Lisa Smedman: Heirs of Prophecy

Behind him, Leifander settled onto a branch, then hopped along it, his head cocked.

The wolf-creature crouched for a moment in silence, still panting from his run. Then, in a voice that was part growl, part yip, he barked out a single word.

“Larajin?”

Larajin peered up at the creature, whose face was thrown into shadow by the moonlight that streamed down from above. The wolf lifted his head to glance up at Leifander, and she got a better look at his features. They were those of a wolf indeed, with pointed ears and a mouth filled with sharp white fangs, but there was something about those green eyes, the way they sparkled with intelligence-and recognition. Larajin suddenly realized that she was looking not at some strange forest creature but at a product of a magical contagion that had shifted an ordinary man into a werewolf-and not just any man.

“Tal?” she asked.

The werewolf nodded.

Behind him, Leifander had shifted back to elf form. He hopped lightly down from the branch.

“I didn’t know your brother could skinwalk,” he said.

Tal spun in place and snarled, exposing teeth and claws. Larajin reached out to stop him with her good arm-then gasped as a fresh wave of pain wracked her body. Tal, however, must have recognized Leifander, for his hands relaxed, then dropped to his side. He grinned, tongue lolling.

“Leifander,” Tal said. “I see my sister found you.”

Leifander dipped his head in a slight bow.

Dizzy with pain, Larajin was also reeling from having learned Tal’s secret. Suddenly, all of Tal’s strange ways made sense: his constant obsession with shaving, his monthly bouts with the “flu” that supposedly confined him to bed, his wolfish appetite, and his reluctance to handle the silver dagger he’d given her-all were explained by the fact that he was infected with lycanthropy.

Larajin hadn’t been the only one in the Uskevren household with a secret. Maybe it was time to share hers.

“Tal,” she began. “There’s something I…”

Moving sent a shock of pain through her injured arm. Before she did anything else, she needed to heal it. Cradling the arm against her chest, she touched her locket and began to pray to both goddesses. Healing a cracked bone wasn’t easy.

“Sune and Hanali Celanil, grant me your blessing. Lend me a little of your healing magic.” The locket began to warm under her fingers, and a hint of floral scent rose from it. “Heal my-”

She gasped as a sharp pain lanced through her foot. It felt as though something sharp had gotten inside the boot, and Larajin had trod upon it. She recognized it as the sharp sting of the thorn.

Tal kneeled by her side, his wide green eyes brimming with concern. “What’s wrong, Larajin? Your face has gone ashen.”

Leifander was a heartbeat behind him. He too kneeled at Larajin’s side. “Isn’t it obvious? Her arm’s injured. Larajin, do you want me to try to-”

“Get away from me, both of you,” Larajin gasped, looking wildly around the forest and groping for the magic dagger in its sheath at her hip. “It’s Drakkar. He’s coming for-”

Before she could complete her warning, a bolt of magical energy hissed through the night. Streaking a line of silvery sparks, it wound its way in a tight spiral around Tal’s torso, solidifying into a sparkling coil that pinned his arms against his sides. Howling, he leaped to his feet, but the coil of energy had rooted itself in the ground like a vine. It tightened around his body, creasing his skin, and the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Crashing to the ground, Tal lay, panting, eyes wide.

“It’s … silver.” he gasped. “It burns like … poison.”

Leifander had reacted swiftly, braid flying out behind as he whipped around to face the spot from which the magical attack had originated. In a voice tight with urgency, he began chanting the words to a spell in the flowing language of the forest elves.

Speedy though his reaction had been, it wasn’t fast enough. A voice in the woods barked three quick, chittering words, and Leifander’s prayer suddenly stopped. His eyes glazed and his tattooed face fell into a slack-jawed expression. A moment later, he started to drool. He stared stupidly around, a confused look on his face. His lips moved, trying to form words, but all that came out was a soft grunt.

As soon as she had seen the magic energy streaking toward Tal, Larajin began to pray. The glow around the locket intensified, and the smell of Hanali’s Heart filled the air. Larajin abandoned her healing spell. Instead she beseeched her goddesses for one of the first spells they’d ever bestowed upon her.

As Drakkar stepped out of the forest, she shouted at him with all of the power she could muster: “Flee!”

Though the floral smell intensified and the glow from the locket became as bright as a small campfire, nothing happened. Drakkar stared down at her, unperturbed, then flicked his fingers in her direction. She found herself unable to move, save for blinking and breathing. She resisted his spell with all of her willpower, but though sweat broke out on her brow and her fingers trembled, her body remained rigid. Her jaw was locked shut and her lips wouldn’t even twitch. There would be no more prayers. She looked wildly around, heart hammering in her chest, silently hoping that Rylith, Doriantha-or even Goldheart-would appear to rescue her.

They didn’t.

Blinking back tears of frustration, Larajin stared up at Drakkar. Was his resistance to magic really so strong that he had resisted the combined power of two goddesses? Had her spells failed her?

No, she told herself. The floral scent of Hanali’s Heart still hung in the air, and though the glow from the locket was dimming, Larajin could still feel the warmth of Sune’s magic pulsing from it. The goddesses hadn’t denied Larajin their blessing-they’d just altered the form she’d expected it to take, just as they had at Lake Sember, when they’d granted Larajin a spell that enabled her to breathe water instead of to walk upon it.

They wanted her to cast a different spell, but which?

Drakkar leaned on his thorn-studded staff, staring at Larajin, his posture one of pure malice. A strand of cobweb still clung to his jet-black hair. Absently, he brushed it away.

“Well now, if it isn’t the serving girl from Selgaunt who likes tressym so much she became one,” he wheezed, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “What are you doing, so far from home? Spying, I’ll warrant. Let’s find out what you learned.”

Studying his staff, he plucked a thorn from it. He circled around Leifander, who stared dully at the wizard as he walked by, then bent over Larajin.

He paused, sniffing the air. The floral fragrance hung heavily around Larajin. Did he realize what it signified?

He glanced at the red glow that shone between the fingers of Larajin’s right hand-the one clasping the locket-and spoke a word in the drow tongue. A moment later, the glow faded altogether, but though the visible manifestation of Sune’s magic was gone, the magic itself remained. Larajin felt its warmth flow out of the locket and up her arm to coalesce deep within her, around her heart.

Picking up a stick, Drakkar used it to pry Larajin’s lower lip down but could not force open her clenched jaw. He struggled a moment, then wheezed a warning at her.

“I’m going to release your jaw,” he said, “but no tricks-and no spellcasting. Utter one word, and you’re a dead woman. Understand?”

He laughed at Larajin as she lay frozen on the ground, perhaps savoring her anguish at being unable even to nod. His fingers moved in a spiderlike dance across her jaw. Suddenly able to open her mouth, Larajin spoke the only words that wouldn’t cause her immediate doom.