Lisa Smedman - Heirs of Prophecy

Drakkar’s face brightened. “What?”

“If this war had never begun.”

Drakkar shook his head. “But it has. It can’t be stopped.”

Larajin looked him square in the eye. “Yes it can. You can stop it by returning to Selgaunt and using your influence with the Hulorn to persuade him to petition against the war.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Larajin could see Leifander begin to smile.

“It would also please me if you would speak to Lord Maalthiir and try to make him realize that the forest elves are too strong and that his plans to carve a road through the forest will never succeed.”

“But they will!” Drakkar said. “We’ll use the wands I created-using the mist, we can clear a road in a tenday.” He was obviously trying to impress her.

Larajin shook her head slowly. “Causing further destruction to the forest would make me very sad. And very unhappy with you, Drakkar.”

The wizard’s face fell.

“Finally, you could speak to the drow and convince them that they’re better off in their lairs below ground-that the forest is no place for them.”

“I would do anything for you, Larajin, but I cannot accomplish the impossible,” Drakkar said. “The drow aren’t likely to-”

“Very well,” Larajin interrupted, “but my first two requests-you will speak to the Hulorn, and to Maalthiir, won’t you?”

For a moment, defiance flickered in Drakkar’s eyes, and Larajin thought she had lost him. He gave a great sigh, like a lovesick youth.

“For you, Larajin … I’ll do it.”

Beside Larajin, Leifander had to pretend to cough, to cover his wide grin. Tal had risen feebly to a sitting position and was gaping at what he heard.

Larajin ignored him.

“There is one thing more you could do for me, if you would,” she told Drakkar.

Drakkar’s eyebrows lifted. “What is it, my dear?”

She lifted her foot slightly. “This thorn hurts,” she said simply. “Could you please remove it?”

“Of course!” Kneeling at her side like a Sembian gallant, Drakkar removed her boot and plucked the thorn from the sole of her foot.

“And this one, too?” Larajin asked, pointing at her tongue.

“Yes. Immediately.”

Somehow she kept her face neutral while Drakkar’s fingers probed inside her mouth. When the thorn was gone, relief washed through her.

“Thank you,” she said, then she let a touch of haughtiness creep into her voice. Deliberately she adopted the same tone Thazienne used to such good effect on her hordes of lovesick suitors. “Well, Drakkar, what are you waiting for? The Hulorn is going to be the toughest to convince. You’d better start back for Selgaunt at once.”

“I…” Once again resistance flickered in Drakkar’s eyes-then was gone, as a rush of floral scent filled the air. “At once, my dear,” he said, bowing. “At once.”

He disappeared with a soft pop .

Leifander turned to Larajin, no longer trying to hide his grin, and asked, “Do you think he’ll do it?”

Larajin nodded. “I’ve never felt the power of the goddesses so keenly as when I cast that spell upon him. He’ll do it.” She shrugged. “As to whether it’s enough to put an end to this war, well, we’ll see.”

She groaned, at last acknowledging the pain of her injured arm. During the exhilaration of working her magic upon Drakkar, she’d been able to ignore it, but the pain was washing over her in waves, making her feel faint and queasy.

“Now,” she told him, “I have to mend this arm of mine.”

Two figures stood in the forest, watching through a gap in the trees as soldiers with red plumes on their helms trooped past along the road. Riding beside them in an open carriage were four men. Three were officers-one with a vertical scar across his face, another burly and bald, the third a wiry, thin man with fair hair. They stared at the soldiers under their command and shook their heads, as if mightily displeased. The fourth man-who had close-cropped red hair and eyebrows that met in a V-kept turning to look south, back the way they had come, a lovesick look on his face.

The two figures surreptitiously watching the soldiers from the woods-a wild elf with tattooed cheeks and hands and glossy black feathers in his braid; and a woman wearing a red scarf in her hair and a heart-shaped locket at her wrist-turned to each other and grinned, as if sharing a great secret, then they glanced at the woman next to them.

This woman was older than the other two, with gray hair and a face creased with wrinkles and tattooed in a tree-branch pattern. She crouched near the base of an enormous standing stone whose glossy gray surface was carved with Elvish script. She ran a hand across the surface of the stone, then peered closely at it, and smiled.

“It is done,” she told the other two. “The prophesy is fulfilled. The rift is healed, and the crack has vanished.”

She lifted her wrinkled face to catch the sun, and savored a moment of birdsong that echoed through the wood.

“The gods themselves are singing,” she added, standing. “What will you do now?”

The man’s eyes ranged over the trees, and the new vegetation that was growing in a blighted patch of wood. As he considered his answer, a wren burst out of a clump of undergrowth, winging its way toward him. It landed on the man’s shoulder, tail flicking, as a winged cat padded out of the bush. The tressym glanced around the clearing and spotted the bird on the man’s shoulder. It crouched, tail lashing, about to spring-but then a sharp word from the woman in red brought it to heel. Obediently it padded over to her and wove itself in and out through her ankles, then settled at her feet-only occasionally glancing slyly up at the bird.

The man lifted the wren gently from his shoulder and lifted it to his lips.

“Take more care,” he whispered in its ear. “The war may be over, but for a nestling like you, the woods still hold many dangers.”

The bird cocked its head, as if listening to the advice, then it sprang into flight. The tressym, still lying at the woman’s feet, lifted its head sharply, then glanced up at its mistress and decided against pursuit.

Lisa Smedman The man at last answered the gray-haired woman’s question. “I’m a creature of the great forest,” he told her, “and the forest needs our protection, still. The drow are growing in boldness and number-” his eye fell on the carving on the standing stone-“and someone has to ensure that the ancient pact is honored.”

The gray-haired woman nodded. “And you?” she asked the younger woman.

“I’m returning to Selgaunt,” the woman answered. “I want to see my family again and study in Sune’s temple. Perhaps,” she added, a mischievous smile on her face, “I may ask my father to donate a little of the family fortune toward setting up a place of worship dedicated to the goddesses: Sune and Hanali Celanil both. I’ve already decided on the vestments the clerics will wear. They’ll be made from a cloth dyed Sune’s crimson, and embroidered in gold with Hanali Celanil’s hearts.”

The older woman nodded, a pleased look in her eye.

“May the goddess grant you your every wish,” the man said. He gave her a formal bow, both hands on his heart.

The younger woman smiled and started to place her hands on her own heart-then impulsively, she gave him a hug instead. As she broke away, laughing, the tressym at her feet brrowed , and looked up at her questioningly.

“Yes, Goldheart, it’s time we were off.” She turned to the older woman. “Good-bye, Rylith.”

“Farewell. We’ll see you again, soon enough. There’s much you’ve yet to learn about the elf goddess.”