Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Yes?

Leifander glanced up, an exuberant look in his eye. Had he heard the voice too?

Who…?

After that single word, the voice faded beyond hearing. Larajin tapped her brother’s shoulder.

“Keep praying,” she hissed.

Nodding grimly, Leifander bowed his head and resumed his chant.

At the same time Larajin spoke again-quickly-into the hole.

“Somnilthra, it is your half …” She paused, then amended her words. “It is your sister and brother, Larajin and Leifander, the twins. The rift you predicted between human and elf has come to pass. Sembia and what remains of Cormanthor are at war. You prophesied that we could end the strife between the two races, but we don’t know how. Tell us what to do!”

Inside the ice, Somnilthra’s head shifted ever so slightly, as if she were trying to turn her face in their direction. The skin above her eyebrows was creased, in what Larajin imagined to be a frown. Her voice, heavy from the Reverie, drifted gently into Larajin’s ear, though her sister’s lips did not move.

To heal the splinter in the stone, you must use a heart. Hate may win wars, but only love will conquer them. Harness love, and you will win everything. Unharness hate, and you will lose everything, even your very lives .

“But what does that mean?” Larajin asked, speaking louder now. “How do we use love to conquer war?”

Somnilthra sighed-a sigh deeper than any Larajin had ever heard before.

Your gods will show you the way . Once again, her voice was growing faint. I must…

And it was gone.

Leifander rose to his feet. Despite the fact that he was barefoot on the ice, he was sweating.

“I couldn’t stay in contact with her any longer,” he said, shaking his head. “She drifted away.”

The spire of ice shuddered under Larajin’s bare feet. She peered down at the surface of the lake-closer now than it had been when they started their prayers.

“Could you hear Somnilthra when she spoke?” Larajin asked.

Leifander nodded. “I heard her words, but I don’t know what they meant. We need wisdom-a wisdom well beyond our twenty-five years. Someone older, wiser, and more versed in the ways of magic must answer the riddle we’ve just been given.”

They glanced at each other and said the name at the same time: “Rylith.”

“The last time I saw her was several days ago, at the Standing Stone,” Larajin said. “The gods only know where she is now.”

“The gods aren’t the only ones who will know where she is,” Leifander said. “The other members of the sacred circle will know where she is-or, at least, should be able to get a message to her.”

“Where can we find them?” Larajin asked. “Are they far from here?”

Leifander pointed to the northeast. “The druids-at least one of them, at all times-maintain a constant vigil at Moontouch Oak. It lies in that direction.” Then he added with a chuckle, as if at a private joke, “It’s not far, as the crow flies.”

“How many days on foot?”

His mirth vanished. “At least eight … possibly ten or twelve. The forest is quite thick, and there’s the River Ashaba to ford.”

Larajin winced. “That’s too long,” she said grimly. “By then Tal might be-”

She caught sight of a familiar figure winging its way toward them across the lake. She waved to attract Goldheart’s attention, and the tressym did a graceful loop. Larajin was relieved by the creature’s playful antics. Whatever Gold-heart had been up to, she at least hadn’t gotten feathered by elven arrows.

Goldheart landed on the ridge beside them and rubbed against Larajin’s leg. She filled the air with a loud purring, as if relieved to see that Larajin had survived her brush with the elf archer.

“Easy for you to say, Goldheart,” Larajin chided. “You flew away when things got dangerous. By the time the elf shot that first arrow, I’ll bet you were already halfway to …”

All at once, a thought occurred to her. Maybe it wouldn’t take a tenday, after all, for them to reach Moontouch Oak. Maybe there was a quicker way.

“Leifander,” she asked slowly. “Could you teach me how to skinwalk?”

“Impossible,” he snorted. “It takes months of study and prayer. I fasted and prayed in the treetops for many days before I was able to call the Crow to me. You’d need to do the same to seek out your totem animal. Without it-”

Larajin glanced pointedly at Goldheart. “What if my ‘totem animal’ was already here?”

Slowly, Leifander’s eyebrows raised. He glanced down at the tressym, which looked up at him with luminous yellow eyes.

“She is sacred to my goddess,” Larajin reminded him, kneeling down to stroke Goldheart’s silky fur. She peered up at Leifander. “Will you teach me what to do?”

“I can try,” Leifander conceded at last. He glanced at the first of the crystalline towers, which already was visibly lower in the water. “Your lesson will have to be a quick one.”

“Let’s begin then.”

Leifander gave a resigned sigh. “Start by assuming the same posture as the tress-as your totem. You see? Just as I assume the posture of the crow.” He squatted, holding his arms to the side.

Larajin studied Goldheart, who was sitting with catlike grace on the slippery ledge, her wings neatly folded. Larajin kneeled beside her-aware that her legs were articulated in the wrong direction but trying for the same pose as best she could-and straightened her arms, placing her palms flat on the ice. She hunched her shoulders, imagining wings.

“Close your eyes.”

She did. A moment later, she felt a tickle of fur. Goldheart was twining herself between Larajin’s arms. Larajin allowed herself a smile-whether aware of it or not, Goldheart was helping. A floral scent rose to Larajin’s nostrils, and she felt a warmth at her wrist.

“As you pray, imagine your body shifting,” Leifander continued. “The feathers come, and your body twists, and you feel your bones shift…”

He continued, describing the sensations that preceded skin-walking. Larajin listened avidly, imagining herself becoming a tressym. All the while, the manifestations of the goddesses’ presence grew stronger. Larajin could see the amber glow of her locket, even with her eyes closed.

Leifander switched the course of his instruction. “At the same time that you are imagining your body shifting, you pray. The words of the prayer are … They begin with …”

He paused, and Larajin opened her eyes a crack, to see him shaking his head in frustration.

“It won’t work,” he said. “I can’t put the prayer into words. The common tongue is too coarse.”

“Then speak it in Elvish,” Larajin said, switching to that language as the power of the goddesses swept through her, filling the air with a floral scent as thick as perfume. “Say the words of the spell, and I’ll repeat them.”

Leifander sniffed, and nodded at the bright red glow that enveloped them both. He began his prayer. Larajin echoed him, substituting the salutations and names of the goddesses she worshiped.

As she did, she imagined herself inhabiting the body of a tressym, with whiskers and wings and fur. Something tickled like a shiver down her spine, running swift as water from the nape of her neck to the tip of her … tail? Surprised, she sank-claws? — into the ice. Suddenly dizzy as she shrank to a fraction of her former size, she spread her-wings? — flapping them for balance.

She rose into the air.

As her eyes sprang open, she saw Leifander, still squatting on the ledge, but in crow form. He stared up at her for a moment with glossy black eyes, then let out a hoarse croak of amazement. Startled, Larajin began to think about the wonder of her transformation, instead of just feeling it, and for a moment she forgot how to fly. She tumbled through the air, gasping, but then instinct took over and her wings beat strong and sure.