Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

One of the windriders-a woman with a shiny patch of puckered skin running from her cheek to her right ear, the tip of which had been burned away by whatever attack had left that burn scar-glanced at the rings, then up at Lord Kierin.

“Only four?” she asked. “Lord Ulath is stingy.”

Lord Kierin gave her a look that made Leifander quail, even though he was not the recipient of it.

“Lord Ulath has a city to protect, Valatta,” Lord Kierin reprimanded. “He has been most generous. Four rings will suit our purposes admirably. When the humans drop their disguise and open their wagons, we can attack from four directions at once. The humans won’t know which way to turn. Once the first four have revealed themselves, the rest can join in the fray.”

Valatta gave a curt nod, in deference to her commander, but her eyes were blazing. “By virtue of my loss, I demand the right to be among the first four.”

Leifander, seeing the ache that lay deep within her fierce glare, felt an echoing pang in his own heart. Just as he had, Valatta had lost someone dear to her.

Lord Kierin laid a hand upon the shorter elf’s shoulder.

“Valatta,” he said, “I know you yearn to be the first to feather the enemy with your arrows, but we will let the beasts decide the question. Whichever of them most calmly accepts the ring will be among the first four.”

He pulled one of the larger rings from the box, and turned toward the spot where the griffons crouched, unhaltered and waiting with perfect obedience for their masters.

“We’ll test your mount first, Valatta.”

Without another glance at Leifander-by elven standards he was a mere youth, not even as old as one of their squires-the windriders followed Valatta to her griffon. Only Lord Kierin remained where Leifander stood, arms folded as he watched his riders.

Valatta greeted her mount, gentling the griffon by working her fingers into its feathers to give its neck a good scratch. She took its reins in one hand and kneeled beside it, uttering a sharp command. Obediently, the griffon placed a taloned foot on her leg.

Valatta opened the golden ring and fastened it around the griffon’s ankle. As it closed, the griffon disappeared from sight. Leifander, despite having known what was going to happen, blinked in surprise at the suddenness of the transformation. One moment the griffon was there, the next it was not. He could see right through the spot where it must be to the tall slab of granite that a moment before had been blocked by the griffon’s body. But the griffon was still there; under it was a flattened spot in the breeze-blown grass.

Valatta nodded, a satisfied smile on her lips. “That was easy enough,” she said. “She seems to-”

Suddenly the hand that held the reins was wrenched upward. Her eyes widened in pain and three slashes of red sprang into being on her thigh. A loud cry-like the scree of an eagle but somehow also containing the snarl of a roaring lion-pealed across the hilltop. Hearing its cry, two of the other griffons responded in kind, fur rising in a line along their backs.

Jerked to her feet, Valatta staggered this way and that as she fought to control her invisible mount. Leifander heard the rushing beat of its powerful wings and saw Valatta’s arm jerk back and forth as the griffon shook its head. Blood streamed down her leg, soaking her trousers above the spot where the griffon’s talons had raked her flesh.

“Elsanna, no!” she cried, bracing her feet and gripping the invisible reins with both hands in an effort to prevent her mount from launching itself into the air. “Drop, Elsanna! Drop!”

One of the elves closest to Valatta grabbed at an invisible wing but was shaken loose a moment later. Another added his voice to Valatta’s, also shouting for the griffon to drop to the ground. Others scrambled for their own mounts, grabbing their reins and yanking the creatures’ heads down to the ground to keep them submissive.

Leifander glanced nervously at Lord Kierin. The Gold elf remained calm, save for a slight deepening of his frown. He raised his hands and briefly touched his fingertips to his eyes, then flicked his hands forward and spoke a single word.

A heartbeat later, Valatta’s arms drooped. Swiftly, she kneeled down and removed the ring from her mount’s ankle, revealing the sleeping form of her griffon. Chagrined, she handed the ring to another of the windriders, then limped to one of the standing stones and leaned on it, clenching her teeth against the pain of the scratches on her leg.

One of the other windriders caught Lord Kierin’s eye, glanced in Valatta’s direction, and raised his eyebrows in a silent question. Lord Kierin gave a slight shake of his head.

“Continue the tests,” he ordered.

As Valatta’s mount lay sleeping on the ground, a second griffon was fitted with the ring. This one displayed none of the high spirits that Elsanna had, instead accepting the ring without fuss. It crouched quietly, wings folded, until the ring was removed again. The windrider whose mount it was beamed proudly and passed the ring to the next.

Then came an interruption. “Lord Kierin, someone approaches,” one of the elves said. He pointed to the southeast.

The sun had sunk below the horizon, painting the western sky a vivid red, but there was still enough light to clearly see the figure that winged its way toward Moonrise Hill. It had an unusual shape, and it took Leifander several moments to figure out that the creature was a winged elf-very rare, even in the lands to the north-supporting another, who clung to her chest.

As the avariel elf drew closer still, a second, smaller shape became visible in the air beside it, one that winged its way along strongly and without hindrance. It looked like a large bird, but with a body that had a strange silhouette, almost like that of a griffon.

With a sinking heart, Leifander recognized it as a tressym. It was the one he’d seen more than once in the past few days. He’d suspected that it was following him and had taken great pains to lose it, but now the creature had found him again, and it had brought company. If word of the windriders’ ability to render themselves and their mounts invisible became common knowledge …

Lord Kieran glanced at Leifander and asked, “Were you expecting someone else to meet us here today?”

Leifander shook his head.

Lord Keirin gave a brisk, decisive nod. “Riders!” he shouted. “To your mounts!”

He strode toward the man who held the ring, thrusting the open box at him. With a slight bow, the fellow popped the magical ring back inside. The others swung up into their saddles-all except Valatta, who stared in frustration at her sleeping mount.

Lord Kieran snapped the box shut and tucked it into a bag at his hip. He mounted his own griffon and jerked the lance free from its holder.

“I want that avariel forced down,” he ordered. “I would prefer we cause no wounds, but if arrows are the only thing that will convince the elf to land, so be it.”

He glanced at Valatta, who was tugging at the reins of her mount in a futile effort to wake it. He flicked a hand in the sleeping griffon’s direction and spoke a word to awaken it. An instant later, the griffon was on its feet, head twisting as it scanned the windriders all around it, who were rising into the air on their mounts.

As the winged elf drew closer to Moonrise Hill, Leifander’s mouth gaped open as he saw who the person she was carrying was.

“By the Trickster’s ears,” Leifander swore, “what is she doing here?”

A moment later, he realized Larajin’s danger. Half-elf his twin sister might be, but she looked fully human. As soon as the windriders got a close look at her, they’d assume she was an enemy spy and feather her with arrows.