Heirs of Prophecy

CHAPTER 9

So that’s it, then,” Larajin said. “You’re leaving. You’re not even going to try to help.”

Leifander squatted on the second-story balcony of Kremlar’s perfume shop, stroking the glossy black feathers of a crow. The bird had come to his whispered prayer as faithfully as a hound to a horn, then it had plucked a downy feather from its breast and offered it to Leifander.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he answered as he took the feather from the crow.

“Not separately, no,” Larajin conceded, “but Rylith said that together-”

“You are a Sembian,” Leifander said, “and I belong to the Tangled Trees.”

That seemed to be all that he was going to say. Leifander dismissed the crow, which took off into the dusk with a loud caw. He undid a strand of the braid that hung down his back, and lashed the feather securely to it with a length of fine embroidery thread Kremlar had given him.

Larajin turned to Tal, but he only shrugged. “I don’t see how the pair of you could stop the war,” he said. “It’s inevitable. The armies are mobilizing; the militia from Ordulin is already on the march to-”

He stopped abruptly, remembering there was an elf present. Deliberately turning his back on Leifander, he strode to the far end of the balcony and stared up at the evening sky. Sunset painted the western sky a dusky yellow-red; the clouds looked as though they contained a smoldering fire.

Inside, Kremlar fussed with an oil lamp, trimming its wick. The dwarf had invited them up to his personal quarters above the shop and had listened with rapt attention as Larajin told Tal and Leifander about her journey north to the Tangled Trees, repeating what the druid had told her about the twins’ destiny. Now he seemed embarrassed to be listening, like a host who finds his guests in the middle of a quarrel. When the wick was at last trimmed he stood nervously, fiddling with the rings that adorned each of his fingers.

On the balcony, Leifander spread his arms. A flutter ran through his tattooed fingers. He turned to Larajin, and gave her a long look.

“Good-bye, sister. May your goddesses protect you. I pray we never have to face each other as enemies.”

A shudder coursed through him, long black feathers sprouted at his fingertips, and his body hunched in upon itself and shrank. In no more than a few heartbeats, he had transformed into a crow. He sprang into the air and flew up the street.

Larajin ran to the balcony and watched Leifander go. He headed northwest, toward the city walls and the River Arkhen. From there, she assumed, he would wing his way north toward the ancient woods, leaving her back where she’d started, in Selgaunt.

On the street below, she heard one of the city guard call out the All’s Well. Hurriedly, she drew back from the balcony and retreated into Kremlar’s rooms.

After a glance down at the guard in the street, Tal followed her inside.

“What will you do now?” he asked. “I’d advise that you not go home. The streets around Stormweather Towers have been thick with the guard, and Drakkar has come calling twice. He’s still looking for you.”

Kremlar walked nervously to the balcony doors and shut them, turning the key in the deadbolt. Lifting the tip of his neatly braided beard to his lips, he absently chewed on it-a habit that surfaced only when he was extremely nervous.

“You could … stay here with me,” Kremlar said hesitantly.

Larajin was touched by the offer. Kremlar was desperately afraid of wizards. Years before, one had turned him to stone, after an exotic herb Kremlar had provided him proved stale. He’d stood in the wizard’s garden for three long, desperate years, sentient but unable to move, before friends found him and prevailed upon a cleric to reverse the spell.

“Thank you, Kremlar,” she said, then attempted a joke, “but your guest bed is far too small. My feet would hang out the end.”

Kremlar merely nodded.

“Wherever Leifander’s gone,” Larajin continued, “I have to try to follow him. It’s a matter of life or death.”

She stared intently at a painting on the wall without really seeing it, not wanting to even glance in Tal ’s direction. If she did, the prickling in her eyes would almost certainly turn into a flood of tears.

“Master Ferrick says our company will be riding tomorrow,” Tal said. “That’s why I was in your room when you … reappeared. I was hoping to carry some token of yours with me into battle.”

“You’re leaving tomorrow?” Larajin rounded on him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You were concerned with rescuing your twin brother,” he said in a voice bordering on annoyance. “I didn’t want to … distract you from what seemed to be your primary concern.”

