Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Hauling herself out of the water, Larajin carefully began her climb. The summer air warmed her skin, but soon her hands and feet grew first cold, then numb. The going was slow. More than once she was forced to double back and find a new route, after reaching a spot where the ice became a sheer wall, too steep to climb without a pick and rope.

High above her, the moon climbed to its apex in the sky. Below, the shimmering trail it etched across the surface of the lake grew shorter.

Best not to look down, she thought. The water was more than a hundred paces below her, and the distance made Larajin dizzy. Resolutely, she continued her climb, searching out handholds and footholds in the craggy ice.

The towers continued to make cracking noises, just as they had done since they rose. Every now and then Larajin heard a deep groan then a loud snap as a piece of ice broke free. A few heartbeats later the shard hit the water below with aloud splash, making her cringe.

When Larajin was level with the third of the dark shapes inside the tower she paused to peer through the ice at it, just as she had done as she’d passed the first two. The third elf was a male, dressed in the formal garb of the Gold elves. Laid out in a reclining position, hands folded upon his breast, he looked as though he was sleeping, despite the frost on his skin and the ice that pressed tightly against him on every side.

Shivering, her hair and clothes still damp from her swim across the lake, Larajin pressed on. She followed a ridge in the ice that led up and to her right, where she could see a ledge near the spot where the last body lay. If she made it to that spot, she would be as close to the body as she could get.

As she worked her way closer to the ledge, Larajin caught glimpses of the figure entombed inside the ice. The body was female-a fact Larajin noted with relief-a slender woman with delicate features, long pointed ears and coppery-red hair in two braids that lay upon her shoulders. A forest elf, judging by her leather breeches and ornately beaded boots and vest. The ice that entombed her-Larajin was peering up through more than an arm’s length of the stuff-distorted the woman’s features, making it impossible to see whether or not she resembled Leifander. Larajin could see a dark crescent-a tattoo-on one of her cheeks.

Was it a stylized moon, the symbol of the goddess Somnilthra had worshiped? Larajin prayed it was-that she wouldn’t be forced to climb another of the towers.

She needed to get closer, to reach a ledge she’d spotted that was level with the body. Unfortunately, as she drew nearer to it, she saw there was a gap nearly a pace wide between the ledge and the ridge she’d climbed along. She knew it was crazy to risk a jump-the ice was too slippery for a safe landing-but by stretching, she just might be able to reach it with one foot. Then it would simply be a matter of transferring her weight with a slight hop, and she would be across.

Leaning out as far as she dared, she extended her right foot and tested the ledge with it. The ice seemed solid enough. Gradually, she eased her weight onto it…

And the ice below her right foot gave a deep, groaning crack.

Larajin froze, poised over the gap. An instant later, the ledge she’d been trying to reach gave way. Gasping, Larajin threw her weight back, trying to reach the safety of the spot where she’d just been standing, but her left foot slipped. Thrown off-balance, she fell to her knees. She scrabbled at the ice, seeking a handhold-and found one-but then her knees slipped from the edge. Her full weight was supported only by her hands. Pain shot through her left wrist as it twisted, and that hand lost its grip.

Just as she thought she was about to go over the edge, one scrabbling foot at last found a toehold, then the other found a foothold. She heaved herself upward, waves of agony shooting through her sprained wrist. As she pulled herself to safety, she felt her dagger catch on a outcropping of ice and yank from its sheath. It fell onto the ice and began to slide away.

Larajin grabbed for it, but her position forced her to reach with the hand that had been twisted in the ice. Her fingers still weren’t working properly. They brushed against the hilt but would not close upon it. Despite the bright moonlight, the shadows of the splintered ice made the dagger difficult to see. Was it slipping out from under her fingertips and going over the edge?

“Illunathros!” she cried.

With a bright flash of blue light, the dagger illuminated-then it slipped off into space. Despondent, Larajin watched it fall toward the lake below. It flashed brightly as it tumbled end over end.

A loud caw echoed across the lake as a small dark shape streaked through the night toward the ice tower. At the last moment before the dagger struck the surface, the weapon’s fall slowed until it was drifting down as gently as a feather. Just before it reached the water, the crow swooped low over the lake and neatly plucked it from the air with its feet. The bird wheeled in a graceful curve and began climbing toward the spot where Larajin crouched, the dagger glowing brightly in its talons.

“Leifander!” Larajin exclaimed.

The crow cawed again in greeting, then hovered next to Larajin, wings beating furiously. One wing lagged slightly behind the other, as if he were exhausted from a long flight.

Larajin reached out and took the dagger from him, nodded her head in an abbreviated bow of heartfelt thanks, and secured the dagger in the sheath at her hip.

Leifander landed, hopped sideways along the ridge toward a flat spot, then spread his wings. A moment later a ripple passed through him as he shifted back into elf form. His bare feet slid a little on the ice, and he waved his arms for a moment like beating wings before finding his balance. One arm seemed stiff, as if it pained him, and his right eye and cheek were splotchy with the shadows of fresh bruises.

“You’re injured,” Larajin observed aloud. “What happened?”

He winced, as if something other than his injuries pained him. “It’s nothing.”

“Did the elf near the forked oak attack you?”

Leifander glanced up sharply. “What elf?”

“The one who shot an arrow at me. He spotted me as I entered the water.”

Leifander looked grimly back at the shore. “He must have been one of those who patrol the lake. We’ll have trouble getting back. Especially now. The entire shore will be watching for us.”

“You were gone so long,” Larajin continued. “I thought, for a moment there, that you’d joined that elf patrol and weren’t coming back. I’m sorry I doubted-”

Leifander interrupted her with a bitter laugh. “You were right,” he said. “I did join them-for a time. The patrol needed a messenger … a swift one, with wings. I couldn’t refuse; the message was a vital one.”

Larajin’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “And so you abandoned me,” she said. “You turned your back on your duty-and our destiny.”

“Only for a short time,” he said, a guilty look in his eye.

Combined with his injuries, the look told her that something had happened to change his mind. She waited, silently, for him to tell her what it was.

“I delivered their message,” Leifander said at last. “The commander who received it knew me and had heard the rumors about me being the son of a human-and not just any human, but a powerful merchant of Sembia. She believes that hazel-eyed twins are blessed by the gods-but said half-human twins didn’t count. Worse still, she announced that half-elves are not to be counted among our allies nor to be trusted, now that Lord Ulath has declared Deepingdale neutral.”

His voice dropped to a pained whisper, and he glanced across the lake at its tree-lined shore.