Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Larajin stared in wonder at Kith, who stood with a delighted look on her face, her wings fluttering gently. They were longer from shoulder to wingtip than the elf was tall, and their color was a shimmering white, each feather tipped at its end with a deep, glossy black. Kith stood confident and strong. Gone was the cringing, stooped posture she’d had earlier.

Trilling her delight, she burst into the air.

Larajin craned her head back, watching as Kith rose smoothly into the sky. Her white wings glowing in the moonlight, Kith circled once over the spot in the forest where Larajin stood. A moment later she was joined by Goldheart, who rose through the treetops to chase after her. Laughing, she tumbled with the tressym above the treetops, first letting Goldheart chase her, then sliding into a swooping turn or loop that put her in pursuit of the tressym.

On the ground below, Larajin watched the avariel elf and tressym at play. They shot overhead, Kith’s wings making a whooshing sound loud enough for Larajin to hear, then disappeared behind the treetops. A moment later they soared back in a sweeping turn, disappeared from view again, then rose in a climb that saw both pairs of wings beating furiously, in what was seemingly a race to touch the moon. At the peak of their climb, each looped, one after the other, and dived toward the trees. So steep and rapid were their dives that Larajin winced, thinking they were about to dash themselves against the ground, but at the last instant each swooped just short of the treetops and disappeared from sight once more.

For several long moments Larajin stood alone in the forest, wondering if Goldheart and Kith had flown away and forgotten her, then she heard the beating of wings. First Kith then Goldheart descended between the trees, landing gently where Larajin stood.

Kith bowed deeply to Larajin, throwing her hands out behind her. Now that the elf had her wings back, what had at first appeared a peculiar motion made sense to Larajin. As the hands swept back, the wings unfurled, adding a sweeping grace to the bow, then the wings folded tight against Kith’s back as the elf straightened.

“Larajin, great thanks,” Kith said in a quiet trill. “From deep of my heart to tip of wing. I want return thanks to you. May I help for you, before winds carry home?”

Beside her, Goldheart folded her own wings and began washing a paw. Despite the tressym’s seeming indifference, however, Larajin saw Goldheart glance coyly in her direction, as if sharing a secret.

“There is something you could help me with, but only if you truly wish to do so,” Larajin answered.

“Please,” Kith said. “Ask.”

“There is a hill within the wood, a little over a day’s flight northwest of here. Are your wings strong enough to carry me to it?”

Kith gave a trilling laugh, and unfurled her wings. Wedging one foot against a fallen log to brace herself, she flapped them with such vigor that the resulting wind buffeted Larajin, blowing her hair back over her shoulders.

“Strong?” Kith said, her eyes sparkling with delight. “More than before. Your goddess be most great.” She folded her wings, chuckling. “When go?”

“As soon as possible,” Larajin answered. “Tonight. I’ll set the horse free-this close to Archenbridge, someone is sure to find it-and we can leave.”

Kith nodded her agreement, and looked up at the sky.

“Moon is bright,” she observed. “Good night for fly.”

The windriders flew in from the west, their nine mounts aligned in a V-shaped formation. Leifander shaded his eyes and peered into the setting sun, watching as the griffons and their riders drew nearer. Gradually they changed from distant silhouettes to individuals he could recognize.

At the point of the formation was Lord Kierin, resplendent in a red surcoat over chain mail and a burnished bronze helm, carrying a lance that sported several cream-colored ribbons that fluttered behind him. His griffon was a tawny giant with wings that shaded from pale brown to black at their tips. With the white head of a bald eagle and the body of a powerful lion, the griffon’s forelegs ended in powerful talons, its hind legs in a lion’s paws. Its tail streamed out behind it as it flew, lashing from side to side.

The other windriders rode similar mounts and were also armored in chain and helms. Each carried a lance, but these were primarily for show. Any real fighting was done with the powerful recurved bows and brightly fletched arrows that hung in quivers behind their saddles.

They circled once around the hilltop where Leifander stood, then landed gracefully next to its half-circle crown of upright stones. Lord Kierin housed his lance in a sling next to his stirrup, then swung out of the saddle. He was tall for an elf, with long white hair that matched the color of the ribbons on his lance. His eyes were the color of a summer sky. A deep vertical line creased his forehead, and his brows were drawn together in what had become a habitual frown. He was well beyond his middle years, in his third century of life, but Leifander had never seen a warrior with such poise and grace.

“Is it you, Leifander?” Lord Kierin said. He spoke the dialect of the Gold elves, but Leifander knew enough of it to reply in kind.

“I am he who bears that name.” Leifander placed both hands upon his heart and bowed so low that his braid swung over his shoulder and touched the ground with its tip. “I beg your mercy for my transgression.”

The other windriders had dismounted and gathered around the spot where Leifander and Lord Kierin stood. Five were male, three female, and all were moon elves with pale hair and amber eyes. They stood with legs slightly bowed from long years of riding, and seemed to stare through Leifander into the middle distance, as if still scanning the horizon.

Lord Kierin gave a deep, melancholy sigh. “Your words have placed me in great danger, it is true, but your transgression was no fault of your own. It was magic that moved your tongue and caused you to tell my true name, and so I forgive you.”

Relief washed through Leifander in an icy shiver. It was Lord Kierin’s right, should he so choose, to end Leifander’s life. He had been generous.

“I hardly recognized you, my boy,” Lord Kierin said, switching into the forest elf dialect and dropping the formal tone he’d been using a moment earlier. “You have grown to an enormous size since last I saw you. Tell me, how is your father faring?”

He was referring, of course, to Leifander’s adoptive father. Leifander had yet to summon the courage to tell others about the human blood that flowed in his veins.

“He is well, thank you, Lord Kierin,” he answered, “as is my mother.”

Lord Kierin switched back to the dialect that the other windriders spoke. “I hear that your eyes were also busy while you were in Selgaunt-with results much more to our favor.” A rare smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “Did Lord Ulath send the rings with you?”

“He did.” Leifander reached into the leather bag that was slung across his shoulder. Inside was an intricately carved wooden box the size of a loaf of bread. He handed it to Lord Kierin.

The windrider held it in his hands a moment, studying the floral patterns carved on its lid and sides, then he pressed a sequence of hidden catches-each the center of a flower-and the box sprang open with a soft click.

The other windriders gathered around as its contents were revealed. There were four pairs of rings, each pair consisting of a simple gold band for a human finger, and a larger gold band that was nearly the size of a bracelet with a hinge on one side that allowed it to open and a pin to close it on the other. The smaller ring of each pair was nested inside the larger, in a depression in the box’s black velvet lining. The slanting rays of the setting sun gave the gold a ruddy glow, throwing into relief the delicate tracery of runes engraved on the rings.