Larajin bit back her reply: that Tal was her primary concern. And tomorrow he would be riding to war. On fast horses, his company could reach the edge of the elven wood in as little as a tenday. Having witnessed the swift and silent attack by the elves on the Foxmantle caravan, Larajin knew what kind of reception awaited Master Ferrick’s troops, once they reached the forest. Even if the rest of the company survived the attack, Tal would not.

“I didn’t have a chance to tell you before now,” Tal continued. “Especially with …” He shrugged. “Master Ferrick ordered us not to tell anyone when we’d ride-A careless word is oft o’erheard’ is his motto.”

Larajin was only half listening. Her mind was entirely on the immediate problem. Leifander was gone, and she was trapped, once again, in Selgaunt. She could guess where Leifander was headed-back home to the Tangled Trees-but in order for her to follow him, she’d somehow have to get out of the city.

Suddenly, she realized the answer. “Tal-how large is Master Ferrick’s company?”

Tal frowned. “Nearly two hundred riders. Why?”

“Do you think one more would be noticed?”

Tal was quick to guess her plan. He thought a moment, then answered, “You’d need armor and a surcoat and a horse.”

“Could you get them for me? Would you?”

He nodded. “You can ride with us to Ordulin and take refuge there until Drakkar has at last given up his search for you. Ordulin should be a safe place to wait this war out.”

“Thanks, Tal.” Larajin gave her half-brother a grateful hug, then she turned to Kremlar and said, “I will take you up on that offer of a guest bed, after all, Kremlar, but just for one night.”

Kremlar nodded.

The scratching of claws against glass drew Larajin’s eyes to the balcony door.

“Goldheart!” she exclaimed. “What are you doing?”

The answer was obvious enough. The tressym was trying to get inside. She stood on her hind legs, wings folded against her back and forepaws scratching at the leaded glass. Over and over she pawed at it, then, when the people inside failed to promptly open the doors, she launched herself onto the rail of the balcony and perched there, wings flapping urgently.

“Gods protect us,” Larajin exclaimed. “Let her in, Kremlar, before one of the guard sees her!”

It was Tal, however, who grabbed the key from Kremlar, sprinted for the doors, and opened them. As the tressym leaped down from the rail and padded inside, Kremlar trotted beside her, trying to herd her along by waving his hands in shooing motions.

“Don’t let her near the furniture,” he said in an anxious voice. “That chair cost me a hundred and twenty ravens.”

Seemingly in response, Goldheart paused to knead the carpet. As her long white claws hooked its plush weave, tearing little tufts in the wool, Kremlar made a strangled noise and fluttered his hands more urgently. Goldheart looked up at the dwarf with wide, innocent eyes, then turned her back on him and walked straight up to Larajin and sat at her feet.

Yrrow?

Larajin stared down at the tressym. Was it just her imagination, or had Goldheart just spoken to her? Her ears heard a meow, but her heart heard a word: “Yes?”

A second meow, and again the echo of words in Larajin’s mind: “You called for me?”

The air was thick with a flowery scent. Kremlar, who had fallen to his knees to pat the damaged carpet threads back into place, looked up and sniffed.

“That fragrance,” he said, brows furrowed with the concentration of a connoisseur. “Sune’s Kisses, if I don’t miss my guess.”

Larajin heard all of this in a strange echo, as if Kremlar’s voice was coming from the bottom of a deep well. The only thing she heard with clarity was the voice of the tressym, who stood like a soldier at attention, wings neatly folded and forelegs stiff and straight.

“Yes, Lady?” she asked. “How may I be of service?”

This had to be Hanali Celanil’s work. Larajin could think of no other reason why the tressym would suddenly develop human speech. She dropped to her knees and mirrored the tressym’s pose, leaning forward on her hands.

“Goldheart, I need to find out where Leifander went-can you help?” As she spoke, a part of her mind registered the fact that her throat and mouth were making sounds like the meowing of a cat. Yet she could hear her words-and Goldheart’s reply-as plainly as if they were speaking in the common tongue.

“He turned into a birrrrd,” Goldheart answered with the faintest of growls. “A strange-smelling bird.” A pink tongue darted out to wet thin lips. “He flew away.”

