Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

With a sinking heart, Larajin recalled Somnilthra’s warning: “Unharness hate, and you will lose everything. Even your very lives.”

She had to find Leifander, and fast-before he did something stupid and got himself killed.

Grasping her locket still tighter, she began to pray in a near-silent whisper.

“Sune and Hanali Celanil, grant me the power to skinwalk just once more. I must find my brother. I must fly.”

The familiar scent of Hanali’s Heart filled the air, and the red glow erupted through her clenched fingers. Larajin drew herself into position, kneeling on the mossy boards with hands clenched into fists to ease their transition into paws. She felt her body contort and contract, felt fur flow down her skin, wings grow from her shoulders, and her spine elongate into a lashing tail. Her whiskers quivered as she caught the buglike smell of the drow below, and she heard their shouts of confusion and alarm. They’d caught the floral scent that accompanied her spellcasting and were shouting questions at each other, asking what it might mean.

It didn’t matter. The stairs leading up to her perch were broken. The drow had no way to reach her. Almost laughing, Larajin launched herself into the air, wings beating as she soared from the tower.

In her elation at skinwalking, she’d forgotten about Drakkar. She realized her mistake when the wizard rose through the opening in the roof of the tower, trailing strands of web behind him like a torn veil. Spotting her at once in the bright moonlight, his eyes widened in recognition. He pointed his thorn-studded staff and shouted a word that was unintelligible, evento Larajin’sgoddess-blessed ears.

Something streaked from the end of the staff in a trail of red sparks, buzzing toward Larajin like an angry hornet. She tucked in her wings and plunged into a steep dive, crashing down through tree branches in an effort to escape. A sharp sting in her right hind paw, however, told her the maneuver had been in vain. Distracted by the painful sting, she tumbled in mid-air, only managing to find her wings again at the last moment before striking the ground. She flew on, weaving between tree trunks in a frantic bid to escape.

Behind and above her, she heard Drakkar shouting at the drow as they poured noisily from the tower. Could the wizard see her? Despite the screening of branches overhead, it would certainly seem so. Whichever direction Larajin flew, she heard the sound of running footsteps in the forest close behind her. A knife flashed through the air and buried itself in the trunk of an oak she’d just swerved to avoid, and to her right she could hear branches breaking as the drow circled around, trying to flank her. Always from above, came the shouts of the wizard, directing the drow to her.

Flying hard, Larajin twisted her hind foot up and under her belly, straining for a look at it. What she saw in that brief glimpse frightened her still further. A thorn was wedged between the pads of her paw. Even as she glanced at it, the thorn disappeared into her flesh like blood into desert sand.

She dropped her paw and continued flying, unable to do anything about it but worry. Was the thorn tainted with some foul poison? Would her wing beats soon slow, as the venom clutched at her heart?

But no, the sting of the thorn was gone, leaving behind no residue of ache, no creeping pain that worried its way up her limb. It felt as though the thorn had completely disappeared, and yet still the drow were pursuing her.

Drakkar must have used his staff to cast some sort of detection spell upon her, Larajin decided-one that made him cognizant of her every move. She might escape the drow, might even be able to fly fast enough to leave Drakkar himself behind, but guided by his thorn, how long would it be until he caught up to her again?

A second, less pressing question also puzzled her. Drakkar must have recognized her. Why hadn’t he simply killed her when he had the chance?

There could be only one answer. He must have mistaken Larajin, in her tressym form, for Goldheart. He either wanted Goldheart for his own evil purposes, or he hoped the tressym would lead him to Larajin.

Either way, Larajin was in trouble. As the voices of the drow and Drakkar’s shouts gradually diminished behind her, she headed in the only direction that made any sense: north, to Essembra.

Yet she couldn’t help but wonder, now that Leifander’s hatred had been unleashed, if Somnilthra’s dire prophecy would be fulfilled. Was Larajin only bringing death, in the form of Drakkar and his evil magic, more swiftly to her brother and ultimately, to herself?

As soon as he reached Essembra, Leifander could see that something was amiss. Essembra was a human settlement-the only one ever permitted to take hold inside Cormanthor-but there were far too many humans down there, especially when travel should have been cut off by the war.

The stables beside the inn were choked with horses, and a number of carriages were lined up in front of the inn itself. Moving figures crisscrossed Rauthauvyr’s Road or stood in groups in the moonlight, talking. A number of tents had been erected on the north side of town. They looked military in nature, made from stiff, off-white fabric, and rectangular in shape. The way the people moved about between the tents, in regular, orderly groups, suggested soldiers.

But whose soldiers? Even if Lord Ilmeth had summoned every knight from the abbey, there still shouldn’t have been this many soldiers about. And why were they camped on the north side of town?

Leifander swooped down over the tents for a closer look. When he saw the red plumes on the helmets of the knights below, he nearly tumbled from the sky in surprise.

By the gods! he thought. Not soldiers of Hillsfar!

But it was true. They were unmistakably Lord Maalthiir’s soldiers, wearing full splint mail and carrying long swords. It was unthinkable that they should be camped on the outskirts of Essembra. The only explanation could be that they had taken advantage of the war and invaded from the north while Lord Ilmeth’s back was turned. Yet if that was so, how had they made it this far south through the great wood without being cut to pieces by the elves? Why had they stopped at the very gates of the town, leaving the folk of Essembra unmolested? So bloodthirsty were the Red Plumes that Leifander would have expected to see Essembra’s dirt streets soaked with blood and its buildings burning.

He circled back over the town, taking stock. The wooden watchtowers that lined Rauthauvyr’s Road held soldiers whose shields bore Lord Ilmeth’s crest, and the gates across the road had not been forced. The wooden palisade that surrounded the town’s most important buildings was likewise untouched. Even the cottages in the forest surrounding Essembra appeared unharmed, with lights glowing cheerily in their windows. Lord Ilmeth was still in control of Essembra-or so it seemed. Had he actually welcomed the Red Plumes to his town?

If so, they weren’t his only guests. Circling wider over the forest, Leifander saw movement beneath the trees and was just able to make out the round, forest-brown tents of his people. For a moment he debated landing and asking the elves what was happening, but then, from the direction of town, he heard a high-pitched cry. It was the shriek of a griffon. Were the windriders there, too?

Wheeling, he flew toward the center of town and saw that he had been right. A griffon was indeed tethered, all by itself, in a corral near the center of town. The other windriders’ steeds were nowhere in sight.

Leifander landed on the roof of the town’s highest building, the House of Gond. Hopping along its soft lead gutter, he peered down from the temple’s two-story height, past the heavy iron battlements that supported its walls. Smoke and the occasional bright red cinder drifted from the building’s numerous chimneys. The blacksmith priests of Gond must have been working through the night, forging the weapons of war.