Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“It will if you touch the tree.”

Larajin gestured up at the tressym. “It didn’t affect Goldheart.”

“Of course it didn’t,” Leifander answered, exasperated at Larajin for missing a simple explanation. “She’s a magical creature.”

Leifander pointed up at the trunk of the oak, just above the spot where Dray hung.

“Do you see that?”

Larajin squinted. “Those scratches in the bark?”

“Yes. It’s a warning, in Espruar. This is holy ground. An elf lies buried beneath that oak. This man,” he pointed up at Dray, “must have been trying to loot the grave. He triggered the ward on the tree, and the elves probably hung him on it as an example. If either of us touches the tree, the magic of that ward will send us into a magical slumber. We’ll be as helpless as babes.”

“I thought elves were immune to magical slumber,” Larajin said.

“We’re half-elves,” Leifander reminded her. “We may resist the magic-or we may not. Do you really want to take that gamble?”

Larajin considered for a moment, then shook her head. “I can’t believe that Dray was trying to rob this grave,” she said. “He’s a Foxmantle-a wealthy Sembian merchant who led the caravan that I traveled north with. He has no need to stoop to tomb robbing. In fact, when some sellswords he hired to protect his caravan turned out to be brigands and looted an elven tomb, Dray ordered them to stop. He’s a decent man.”

Leifander glanced down at the disturbed ground, then up at the sleeping man, and asked, “Then what happened here?”

“I don’t know,” Larajin answered, “but Dray might. Let’s wake him up and find out. Will you help me lift him down-carefully, so we don’t touch the tree?”

Leifander nodded, and together they grasped Dray by his legs and eased him off the branch he’d been hanging from. They carried him a short distance through the woods, away from the area blighted by the mist, and laid him on clean ground. After a few moments, he began to stir. His eyes opened, and he stared up at them-then he sat up quickly and looked wildly about, as if expecting something to jump out from behind a tree at any moment.

“What’s happened?” he gasped. “Where’s Klarsh?”

Larajin seemed to recognize the name. “He’s not here,” she told Dray.

She explained how they’d found him hanging in a tree-alone. Leifander added his own observation: the rotted vegetation that surrounded the oak had been devoid of footprints. Whoever had left Dray in the tree had done so before the mist drifted into that part of the forest.

“How long have I been here?” Dray asked. “What day is it, Thazienne?”

Larajin-who didn’t seem to find it unusual to be addressed by her half-sister’s name-gave him a date from the human calendar.

“By the gods … that long?” Dray said in a whisper. “I’ve been asleep for more than a tenday, then.”

He rose to his feet unsteadily, like an invalid climbing from bed. Larajin reached out to help him, careful not to jostle his injured arm.

“Can I heal that for you?” she asked.

Dray nodded eagerly. “Please. If you could.”

Larajin placed her hands gently above the makeshift dressing and whispered a quick prayer. A glow spread from her fingers into his arm, and Dray breathed a deep sigh of relief. Gingerly at first-then with increasing confidence-he unwrapped the dressing. The skin underneath was puckered but whole. He wiggled the fingers of his left hand. Thanks to Larajin’s magic, the broken finger had straightened, and the swelling was gone. Flexing it, he smiled.

“Where are you headed?” he asked.

Larajin gestured east.

“Back to Rauthauvyr’s Road? “Dray asked. “Can I travel at least that far with you?”

“Not unless you can fly,” Leifander said bluntly.

“We’re using magic,” Larajin explained. “We’d soon leave you behind.”

“Ah,” Dray said. He glanced at the trail, looking uncomfortable. “Perhaps I should try to reach Ashabenford, then,” he said nervously. Then he added, “Are you sure I can’t persuade you to accompany me?”

“We haven’t time,” Larajin told him. “We’re trying to find someone. We believe she’s to the east, deeper in the woods. She-”

Thankfully, Larajin caught Leifander’s curt head shake, and changed the subject.

“How did you escape the ambush?” she asked Dray. “I thought the elves had killed you.”

Dray glanced nervously at Leifander and dropped his voice to a whisper. “Is he one of them?”

“Yes,” Larajin answered, “and no. He’s a half-elf. He’s my … friend. You can trust him.”

Leifander gave this no comment. Instead he merely waited, arms folded, for Dray to tell them what had happened.

“Ah,” Dray said. He spoke to Larajin, but kept an eye on Leifander, heedful of his reaction. “My escape was a fortuitous one-and not at all due to my own merits, I’m ashamed to add. After I grabbed the sword, an arrow struck my arm. I thought I was going to faint from the pain, then suddenly everything was gone.”

Leifander frowned, and saw the same expression on Larajin’s face. “Gone?” he asked.

“I’d been transported to another spot in the woods,” Dray explained. “Magically-by Klarsh, as it turned out. It seems, having lost his chance at the, ah … spoils … he was trying to salvage something of value from the caravan: me.

“I had nothing to fight Klarsh with-I’d dropped the sword after the arrow struck my arm-and I knew he had powerful magic. I had no choice but to accompany him through the woods. I expected him to head for Essembra and on to Hillsfar, which was where that lout Enik had said the brigands would lie low with their loot. I was surprised when we went west, instead. When I asked Klarsh why, he said the north was hardly the neutral haven that Enik had expected. He said he didn’t want to be ‘conscripted,’ and that Enik had been a fool.”

“Conscripted?” Larajin echoed. “By whom? Have the cities of the Moonsea also declared war on the elves?”

Dray shrugged.

Leifander stared at the human, his patience wearing thin. When would the fellow get to the point? “How did you come to be digging up an elf grave?” he asked, nodding in the direction of the oak.

Dray paled and glanced imploringly at Larajin but continued when she urged him on with a nod.

“I didn’t want to do it. Klarsh forced me-with his magic. I was no more than a puppet, jerked by magic strings. It was terrible, being so helpless. The last thing I remember was grabbing one of the roots, to pull it free and suddenly feeling very tired. Then I woke up, here, with you.”

The story sounded reasonable to Leifander, but Larajin had one more question.

“Why didn’t Klarsh use a spell to move the earth aside, as he had before?”

Dray shrugged. “Maybe he thought it would attract too much attention. He thought there might be other elf patrols in the woods. Perhaps he just wanted to humiliate me by forcing me to do manual labor.”

“Or perhaps,” Larajin said, “Klarsh intended you to fall victim to the tree’s magical ward. As a wizard, he should have recognized the glyph on the tree for what it was. He’d probably decided to abandon his treasure hunt and ransom you instead. I’ll bet it was he who took your ring and earring, as proof that he held you captive. The sleeping spell made you easy to handle-and to store. I suppose he intended to leave you here in the woods, hanging on that tree, for your relatives to pick up after they had delivered the ransom.”

She glanced at the mist-scarred oak, then at the trail, and the four spider bodies that lay on it, and shuddered.

“You could have been killed by the mist, had it been just a little higher-or by spiders. You’re a lucky man, Dray.”