“Could you follow him?” Larajin asked.

Goldheart’s pupils dilated. “Chase!” she said excitedly. Her claws flexed into the carpet.

“Yes, chase,” Larajin said, “but don’t hurt him. Just follow-see where he goes, then come and find me, and tell me where he is. Can you do that?”

Larajin had no doubt the tressym could accomplish the task. No matter where Larajin had gone, in the past two ten-days, Goldheart had been able to follow her-somehow even managing to include herself in the spell Larajin had cast to transport herself back to Selgaunt. The question really was, would Goldheart do it?

The tressym considered the request, then closed her eyes for an instant. It was the feline equivalent of a smile.

“I’ll do it.”

She rose, stretched, and rubbed her cheek affectionately against Larajin’s arm, then turned and padded out onto the balcony. With a bright flutter of colorful wings, she launched herself into the air and was gone.

Tal, looking down at Larajin, uttered some garbled words. After a moment-when Larajin’s ears had stopped tingling-she was able to grasp their meaning.

“That creature spoke to you?” he’d asked, a perplexed frown on his face. “What did it say?”

“She’s going to follow Leifander and tell me where he’s flown to,” Larajin explained. “I’m going after him.”

Tal’s face clouded. “Why bother?” he grumbled. “He already said he wouldn’t help you.”

“He’s my twin brother, Tal,” she said. “It’s important that we’re together-the gods themselves are working to bring that about. Somehow, we’ve got to try to stop this war. I don’t know how-I just know that we must.”

She reached up and brushed an unruly strand of dark hair away from Tal’s eyes.

“You’ve got to believe me, Tal. This is important. For everyone. Especially for you.”

Tal’s face paled. “Let’s get ready, then,” he said brusquely. I’ll fetch you a uniform, and ready a horse. In the morning, we’ll ride.”

Disguised as a soldier of Master Ferrick’s company, Larajin slipped out of Selgaunt without incident. Guards in the gatehouse that opened onto the High Bridge gave the riders only a bored glance as they rode from the city. Larajin, clad in a mail shirt and surcoat, her hair tucked under a wide-brimmed cap, was no more to them than another soldier.

The company rode north throughout the morning, making good progress. When the sun reached its zenith, they stopped to water the horses and eat a quick meal. As she dismounted, Larajin spotted a familiar flash of color in the distance. Goldheart had returned and had landed behind a clump of bushes not far from the road.

Taking her leave of the other soldiers-pretending she was going to relieve herself behind the bushes-Larajin sought the tressym out. She cast the spell that would allow them to communicate and quickly learned that Goldheart had indeed been able to follow Leifander. The route he’d taken, however, was a surprise. Instead of winging due north, as Larajin had expected, he’d followed the River Arkhen. He’d flown upriver for several miles, continuing to follow the river almost until dawn, then at last shifted back into elf form to enter the Reverie.

“You did well, Goldheart,” Larajin said, stroking the tressym. Goldheart gave a rumbling purr of pride, closing her eyes in a catlike smile. “Now I want you to return to where you last saw Leifander, find him again if you can, and continue to follow him until he ends his journey-until he spends more than a single night in one place. Can you do that?”

Goldheart nodded, then nudged Larajin’s hand again, demanding another pat on the back. Larajin obliged her, then heard the sound of footsteps coming around the bushes.

“Go,” she whispered to the tressym. “Quickly.”

Goldheart flew away just as Tal strode into sight. He glanced up at the departing tressym and said something unintelligible. After a moment, Larajin’s spell wore off. She could guess what he’d asked.

“I’m heading in the wrong direction,” she told him. “Leifander flew northwest. He seems to be following the River Arkhen. When the company sets out again, I’m going to slip away and head upriver. If Master Ferrick notices me going, will you speak to him-explain why one of his ‘soldiers’ is leaving?”

Tal stared at her a long moment before nodding. “I don’t like you setting out on your own,” he said, “but I can see your mind is made up. Just promise me you’ll be careful. That river path is a dangerous one-especially these days.”

Larajin caught his hand and gave it a squeeze. “Thanks, Tal. Promise me that you’ll be careful, too.”

