probably be long gone.

The alternative was, of course, to have Goldheart return alone to the hill as soon as she was rested, and continue to follow Leifander, but that would leave Larajin blundering around in the forest on her own, searching in vain for a hill that might not even be visible from within the trees.

Remembering the dream she’d just awakened from, Larajin wished she had wings to fly-or that there was someone to carry her through the skies. If only the avariel elf still had her…

A thought occurred to her then. Had the goddesses been trying to tell her something? Was it they who placed that dream in her mind?

If so, Larajin could see little use in it. Kith’s wings were gone. She wasn’t about to fly anywhere.

Goldheart rubbed against her, reminding Larajin of her presence. Larajin looked down at the tressym, remembering how Goldheart had looked when Larajin had found her in the Hunting Garden. Goldheart’s wing had been broken and trailing behind her, feathers bedraggled and torn. Larajin had healed the wing, using the goddess’s blessing to straighten bone, smooth scar tissue, and mend torn flesh and feather. When she’d finished, the wing was as good as new. Feathers that had been broken far short of their tips were whole again.

She shouldn’t have been able to do that. According to the clerics in Sune’s temple, it took many long years of prayer and study to develop the skills needed to use magic to regrow a body part, even something as small as a finger-or a feather.

Yet Larajin had done it. How?

As Larajin crouched, stroking Goldheart’s silky fur with her free hand, she pondered. As recently as a few days before, she had managed what also should have been an impossible spell. With just the briefest bit of instruction from Rylith, she’d instantly transported herself over many miles, to a place of refuge.

Again, she had no idea how.

She sat, staring at the heart-shaped locket that hung from her wrist. After a long moment, she realized the answer. Normally, when she cast a spell, it was with the blessing of one goddess or the other. The spell was accompanied either by a red glow or by the scent of Hanali’s Heart, but both times when she had cast a spell that should have been well beyond her, both the aura and the scent had manifested at once. Both goddesses had bestowed their blessings upon Larajin in the same instant, enhancing her power to cast spells.

Larajin still had no idea what she had done differently on those occasions. Had her prayers been more fervent-or had Sune and Hanali Celanil simply both been watching over her in the same instant? If she tried to cast a spell to regrow Kith’s wings, would the goddesses respond to her prayer?

Larajin stared into the moonlight-dappled woods, toward the spot where she could hear the sound of Kith crying.

For Kith’s sake, Larajin would at least try.

Giving Goldheart a final pat, she instructed the tressym to wait where she was. Larajin didn’t need the distraction of a feline rubbing against her leg as she tried to work her magic. She sheathed her dagger and strode into the woods.

Kith squatted near the base of a tree, hands clasped around her knees. Her tears had stopped, but she refused to look up as Larajin approached. Her eyes were locked on the ground as she rocked back and forth.

Larajin kneeled beside Kith and touched her arm.

“Kith?”

Kith flinched away.

“Kith, I’m a cleric. I know healing magic. I don’t know if I am able, but I’d like to try to restore your wings.”

Kith was instantly attentive. She rubbed an arm roughly across her face to wipe away her tears.

“You know a great healing? Why you not offer before?”

Larajin felt a guilty blush rise to her cheeks. “I … wasn’t sure it would work,” she said.

She bit her tongue, resolving not to tell Kith the real reason-that she needed the avariel elf’s help to get to the hill Goldheart had described.

Larajin touched the locket at her wrist. “Shall I try?” she asked.

“Yes,” Kith whispered.

“I need to touch you-to lay hands upon what remains of your wings. I’ll try not to press too hard.”

Kith nodded and pulled her shirt down, exposing the raw stumps where her wings had been.

“I be ready,” she whispered.

“Then I’ll begin.”

Softly, Larajin began chanting a prayer. She started with the one she knew best: an invocation to Sune, a plea to set her worshipers’ footsteps on the path to beauty, and to give their hands the power to restore beauty that had been lost. She followed it with a prayer to Hanali Celanil, one that praised the goddess for creating all of the brightly feathered creatures of the world. The prayer was imperfect, a rough translation in the common tongue, but as Larajin chanted it, a familiar fragrance arose around her. At the same time, a warm amber glow began to tingle her fingertips.

The scar tissue under her fingers smoothed, and Kith sighed in relief, but then the fragrance of flowers lessened, and the glow beneath her fingertips dimmed. Larajin’s spell had smoothed the scars and was easing Kith’s pain-but it was not enough. Unless she could restore Kith’s wings entirely, she would never catch up to Leifander, Tal would die, and …

Kith gasped in pain. With a guilty start, Larajin realized that her fingers had been digging into the wing stubs. That was when she realized her mistake.

Gentling her touch, she whispered an apology. At the same time she resolved, in that instant, to merely heal Kith. If her spell was successful and Kith’s wings were restored, she would not demand that Kith fly her to the hill where Leifander was camped. She would not even ask. If the goddesses willed it, Kith would offer of her own accord. If not…

Firmly, Larajin pushed any thought of the consequences out of her mind. Instead she began to pray once more. This time, the spell was entirely of her own devising. A name sprung to her lips unbidden: Lady Fireheart. Chanting it, Larajin felt a warmth rise in her heart and course down her arms toward her hands. It burst from her fingertips in a bright ruby glow. At the same time the scent of Hanali’s Heart filled the air, a scent so strong that Larajin and Kith might have been crouching in an entire field of blossoms.

In that moment, Larajin felt something move under her hands. Kith must have felt it too. She gave a trilling cry that was half surprise, half joy, and shuddered. Her wings started to grow.

Flesh and muscle extended under Larajin’s hands, and bone rushed outward to support them. A joint formed, then another length of wing, and all along it feathers sprouted and grew. Muscles twitched, skin rippled-and Larajin’s hands were cast from the wings as they slowly unfurled, then burst into full extension as Kith sprang to her feet.