Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“I was raised in this forest and am the son of a noble warrior. I’m as much an elf as any of them. I look like an elf, I dress and act like an elf-I am an elf-and yet all they see now is my human half.”

“Did they attack you?” Larajin asked softly.

“They claimed I was a traitor. They didn’t believe I had only gone to Selgaunt at the druids’ request. They tried to hold me, but I escaped. In doing so, I condemned myself. As long as this war continues, I won’t be welcome among my people. Neither there,” he said, pointing at the forest, “nor in your realm.”

He gave Larajin a determined, fierce look and added, “I’m committed to what you called Our destiny’ now. Fully. I want this war to end. Let’s see if Somnilthra can tell us how to fulfill that destiny.”

Larajin glanced at the woman entombed in the ice next to them. “This is her, then?” she asked.

“Of course.” Leifander cocked his head. “You must have known that, or you wouldn’t have chosen this tower to climb.”

Larajin started to smile, but just then the spire of ice shuddered. There was a deep groan, and a crack appeared above them. Splinters of ice, sparkling in the moonlight like shards of glass, tumbled free and fell onto the twins.

Unsteady on the slippery ridge, Larajin grabbed for Leifander’s hand. As she steadied herself, her legs cramped from the cold that was seeping up through her bare feet, and she shuddered.

Leifander glanced sharply at her. “You’re freezing!” he exclaimed. “Your fingers are nearly blue. Don’t you have a spell that can warm them?”

Larajin shook her head. “No more than you have a spell to heal your bruises, it would seem. I tried praying, but the goddesses didn’t answer.” She touched his injured shoulder gently. “I could heal you, however.”

“No time,” he said, glancing pointedly at a crack just above where they stood. “Besides, the bruises are only a minor inconvenience. I wish I had a spell that could help you, but the Lady of Air and Wind answers prayers for heat with violence; all she knows is the fury of the lightning strike, and the blazing heat of the wind-whipped forest fire.”

He glanced pointedly at Larajin’s magic dagger. “That blade produces a cold blue light,” he said. “Will it also produce a warm one?”

“I don’t know,” Larajin answered-then an idea occurred to her. “If it did, we could use it to melt a hole in the ice and reach Somnilthra.”

“I heard you shout a word as the dagger fell,” Leifander continued. “What was it?”

“Illunathros.”

Leifander nodded, as if recognizing the word, then stared at the dagger.

“Why isn’t it glowing now?” he asked.

“Its magic only activates if I’m holding it,” Larajin said.

“Can I see it?”

Larajin pulled the dagger from its sheath and handed it to Leifander, who turned it over in his hands, peering closely at it.

“Ah,” he said. “I thought so. You see here-the Uskevren crest? It’s a later addition, welded onto the hilt. The blade itself is of elven make.”

“How do you know?”

“The word that activates its magic-it’s Espruar. Translated, it would be ‘cold illumination of the moon.’” He paused, lost in thought, then snapped his fingers. “That’s it.” He held the dagger up, and looked into Larajin’s eyes. “I’d like to try something … the word, in Espruar, for ‘warm light of the sun.’”

Larajin nodded her consent.

Leifander held the dagger aloft and spoke a single word, “Solicallor! ”

The blade glowed a dull orange, like metal freshly pulled from the forge. Though she stood a pace away from Leifander, a wave of heat washed over Larajin. Leifander drew his breath in with a hiss. The hilt itself must have been uncomfortably hot, but he clung to it with determination. He held the dagger toward Larajin, and she warmed her hands over its ruddy glow. Before its heat faded, he rose to his feet and thrust the blade into the ice next to them.

The ice melted away. Trickles of water flowed from the hole the dagger’s heat bored in the tower, only to slow and freeze again into dripping icicles near their feet. Leifander methodically pushed the dagger deeper into the ice, forcing it in until his arm was inserted up to the shoulder and the blade was no more than a finger’s width from Somnilthra’s cheek. He withdrew the blade and handed it to Larajin. Even as she took it, the glow faded and the metal cooled. She tucked it away in its sheath.

“What do we do now?” she asked. “How do we awaken Somnilthra?”

Leifander gave her a startled look. “I thought you knew.”

Larajin shook her head. “You’re the elf!” she protested.

“Half-elf-as are you.” His eyes grew thoughtful, then twinkled. “Do you suppose, if we put those two halves together, we might come up with the answer?”

The tower gave another shuddering rumble, and a piece on the far side broke free and fell to the lake below with a splash. Larajin stared at Somnilthra, but despite the cracking of the ice and the rumbles that coursed through her tower, the entombed elf lay silent and still.

“I know a spell that can be used to contact an elfin the Reverie,” Leifander said at last, “but I don’t know if it will reach all the way to Arvanaith.” He glanced at Larajin. “Have you been blessed with any spells that magically alter speech?”

Larajin nodded eagerly. “Only one,” she said. “It lets me speak to Goldheart.”

“The tressym?” Leifander’s eyes brightened. “That’s good. It means you’re touching the creature’s mind. If the gods are willing, they might grant you the power to also touch the mind of someone so long in the Reverie. If we pray together, to our respective gods, we might be able to reach Somnilthra. I can locate her spirit in Arvanaith, and you can touch her mind and hear her whispered thoughts.”

Larajin stared at the hole the dagger had melted in the ice. It almost reached Somnilthra, but not quite.

“Do you think she’ll hear me?” she asked doubtfully.

Leifander shrugged. “We won’t know until we try.”

He kneeled and spread his hands behind him in a pose that reminded Larajin of Kith’s bow. A loud rumble came from the crystalline tower next to them, reminding Larajin that they didn’t have much time left. The moon was steadily slipping toward the horizon, and she could see that the towers were slowly descending toward the surface of the lake.

She bowed her head and cupped her hands over her midriff, gently pressing the locket at her wrist against the spot where the mark of Sune had been. She began to pray. Beside her, she heard Leifander doing the same in the melodious language of the forest elves.

Inside the ice, moonlight shifted on Somnilthra’s face as the moon set. Or had that been her eyelids flickering? Larajin concentrated on Somnilthra’s tattooed cheek and prayed even more fervently.

“Hanali Celanil hear me and bless me,” she whispered. “Sune hear me and answer. Give me the power to speak to my sister, and be heard. Bless her with speech, and give me the power to hear her in return.”

The locket grew warm and began to glow a dull red, and the scent of Hanali’s Heart rose around her. Encouraged by these signs, Larajin leaned closer to the hole in the ice and cupped her hands around it, as she would around someone’s ear.

“Somnilthra,” she said into the darkened tunnel. “Can you hear me?”

A part of her was startled to realize that she was speaking fluent Elvish. Another part of her, embraced by the love of the goddesses, remained serene and listened for the answer. When it came, it was little more than a sigh, one laden with the exhaustion of many long years in Reverie.