He grunted and gave a soldier’s offhand shrug.

Larajin peered around the bushes and said, “It looks as if the others are getting ready to mount up again. We’d better get back, or they’ll think we’re both trying to slip away.”

Then, seeing the thoughtful gleam in Tal’s eye, she quickly added, “You could, you know … come with me. It would be safer.”

Tal shook his head. “I’m no coward. It’s my duty to fight, and I’m not shirking it. Even if-”

Larajin pressed fingers to his lips, silencing him. “Don’t say it, Tal,” she pleaded. “You’ll survive this war, gods willing.”

“Gods willing,” Tal echoed grimly.

Larajin rode northwest, following a trail that was little more than a footpath bordered by thick forest on the right and a sheer drop to the river below on the left. Despite the slow pace it enforced, the path beside the river offered achingly beautiful scenery-too beautiful to be anything but the work of the goddess. Tufts of feathery fern and stunted maples with dark red foliage grew out of clefts of rock in the canyon below, their leaves and branches jeweled with river mist. More mist hung in the air above the river, sparkling with tiny rainbows. Trees shaded the path itself, filtering the afternoon sun to a pleasant warmth and rustling in the breeze.

In places, the path switchbacked down to the river, allowing Larajin a chance to splash ice-cold water onto her face while her horse drank. The pools offered darting silver fish and freshwater crabs, some of which Larajin had caught and cooked over a fire the night before.

As she rode, she kept watching for the flash of color that would announce Goldheart’s return, but there was no sign of the tressym. Did that mean Leifander was traveling still? Had he veered north, already flown all the way back to the Tangled Trees? Or had he flown off in some other direction? There was no way of knowing.

Larajin was starting to wonder if doubling back to follow the River Arkhen had been the right decision. It might have been more sensible to have continued with Master Ferrick’s company to Ordulin, then ridden the Dawnpost trail west. She would have reached Archenbridge-the town where the trail she did take ended-in about the same amount of time.

Instead she’d been on the river trail for six days with no sign of Leifander and no reports from Goldheart to let her know if she was still headed in the right direction. Tal and his company would have ridden as far as Featherdale. Just three more days riding would put them at the southern edge of the forest of Cormanthor.

Larajin gasped as her horse stumbled on a loose rock at the cliff’s edge, sending her rocking backward in the saddle. For several agonizing moments her heart hammered in her chest as the horse’s hind foot scrabbled for purchase, sending a scatter of rocks and dirt into the river below. Clinging to the pommel of her saddle, she prayed for deliverance, then the horse found its footing. With a second lurch it was upright and walking again.

Glancing back over her shoulder, Larajin stared at the spot where the horse had faltered. Far below the scuffed trail, the River Arkhen dashed itself against jagged rocks in its haste to reach the sea. Larajin and her horse had nearly joined it. Breathing a prayer of thanks to the goddesses for protecting her, she vowed to pay more attention to the trail.

Ahead the path leveled and widened, turning away from the edge of the canyon, into the trees. Larajin at last relaxed, lowering the reins and letting the horse find its own way. In the distance ahead she could hear the thunder of a waterfall. Archendale must be closer than she thought.

Then she realized that the noise was coming from the east, away from the river. The waterfall at Archendale would be more to the north….

Suddenly a running figure-a woman, with a strangely hunched back-appeared on the trail ahead. She was clad in dusty trousers and a shirt several times too large for her slender frame. She had a narrow face, hair so blonde it was almost white, and an elf’s ears and eyes. She stumbled as she ran, wincing with each step of her bare feet. Her arms were thrown out ahead of her, as if she expected to fall at any moment, and her mouth was open wide, her chest heaving as she gasped for breath.

Startled, Larajin reined her horse to a stop. In the same moment the running woman saw her. The woman skidded to a halt several paces away and stared, wide-eyed. She glanced back over her shoulder in the direction of the rumbling sound, at Larajin again, then she darted off into the woods at the side of the trail.

