Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“Lord Kierin, wait!” he cried, running toward the griffon as it leaped into the air. “The woman being carried by the winged elf is my sister. Call off your riders!”

For a terrible moment, Leifander didn’t think Lord Kierin had heard. His griffon continued to soar upward after the others, then Lord Kierin’s voice rang out, “Riders! Hold your arrows.”

Leifander craned his head, watching anxiously as the windriders caught up to the winged elf, wheeled their mounts in a tight circle, and fell in on either side of her as she continued toward Moonrise Hill. Belatedly Leifander realized his arms were out to the side, his fingers splayed. So tense was the moment that he’d nearly skinwalked and launched himself into the air. Lowering his arms, he watched as the winged elf landed, depositing Larajin on the grassy hilltop. The tressym settled gracefully atop one of the stones behind them.

As the windriders landed their mounts on the hill, Larajin’s first action was to place both hands upon her heart and bow deeply in the winged elf’s direction. It was obviously a gesture of thanks. Her eyes ranged over the windriders, and she repeated the bow, this time for Lord Kierin.

Beside her, the winged elf was panting, bent over with hands on thighs. Her wings were only half folded. Their tips drooped against the ground.

“Leifander,” Larajin said, turning to him. “Thanks be to the goddess that I’ve caught up with you at last. Hopefully this time you’ll listen to me.”

Lord Kierin, having dismounted from his griffon, strode up to where Larajin and Leifander stood. He spoke the common tongue fluently and had understood what Larajin said. He stared at her for a long moment, then glanced pointedly at Leifander.

“Your ‘sister’?” he asked quietly.

Instantly, Leifander regretted his loose tongue. “She’s only a half-elf,” he answered quickly. “Her father was human.”

At Lord Kierin’s sharp look, Leifander realized that he had just compounded his error. Trisdea had given birth only twice in her lifetime. Not knowing that the second birth had produced twins, Lord Kierin would assume some other woman had borne Larajin, and would conclude that she and Leifander therefore had a father in common-and Leifander had just blurted out that this father was human.

“That’s odd,” Lord Kierin said in a soft voice, staring at Leifander. “You don’t look-” He closed his lips abruptly, as if thinking better of what he’d been about to say.

Leifander noticed that Lord Kierin was staring at his ears, and he felt them flush to their very tips.

“I…” Leifander fumbled. “She …”

“I full sister to Leifander,” Larajin blurted out in halting forest Elvish. “Trisdea birth us twins.”

A mutter swept through the windriders who had gathered around them. They obviously knew enough of the forest elf tongue to understand her simple words.

“Is it true?” one of them whispered to another.

Afraid to look up, Leifander kept his eyes focused firmly on the ground. “It’s true.”

A callused hand-Lord Kierin’s-reached out and caught Leifander under the chin, forcing his head up. Leifander expected to see hatred and disgust in Lord Kierin’s eyes, but instead they glowed with compassion.

“Even I did not know this,” he told his riders, “and I am one of his father’s closest friends. Dalbrannil always maintained there was something special about his boy and hinted that the druids were keeping a deep secret about his birth. I had heard rumors in recent days, but I didn’t believe them. Now I realize the whispers that were flying through the forest were true. Half-elves this pair of younglings might be, but they will be our salvation.”

He gestured at Larajin, who stood frowning in confusion, obviously unable to follow Elvish when it was spoken at full speed.

“You see?” Lord Kierin continued. “She appears fully human, but elf blood flows true in her veins. She has come to join our side of the conflict. Look at her hazel eyes, and remember that she and Leifander are twins. With them marching beside our troops, lending us the blessing of the gods, we might yet win this war!”

As a cheer went up among the riders, Leifander frowned.

“Might win?” he whispered, shaking his head at Lord Kierin’s choice of words. “Of course we’ll win it.”

Larajin, meanwhile, seemed to have grasped the general content of Lord Kierin’s words. She rounded on him, berating him in Common.

“You’ve got it all wrong!” she cried. “Leifander and I aren’t meant to win the war; we’re meant to stop it. Rylith told me that this was Somnilthra’s prophecy. She said we would heal a great rift and end a great strife. Elves and humans aren’t meant to be going to war with one another. It’s contrary to the will of the gods.”

The riders-all of whom spoke the common tongue, at least in part-glanced at one another, clearly uneasy. Lord Kierin, however, appeared thoughtful.

“I do not share these heresies,” Leifander told the riders in a nervous voice. “I am a warrior-a scout for the patrols of the Tangled Trees. My commander, Doriantha, can vouch for my loyalty. I want to fight in this war, not engage in some futile effort to stop it. I want revenge against the humans as much as anyone. I-”

Lord Kierin’s hand upon his arm startled him into abrupt silence.

“As a warrior,” Kierin told the other windriders, “I am as ready to fight as any of you, but as an elf who has lived many years and seen many good elves die in battle, I know the value of peace. A war averted is always better than a war fought-especially when it is doubtful that it can be fought to victory.”

Leifander’s mouth gaped at what he’d just heard. Could it be true? He’d expected Lord Kierin to be confident, as certain of victory as Leifander himself was. If so magnificent a warrior had doubts …

Lord Kierin turned to his riders with a grave look. “Somnilthra was a great seer. If what this girl says is correct-if Somnilthra herself prophesied that these two are to heal the rift between elf and human and stop this war, then we must accept that as their role.” His eyes sought out Leifander’s and he added, “And so must they.”

Leifander started to shake his head, then looked around at those who stood on the hilltop. Some of the windriders looked hopeful, others, skeptical. Valatta was shaking her head in disgust.

But both Larajin and Kierin were looking at Leifander expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something. Even the winged elf was listening, her wings now folded and her head cocked to one side. Only the griffons and the tressym were oblivious to the tableaux, the latter having curled itself in a ball atop one of the standing stones and fallen soundly asleep.

“All right!” Leifander exploded at last. “I’ll do it.” He shook his head and added, in a low mutter, “But by the Winged Mother’s mercy, I just wish someone would tell me what it is I’m supposed to do.”

Later that night, Leifander was aroused from Reverie by the sound of beating wings. Sitting up, he saw the avariel elf-Kith, her name was-climbing into the sky. She hovered for a moment, waving farewell to someone below, then she turned and headed north.

Leifander sighed, wishing Kith had tarried longer before winging her way home. Avariel elves also worshiped the Winged Mother. He and Kith could have found much to talk about.

All around him on the hilltop were the seated forms of eight windriders, their heads bowed in Reverie. Their griffons slept nearby, with heads tucked under their wings. A shadow passed across the hilltop, though no other form, save Kith’s, was visible in the moonlit sky above. It was the ninth windrider keeping watch above, cloaked by the invisibility of a pair of rings.