Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

“Lucky to have met you, Thazienne,” Dray answered with a bow.

Leifander, aware that he might as well be invisible to the human, bristled. His magic had played an equal part in saving Dray’s life, and yet it went unacknowledged. It was not in his nature to boast his valor or to seek acknowledgement from a human. Even so, it rankled.

Larajin was oblivious to this slight. Instead she seemed troubled by something. She glanced at the ground, as if collecting her thoughts, then up at Dray.

“I’m not actually Thazienne,” she said. “I’m a … relative of hers. My name’s Larajin.”

Dray’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? A relative, you say? You’re an Uskevren, then?”

“Yes, but my mother was from a … part of the family that’s not well known.”

“Ah,” Dray nodded sagely, as if this explained everything. “A dalliance, then.” He studied her a moment, his head tilted to one side. “You’re too young to be one of the illegitimate brats Roel was so fond of siring. Was your father Perivel, then? But no, he died when the first Stormweather Towers burned to the ground, years before you would have been born. That would leave …”

Leifander, growing impatient, supplied the answer. “Her father was Thamalon Uskevren,” he told Dray, ignoring Larajin’s frantic motions for silence. “I am also Thamalon’s son.”

Dray glanced at Leifander’s tattooed face, then burst into laughter. Only when Leifander glowered at him was he able to choke it back.

“Oh that’s a good one,” Dray sputtered at last. “I suppose you’ll be laying claim to the family fortune, then, like that fellow who pretended to be Thamalon’s long-lost brother. I heard about that-about the fake Perivel, and the magical chalice that proved him an imposter.”

Leifander dismissed this foolish notion with a curt flick of his fingers. Why did every human he confessed his parentage to assume he’d want to live in a crowded, stinking pile of stone like Selgaunt?

“I’m not interested in Sembian gold,” he told Dray.

“Perhaps not,” Dray agreed as his eyes slid sideways to Larajin, “but she is. Or to be more specific, she’s interested in Foxmantle gold.”

Dray turned to Larajin and nodded at her dagger. “The weapon with the Uskevren crest was a nice touch. It had me fooled. No wonder you were so keen on joining my caravan. You hoped to seduce me!”

Anger blazed in Larajin’s eyes. “Sedúcelou?” she echoed in an exasperated voice. “You were the one who practically proposed marriage. I never-”

Leifander, growing impatient, touched Larajin’s arm.

“This discussion is pointless,” he told her. “You’ve repaid this man by saving his life, but now time is wasting. Let’s shift and be off, before more spiders find us.”

Dray, obviously realizing that he was about to be left to make his own way home alone from the middle of the spider-infested woods, caught at Larajin’s arm.

“Larajin, please forgive me,” he begged. “I’m sorry to have insulted you. Please, won’t you at least loan me your dagger, so I at least have a fighting chance of getting home?”

“I can’t,” Larajin answered. “It’s … an heirloom, but Leifander might be able to spare his dagger.”

“What?” Leifander whirled around and glared at her. He gestured angrily at Dray. “He’s a human. An enemy.”

Amazingly, Larajin moved between Leifander and Dray, as if shielding the human.

“He’s harmless, Leifander, just a merchant. I’d stake my life on it.”

“You’d stake other people’s lives on it, you mean,” Leifander muttered to himself. Then, seeing that Larajin was not going to be swayed from this foolish notion, he added, “Do you think he’ll agree to a magically binding oath?”

Instead of answering, Larajin looked at Dray. The human nodded.

Leifander drew his dagger-smiling inwardly as Dray flinched-then reversed the blade. He spoke a prayer in Elvish, activating the spell that would bind Dray to his oath.

“Touch the hilt,” he instructed.

Dray hesitated only an instant before obeying.

“Now swear,” Leifander intoned, “that you’ll only use this dagger to defend yourself against forest creatures-that you won’t wield it against my people, the elves.”

Dray drew himself up and placed a hand on his heart.

“I swear it,” he said. He blinked once, as Leifander’s spell rooted the suggested course of action firmly in his heart, then he hefted the dagger and added, with a grin, “Truth be told, I’m more a man to avoid fights than prompt them.”

He turned to Larajin. “Thank you for all that you’ve done. Back on the caravan, when I said you were pretty, I wasn’t lying. You’re quite beautiful. If you really were an Uskevren, I’d renew my proposals.” He winked. “But business, unfortunately, must always come before pleasure, even for a Foxmantle.”

Leifander tugged impatiently at Larajin’s arm. “Come,” he said. “Time to shift.”

Leifander squatted and spread his arms, preparing to skin-walk. Larajin nodded, then sank to her knees on the ground, clutching the locket at her wrist. As she began the spell that would shift her into tressym form, however, she cast one last glance over her shoulder at Dray, then she closed her eyes, as if the sight of him was distracting her.

Leifander shook his head at her folly. Dray might be handsome but he had little else to recommend him, and yet he’d won Larajin over with nothing more than a few charming words. It was amazing, Leifander thought, what lengths someone would go to, given the promise of a little romance.

Dusk descended as they winged their way east. Ahead in the distance, Larajin could see a sprinkling of lights straddling a dark slash across the forest that could only be Essembra and Rauthauvyr’s Road. Leifander dipped a wing, indicating that they should land there, but before they drew much closer, Goldheart began acting in a peculiar fashion. She meowed once, loudly and plaintively, and circled off to the south. When Larajin didn’t follow, Goldheart beat her wings furiously to catch up, then repeated her meow-and-turn. This time, she continued to fly away to the south, her tail lashing furiously.

Leifander, oblivious to Goldheart’s antics, flew steadily on to the east. If Larajin turned and flew after Goldheart, would he follow? The battle with the spiders had taught them that their strength lay in keeping together, but there was no guarantee he wouldn’t ignore the tressym and continue the search for Rylith on his own.

Larajin did the only thing she could-she prayed silently, since her tressym vocal chords could not articulate words. She begged the goddess to give her the power of human speech, so she could talk to Leifander. She knew he could understand language, even in crow form. If she could just-

There. A familiar red glow started at the tips of her whiskers and traveled down them like a flame along a wick. Her lips and tongue were tingling, too. She opened her mouth to call out to Leifander, but what burst forth was the caw of a crow.

Leifander understood it, however. Wheeling up and over in a loop, he flew back to her.

“What?” he cawed back. “What’s wrong?”

Larajin jerked her head in the direction of the rapidly departing tressym.

“It’s Goldheart. She’s spotted something and wants us to follow her.”

Larajin started a wide turn toward the south, and Leifander did a loop that placed him beside her, flying in the same direction-for the moment.

“She’s probably hunting,” Leifander said. “We don’t have time for games of cat and mouse.”

“I don’t think so,” Larajin replied. “She deliberately got my attention before turning south. She wants us to follow. I’ve learned to trust her intuition. Goldheart is blessed by the goddess. Hanali Celanil herself may be guiding her.”