A moment later, three riders burst into view. Seeing Larajin, they halted their horses. One of them-a man who looked like a half-ore, with hair that was receding above a bulging forehead and a muscular neck as thick as a tree trunk-glared at her, while the other two turned this way and that, peering into the woods. All three were clad in chain mail and carried shields emblazoned with a red sword. Larajin recognized them by that emblem as soldiers of Archendale.

“The elf!” the man with the thick neck shouted. “Did you see an elf run past just now?”

His horse pranced under him and snorted its impatience, as if eager to resume the chase.

Larajin felt her eyes narrow slightly, but she kept her face composed. She recognized the hand of the goddess when she saw it. After failing to intervene on behalf of the Harper agent who was beaten by the mob in his shop in Ordulin, Larajin was being given a chance to redeem herself.

“Oh, dear,” she exclaimed, casting her face into a worried expression. “That must have been what I heard just a moment ago. A scream. It was just before I passed a spot near a cliff, where the trail had crumbled away. This elf of yours must have gone over the edge!”

She turned to stare behind her, toward the section of trail she’d just ridden.

“Right. Let’s take a look, lads.”

Spurring his horse forward, the leader of the soldiers rode past Larajin. Her own horse shied away, pinching her leg against the trunk of a tree. The other two soldiers followed in his wake. Larajin heard the hoofbeats abruptly slow-they must have come to the bend where the trail turned to follow the cliff edge-and she nudged her own horse forward. As she rode past the spot where the elf had darted into the woods, she glanced neither right nor left, in case the soldiers were looking.

She’d ridden no more than a hundred paces before the soldiers returned, this time riding at a trot. As they passed, forcing her horse to the side of the trail, Muscle Neck waved his thanks. The back of his right hand had a strange scar on it; a pattern of raised lines that looked like a brand.

Larajin waited until the hoofbeats of their horses had receded into the distance, then she turned her horse and rode back down the trail, stopping in the place where she’d last seen the elf. After a moment, a narrow face peeked out of a crack in a hollow stump a few paces into the forest. The elf squeezed out from inside the stump with difficulty, wincing as her misshapen back brushed against its trunk. She turned to Larajin and gave a peculiar bow, thrusting her arms behind her as she bent at the waist.

As the elf bowed, Larajin could see that the deformity on the woman’s back seemed to be centered upon her shoulders. Just below each was a large hump, its exact shape hidden by the baggy shirt she wore.

“You I thank, lady,” the elf said, though it took Larajin a moment or two to understand the words, which were spoken in a strange accent. It was almost as if the woman trilled her words. Her speech had the inflection of a song.

“Why were those men chasing you?” Larajin asked.

“I … came to Arch Dale after many miles journey,” the woman said, watching Larajin’s face all the while for her reaction. “Soldier with mark on hand, he recognize. He know I come from Hillsfar, by this mark.”

She held up her left hand. On the back of it was a brand identical to the one on Muscle Neck’s hand. Except that the elf’s brand was fresher, still pink.

“I didn’t think elves were allowed in Hillsfar,” Larajin said.

A bitter look crossed the woman’s face. “In arena, only. In games.”

Larajin understood. She’d heard of the arena in Hillsfar-it was known far and wide in Faerûn. The Hillsfar Arena was the scene of fabled contests in which gladiators pitted themselves against fearsome monsters. Ogres, trolls, minotaurs … all had soaked the arena’s sand with their blood.

Muscle Neck must have been one of the gladiators who fought there, and so must this elf, though with her fine bones and deformed shoulders she looked too frail to be a fighter.

“Were you a gladiator?” Larajin asked.

The woman frowned. “I am elf.”

She seemed to think this explanation enough, but it left Larajin unenlightened.

“I thought you said that elves fight in the arena,” Larajin said.

“Elves die in arena,” the woman said. “They are put in, with long chain at ankle. No escape can be make. It makes the crowd to laugh.”

The words were spoken softly, but they made Larajin’s blood turn cold. This woman might have spoken in the third person, but it was clear from the ache in her eyes that she was relating a horror that she herself had experienced. Larajin pictured her unarmed, chained to the center of the arena, frantically trying to escape the sword slashes of a burly gladiator like Muscle Neck while the crowd laughed and jeered.

