Lisa Smedman: Heirs of Prophecy

Habrith’s bakery was just a few blocks away.

As she hurried there, Larajin chided herself for not thinking of Habrith earlier. Not only was the baker someone she could trust, she also knew the route to the Tangled Trees. It had been Habrith who set up the trading mission that took Master Thamalon there twenty-five years before. Larajin suspected that Habrith had made the journey more recently than that, as well. More than once, over the years that Larajin had known her, the baker had left her shop in the hands of apprentices who were able to say only that their mistress was “on a journey to the north.”

With luck, Larajin might even be able to persuade Habrith to accompany her. If not, Habrith would at least be able to provide her with a fresh disguise and tell her how to reach the Tangled Trees-and what to expect when she got there.

Habrith’s bakery was certain to be open, even at so early an hour. Bakers were early risers who began work while the rest of the city still slept, so that their loaves would be ready at dawn. Habrith was a perfectionist, who liked to supervise the baking herself. Her loaves might look simple, but the exotic mix of ingredients that flavored them demanded absolute precision in measuring-something her newest apprentice was still struggling to learn.

As Larajin rounded the corner onto Larawkan Lane, the smells of yeast and baking bread drifted down the road toward her. Mixed with them was the sour smell of the dung that a street sweeper was pushing to the side of the road with his broom. Larajin passed the front of the shop, which had a closed sign on its door and its curtains drawn, and turned into the alley that led to the delivery door at the rear.

She’d no sooner stepped out of the street light than she heard a faint noise on the rooftop to her left. It sounded like a foot scuffing against roof tiles. Larajin caught a glimpse of what might have been a person crouching. She flattened herself against the wall and tried to decide what to do. Run the last few strides to Habrith’s back door, and risk being taken down from behind? Or stay with her back to the wall, and attempt another spell?

Before she could begin her prayer, something hurtled down from the rooftop. Larajin spun to meet it, then heard a familiar sound.

Brrow?

The tressym landed in the alley and stared at Larajin with eyes that were twin pools of reflective gold, her head cocked slightly to the side. She folded her wings and padded toward Larajin, then butted her head into Larajin’s leg through the stiff fabric of the gown, purring loudly. The tressym sat down and looked up, as if expecting to be scratched under the chin.

Her heart still pounding, Larajin let out a heavy sigh. Instead of patting the tressym, she flicked both hands at her.

“Shoo! You already got me into enough trouble tonight. Go away!”

The tressym’s ears swiveled back, but she refused to budge.

Larajin didn’t appreciate the tressym following her. She could ruin any disguise Larajin might adopt with one affectionate rub against her leg. Larajin might as well wave a banner with her name on it over her head. If the tressym hadn’t been sacred to Hanali Celanil, Larajin might have tried to cast some sort of spell upon the creature.

A door opened behind her, spilling light into the alley. The scent of baking bread wafted out, making her mouth water. From inside came the clatter of pans and the squeaking of a water pump.

“Larajin-is that you?” an older woman called. “By the gods, it is-and in a noble’s gown! What brings you to my shop in the middle of the night? Is something wrong? Are you in danger?”

Embarrassed at having her disguise seen through so easily, Larajin turned to face Habrith. The baker was in her late sixties, older than Larajin’s adoptive mother, but unlike Shonri Wellrun, she was hale and hearty for her age. Her face was wrinkled, but her dark brown hair, bound in a simple braid down her back, had yet to see a single strand of gray. A large apron covered her clothes. Against it, on a thong around her neck, hung a silver pendant in the shape of a crescent moon.

“You know me too well, Habrith,” Larajin answered, “and you’re right, I am in trouble. The wizard I told you about-the one who attacked me in the Hulorn’s Hunting Garden a year and a half ago-has discovered who I am and where I live. He’s threatened to … to ‘silence’ me.” She swallowed nervously and glanced up and down the alley, then shifted the strap of her bag slightly. It was biting into her shoulder. “The Hulorn’s men are looking for me even now. I need to leave Selgaunt as quickly and as quietly as possible.”

Thankfully, Habrith didn’t argue, though her forehead crinkled with concern.

“I knew this time would come,” she said quietly. “Where do you intend to go?”

“North, to the Tangled Trees.”

That got a nod of approval.

“I don’t know how to get there or how to introduce myself to the elves,” Larajin continued. “I thought you could help.”

Habrith glanced at the tressym, which was rubbing back and forth against Larajin’s legs, rustling the fabric of her dress.

“Isn’t that the creature you rescued from the Hunting Garden? Are you taking her with you?”

“Not if I can help it.”

That brought a wry smile to Habrith’s lips. “I see. I think the tressym might have other ideas.”

Larajin dropped her voice, even though the tressym was just an animal and couldn’t possibly understand her words. “Perhaps you might offer her a bowl of cream in a room without windows and a lock on the door …”

As Habrith started to chuckle, the rubbing against Larajin’s ankles suddenly stopped. Larajin looked down-just in time to see the tressym stalking away down the alley. An instant later she spread her wings and launched herself into the night. Larajin watched her disappear behind the rooftops.

Habrith shrugged, then gestured with a flour-dusted hand. “Come inside.”

Larajin followed her into the delivery room of the bakery, piled high with sacks of flour and barrels of fresh milk. Habrith closed and latched the door, then pitched her voice low so the apprentices in the next room wouldn’t hear her.

“Tell me, Larajin, have you scattered starlight upon the Pool of Reflection?”

“Habrith! Do you serve the Lady of Love also?”

The baker chuckled, and shook her head.

“Then how do you know about the first initiation ritual?”

Habrith smiled. “You’ve obviously taken it, then. That’s good. It means you can wear the crimson robes.”

Larajin absently fingered her heart-shaped locket, which was hanging against her palm. She’d taken her vows and pledged her love to Sune and had received formal training in those few spells the goddess had already seen fit to bestow upon her-simple healing, charms, and commands, and the obscuring mist she had just conjured up-but had yet to don a cleric’s robes. She’d been hesitant to commit herself fully to just the one goddess, lest Hanali Celanil become jealous. She wondered if Habrith was suggesting she become a full-fledged cleric of Sune and take shelter in the temple, turning her back on the elf goddess.

“It won’t work,” she said, thinking out loud. “I can’t hide inside the temple for the rest of my life.”

“How about just until dawn, then?”

That brought Larajin up short. “What do you mean?”

“A Heartwarder from the temple in Ordulin has been visiting our local temple for the past tenday,” Habrith said. “She returns to Ordulin this morning, accompanied by four novices who will serve in that temple. One more novice wouldn’t be noticed by the city guard, and even if she was-and was recognized-the guard wouldn’t dare risk the wrath of the goddess by interfering with a Heartwarder.”