Lisa Smedman: Heirs of Prophecy

Making her way through the wide halls to Stormweather Towers’s grand front entrance-if Drakkar did have men watching the house, they’d probably be expecting her to slip out through the servants’ door at the rear-she peered out a leaded-glass window at the darkened street. The time was halfway between midnight and dawn. At that hour, Sarn Street was virtually deserted. A boy walking on stilts tended the street lanterns, trimming their wicks and topping up their oil, and a solitary carriage clattered past on a side road, but the tallhouses that lined the street were, for the most part, dark and silent.

She was just about to open the door when the gleam of metal in a doorway across the street gave her pause. The lantern boy noticed it, too. He bent at the waist to peer down into the doorway, then straightened and moved away at a rapid clip. Inside the doorway, a figure shifted. It was a man clad entirely in black but with a helm that caught the lantern light. He was a member of the city guard.

Larajin had been right. The Hulorn’s men were watching Stormweather Towers. They must have expected her to try to slip away, perhaps even counted on it. That way, she could simply be made to disappear, and Master Thamalon would never be the wiser about who took her or why. The gods only knew how many of the guard were out there, waiting and watching. Larajin wasn’t going to make it on her own-even in disguise. She needed help.

She was only an initiate of the goddess Sune, not even a real cleric, and what little she knew of Hanali Celanil’s worship was entirely self-taught from tomes in the master’s library that had been written by human authors who hadn’t been initiated into the goddess’s mysteries, but perhaps …

Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a heart-shaped locket. It was made of cheap metal, probably brass, that had been burnished to look like gold. Most of the finish had rubbed off long ago, and the original chain was long gone. Larajin had replaced it with a short circle of red embroidery thread, just wide enough to slip over her hand. She’d paid only a few pennies for the trinket, which she’d found in a peddler’s stall in the market. Its value to her, however, was immeasurable-not because of the locket itself but because of what it held.

Larajin lifted the locket to her nose. From within came a faint, floral scent, as fresh as the day she’d placed the petal inside the heart. She knew that if she opened the locket, the petal would still be a bright red, flecked with gold.

The flower from which it had come-known as Sune’s Kisses to humans, and Hanali’s Heart to the elves-was sacred to both goddesses. Drawing its scent into her lungs, Larajin released it in the form of a whispered prayer.

“Sune and Hanali Celanil, hear my plea and shield me from my enemies. Cloak me with your breath, and make my footsteps as light as a lover’s whispers.”

The locket in her hand grew warm. From inside her clenched fingers came a faint red glow: the sign of magic at work. Thankful that her prayers had been answered-by Sune, it would seem, since the floral scent that accompanied Hanali Celanil’s blessing was absent-Larajin slipped the string of the locket around her wrist.

She squared her shoulders and opened the door, trusting in the goddess to protect her. Even so, her heart was pounding in her throat as she descended the front steps that led to the street.

The air had a thick quality to it. A mist that glittered as though it were flecked with droplets of gold formed whorls and eddies in the street, obscuring the tallhouses on either side. Across the street, the guard stepped out of the doorway and squinted. He raised a hand, prodding the air ahead of him like a blind man, and took a hesitant step into the swirling fog.

“Hey, lads, look sharp!” he called out. “Something’s up.”

Larajin smiled. She could see him, but he, it seemed, could not see her. Gathering up her gown so it wouldn’t rustle, she crept up Sarn Street on tiptoe, barely daring to breathe. Cloaked in the magical fog, she was all but invisible to the guard who was bounding up the front steps of Stormweather Towers, tripping in his haste to block the door. She was likewise unseen by the guard at the corner, and a third, who had been approaching down the cross street, only to be confronted by a cloud of golden mist. The latter drew his sword, and used it like a cane to probe the air ahead-a cane with a deadly point. He cocked his head as Larajin’s boots made a faint scuffing sound on the cobblestones, and he turned in her direction.

Larajin froze, watching with wide eyes as he moved toward her. If she kept utterly still, he might pass by her, allowing her to slip away. He came closer, sword probing, until he was within a pace of where she stood, then he walked by, continuing up the street toward the corner.

Then, like a man suddenly remembering something, he stopped. Larajin heard him sniff.

Too late, she realized that Thazienne’s gown was thick with perfume. In another instant, the guard would find her. Larajin did the only thing she could think of-she turned quickly in place and began walking toward Sarn Street, then deliberately blundered into the guard.

“Hey there!” he exclaimed, grabbing her shoulder. He leaned closer, and peered at her face through the swirling fog. “Who are you, woman?”

Remembering whom she was impersonating, Larajin squared her shoulders and gave the man a haughty glare.

“‘W-woman?’” she sputtered. “That’s ‘Mistress,’ if you please.”

As she spoke, she glanced out of the corner of her eye. The other guards were still somewhere around the corner on Sarn Street, lost in the gold-flecked fog. She prayed that the man’s startled question hadn’t been loud enough for them to hear.

“Ah … Mistress, then,” he said, nodding at her gown. Close enough to see her now, his eyes missed nothing-not the heavy bag over Larajin’s shoulder, nor the toe of the boot that was peeking out from under her hem. His eyes narrowed. “What urgent business compels you out of your home and onto the streets this late at night?”

Larajin stared at him for a long, silent moment, imitating the way Thazienne had once stared down a young serving girl who had caught her climbing out a window late at night. The serving girl-Larajin-never reported it to the master.

“I am returning to Stormweather Towers after a … liaison,” she said, falling into a flawless imitation of noble speech. “The business I was about was legal and therefore none of your concern. I am Mistress Thazienne of House Uskevren, and when my father hears how you roughly accosted me and tore my sleeve, he will be sorely displeased. You can imagine what conclusions he will draw and what reports will reach the Hulorn’s ears.”

As she spoke, she grabbed a handful of slashed sleeve and yanked on it just enough to cause a small rip. The soldier’s eyes widened at the sound of tearing cloth, and he took a step back. He bowed, sweeping a hand in the direction of Stormweather Towers.

“Mistress, I beg your pardon. Please proceed.”

As haughtily as she could, Larajin swept by him, her gown rustling. After a few steps, a quick glimpse behind assured her that the guard could no longer see her. Immediately she gathered the skirts of the gown, turned silently around, and tiptoed past him-giving him a wide berth, so he wouldn’t smell the perfume this time.

When she was certain she’d left the guard well behind, she broke into a jog, then a run. As she ran, she tried to decide which way she should go. The High Bridge lay to the north, along Galogar’s Ride. It was the only way out of the city for travelers bound for Ordulin, but Larajin could hardly head there. In another moment the guards would realize they’d been duped and would start searching for a “noblewoman” in a green gown. She needed somewhere close, somewhere she could change into a different disguise.