“You escaped from the Hillsfar Arena, didn’t you?” Larajin said in a grim voice. “That soldier-the one that looked like a half-ore-he was trying to capture you and sell you back.”

The woman nodded, a quick bob of the head.

“What’s your name?”

The elf hesitated, as if trying to decide whether to trust her. At last she answered. “Kith. You?”

Larajin gave truth for truth, answering with her real name, instead of Thazienne’s. “Where are you headed?” she asked.

“To Evermeet.”

Larajin frowned. “That’s a long way from here. Why Evermeet?”

Kith’s eyes brightened. “I be told it is place of all elves, of great magic. I go to … seek a great healing. Then I may follow wind home.”

Healing? The woman must have been talking about her deformity.

“Where is home?” Larajin asked.

Kith answered with a sharp, sweet trill. After a moment, Larajin realized that this must have been the name of the place she came from.

“I’ve never heard of it,” she told Kith, then she added, “If you’re journeying to Evermeet, shouldn’t you be headed west? You must have followed the Moonsea Ride out of Hillsfar. Why didn’t you just stay on that road?”

Kith shrugged and immediately winced. Her deformed shoulders must have pained her.

“Red Plumes would follow,” she answered. “Instead I come through trees, to Highmoon.”

Larajin nodded. Journeying through the great forest made sense. Kith had probably been aided by the wood elves. It also explained how she had come so far with so little. The woman didn’t seem to have a pack or provisions. Having reached Highmoon, however, Kith should have continued west along the road that led through Thunder Gap and into Cormyr.

“You turned south, into Archendale,” Larajin prompted. “Why?”

“Giants,” Kith answered. She said no more, as if that one word was explanation enough. Then, seeing the blank look in Larajin’s eyes, she added, “I am told giants be in mountains through which pierces road. They are enemy to my people. Without my …” She paused, then continued. “I would have no chance against them. I am told of southern road, one that passes south of mountains without piercing. Way of the Manticore. Do you know it?”

Larajin nodded. “That road is a long way from here-at least six days’ journey to the south. There’s no way to cross the river until you reach Selgaunt, and that means entering Sembia, which isn’t exactly welcoming elves at the moment. You wouldn’t be safe in the south. You’d do better to take your chances crossing the mountains. Maybe you could join a caravan. That should offer some protection from the-”

Kith balled her fist and all but shook it at Larajin. “They will see the mark!” she trilled. “They will think of Red Plumes’ coin, and greed fill their hearts.”

“That is a problem, it’s true,” Larajin acknowledged. “Even so, I would recommend the mountains as a better option. You can’t travel any farther south. If you do, you’ll be mistaken for a spy and killed.”

Slowly, with a defeated look on her face, Kith lowered her hand. “All winds blow against I, it does seem,” she said sadly.

“Not all the winds,” Larajin said, trying to sound encouraging. “They blew me your way, didn’t they? And those soldiers aren’t looking for you any more. They’ll be back in Archendale before dark and will soon forget all about you.”

An idea struck her, and she added, “Why don’t you travel with me awhile-at least for the rest of today-and camp with me tonight? Here, climb up on the horse behind me.”

She leaned over in the saddle and extended a hand down to Kith. After a moment, the elf took it. Placing a foot in the stirrup that Larajin had just removed her foot from, she swung lightly up behind her, and settled into place, her legs tucked against the saddlebags. She clutched nervously at the sides of Larajin’s shirt as the horse began to walk. Kith had obviously never been on horseback before.

“Where we are travel?” Kith asked.

“I won’t know that until Goldheart returns,” Larajin said over her shoulder.

“Gold Heart?” Kith repeated. She thought about it a moment. “This be companion to you?”

“A companion, yes,” Larajin answered with a smile. “One whose value I only recently realized.” For the hundredth time that day, she glanced up at the sky through the trees, hoping to see the familiar flash of colorful wings. “I just hope nothing’s happened to her.”

That evening they made camp in the woods-well away from the trail, since by dusk the enormous stone arches of the bridge at Archendale had come into sight. Larajin fed and brushed the horse first-remembering what her adoptive father had taught her about always caring for your animals before attending to your own comforts-then she shared with Kith a simple meal of dried fruit and soldier’s biscuit. It seemed to matter little to Kith that the latter was stale. The elf consumed it ravenously, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Perhaps that was why she was so thin.

