Lisa Smedman: Heirs of Prophecy

Larajin smiled. It would work-she was certain of it. She was as good as out of Selgaunt.

“Once you get to Ordulin, there’s a tailor I know who can help you,” Habrith continued. “He’s a half-elf, himself. He can give you the name of an elf in Essembra who can guide you to the Tangled Trees.”

“Could you … accompany me yourself?” Larajin asked hesitantly. “At least as far as Ordulin?”

Habrith shook her head. “There’s too much to attend to here in Selgaunt.”

“The new apprentice, you mean?”

That brought a twinkle to the older woman’s eyes. “Not exactly-let’s just say I’m making sure the bread is buttered on the correct side, and leave it at that.”

Larajin wondered what Habrith meant by that, but she knew better than to ask. Habrith often spoke in riddles, using plain language only when it suited her.

Habrith paused. Her eyes grew worried, and she fingered the pendant at her throat.

“I’m glad you came to me before leaving, Larajin. It’s a dangerous time to be journeying north. The Heartwarder will see you safely to Ordulin, but once you pass there, you’ll fare better under our protection.”

Exhausted at having been up all night scrubbing the kitchen, Larajin took a moment to register this remark.

“Under whose protection?” she asked at last.

Habrith’s voice dropped to a whisper. She touched the pendant at her throat and asked, “Would you recognize this symbol, if the harp was still there?”

Larajin blinked in surprise as she realized what Habrith was referring to. The pendant, which Larajin had assumed was merely decorative, had a rough patch along the inside of the crescent where another portion of the design had broken away. Put a harp at the center of the crescent moon, and it became much more. It became the symbol of the Harpers, a vast network of clerics, rangers, and bards who worked silently and secretly to thwart the plans of unscrupulous mortals and evil gods alike. Larajin had been right-Habrith was no mere baker.

Larajin chastised herself for being such a fool. Why hadn’t she made the connection before? Then she realized the answer. Habrith seemed so innocuous, so nondescript, not a noble or a cleric but a baker, a common tradeswoman. She was widely traveled, it was true, but those travels could be explained as nothing more than trips to gather the spices and herbs that flavored her breads. All the while, she must have been secretly carrying out other, more pressing missions.

Habrith watched the understanding grow in Larajin’s eyes, and smiled. “There is more I could tell you about the Tangled Trees, Larajin, and about yourself, but that would just complicate things. You know what I always say.”

Larajin nodded, and recited Habrith’s favorite saying. “Simplest is best, and all ingredients in balance.”

“Exactly,” Habrith agreed. “Some things in life turn out better if allowed to come to fullness on their own time, like rising bread. I can tell you this, however. When you reach the Tangled Trees, you will be more than welcome. The forest elves have a surprise in store for you.”

“What is it?” Larajin asked.

Habrith held up a hand, and quoted her other favorite saying. “All in due time, and not a moment before.” She winked. “You’ll find out, soon enough.”

Leifander wheeled high above the forest, peering down at the caravan that was slowly making its way north along Rauthauvyr’s Road. He counted six wagons, a dozen teamsters, and nearly two dozen soldiers. All were human, carrying both crossbows and swords, and clad in chain-mail armor that winked red in the sun.

Their numbers were greater than expected: The humans below outnumbered the elves awaiting them two to one and were better armed than the elves had guessed they would be. When the caravan reached the spot where the elves were hiding, everything would depend upon the advantage of surprise. Thankfully, Doriantha had chosen the ambush site well.

Winging his way north again, Leifander flew to his appointed place: a tall oak that had somehow retained many of its leaves, despite the blight that surrounded it. He landed on a sturdy branch, then shifted back into elf form.

Glancing down through the branches, he could only just make out the dozen wood elves who waited for his signal. Clad in brown leather, they matched the colors of the forest, with faces browned by the sun and hair that ranged from grass-yellow blond to autumn red. The bright steel of their swords had been dulled with a rubbing of soot, and their arrows were fletched with plain brown feathers, instead of the brightly colored fletching the elves normally favored. All trace of personal ornamentation had been set aside in preparation for the ambush. Gone were the brightly polished bell-beads and colorful feathers they normally adorned their braids with. Such vanities had no place where the tinkle of a bell or the flash of a yellow feather could give the ambush away. The elves’ sole decoration was the black ink that had been needled into the flesh of their cheeks and chins. The tattoos helped to camouflage them, allowing their faces to blend with the shadows of the forest.

Doriantha, leader of the troop, peered up at Leifander from the elves’ hiding place across the road. She moved a slender hand in a complex gesture, asking a silent question. Leifander answered with hand signals of his own, indicating the strength of the human warriors and the distance the caravan had yet to travel: less than a mile.

Doriantha’s pale brown eyes sparkled, and her lips twitched into a feral grin. From Leifander’s position high in the tree, the tattoo on her face looked like a solid line of black across her nose and cheeks, but in fact it was an intricate band of knotwork that continued under her hair and above her pointed ears, forming a sacred circle. Lean muscles flexing, she tested the draw of her bow, sighting down an imaginary arrow. In that moment, with the sunlight slanting through the trees behind her, with the hood of her cloak thrown back and her long sun-bleached braid draped over her shoulder, she looked as magnificent as the Great Archer.

Realizing he had blasphemed, Leifander touched a forefinger to his lips then smacked it against his open palm to negate his silent words. Comparing a mere mortal to a god-even a mortal as vibrant as Doriantha-might cause the Great Archer to withdraw his favor from the day’s deed.

It was hard to imagine the elves’ arrows missing their mark, however, when they had the forest on their side. The road below held a carefully concealed trap: a thick growth of choke creeper that had grown across it in long, snaking coils. The trap had been constructed earlier that morning, just before dawn. With Doriantha directing them, sword in hand in case the powerful vines entwined any of her troop, the elves had carefully raked dirt over the choke creeper, hiding it from view.

The carnivorous vine would be the elves’ ally in the ambush that was to come. When the soldiers marching in front of the caravan trod upon it, the hawk-swift vine would lash them to the spot, making them perfect targets for elven arrows. The humans would then have a choice. They could either throw down their weapons and allow their caravan to be inspected for evidence that it was carrying the blight, or they could be slaughtered to the last man.

As he waited for the caravan to reach the ambush point, Leifander savored the warm caress of the morning sun. Tired from the night’s flight through the forest, he let his eyes close. He listened to the rustle of the leaves around him and the creaking of trees in the wind, and felt the flutter against his forehead of the feathers twined into his bangs: the feathers of his totem animal, the crow, which allowed him to work his magic. Something tickled the back of his bare foot-a spider. Without conscious thought he adjusted his stance as the branch swayed in the warm wind from the south.