Darkness fell swiftly as the sun sank behind the southernmost tip of the Thunder Peaks, just west of Archendale. Exhausted after her flight from the soldiers, Kith sank into a curious squatting position, her arms curled around her knees, and seemed to fall into a deep trance-the Reverie. Larajin made sure the horse hadn’t slipped its hobbles-it was munching contentedly on some shoots of grass in the tiny clearing where she’d left it-then she lay down near Kith. She whispered her evening prayers, staring up through the branches at the bright pinpoints of the stars above, then she watched the moon slowly rise into view above the treetops. Its pale light flooded the forest.

Was Tal also staring up at the moon from his soldiers’ camp? If her calculations were correct, in just a few more days his company would reach the forest of Cormanthor. She wondered if his last glance at the sky would be framed by the branches of trees, as was hers.

And what of Leifander-where was he? As to that, Larajin could not even hazard a guess. She whispered a prayer to Hanali Celanil, praising her for the beauty of the sky above and pleading with her to send word through her chosen messenger, as soon as she was able.

Larajin must have drifted off to sleep. She fell into a vivid dream in which she was soaring up through the air, rising toward the vivid stars above. All the world lay below her, a vast crazy-quilt of forest, lake, field, and town. Somewhere down below, there was something she was searching for, but when she tried to think of where it might be, her thoughts became hazy and confused. She realized she was not flying herself but was being carried by a giant eagle. Its wingtips brushed against her bare feet with each downstroke.

Larajin rolled over in her sleep, and the tickling against her foot stopped.

The dream resumed, but this time the eagle was gripping her in its feet. They completely enclosed her head. One of its talons was piercing the soft flesh of her-

With a start, Larajin awoke. Something was poking her cheek. It felt like the point of a dagger. Fumbling for her own dagger, she yanked it out of its scabbard.

“Illunathros!” she shouted, scrambling to her feet.

The trees all around her were bathed in the brilliant blue light of her enchanted dagger.

Sitting at her feet, wincing at the sudden glare, was Gold-heart. One paw was still raised. She had been kneading Larajin’s cheek. Lowering her paw, she butted her head against Larajin’s leg and began to purr.

A pace or two away, Kith sprang out of her crouch. She cried out as she spotted the tressym. A moment later, her alarm turned to a sigh of wonder as Goldheart unfolded her wings, shook them once delicately to smooth the feathers, then settled them against her back once more.

“This is Goldheart,” Larajin explained. “The companion I mentioned earlier.”

Kith fell to her knees in front of Goldheart and tentatively held out a hand. The tressym, after a quick sniff, lowered her head, indicating that the elf had permission to pat her. Kith stroked the tressym’s head, hesitated, then ran her hand the length of Goldheart’s back, fingers lingering upon the wings. The expression on her face, at first rapturous, soon turned to equal parts anguish and longing. She jerked her hand back and turned away, as if the very sight of the tressym pained her.

“What’s wrong?” Larajin asked.

Words choked their way out of Kith’s mouth. “I … had wings once. Gone, now.”

“Wings?”

Kith fumbled at the ties that held her shirt closed, then yanked it down to her elbows, exposing her back. Under that baggy shirt lay the source of Kith’s pain: two crudely hacked stubs where wings had once been. The severed limbs were healed over, but only just. The scars were still raw and red, the skin puckered and dotted with crude stitch marks. It looked as though muscle and bone had been severed with an axe, one brutal chop at a time. Larajin wondered how anyone could survive the agony that must have caused.

Kith’s shoulders shook as she struggled to suppress her sobs. Goldheart, also staring at the elf’s back, growled low in her throat, then, deliberately, she walked up to Kith and gave the elf’s bare leg a gentle nudge with her cheek.

Kith yanked the shirt back up over her shoulders, wincing at its touch as she turned back to Larajin.

“You ask why I go Evermeet,” she said. She jerked a thumb at her shoulder. “This be why. My shame. After I escape first time, arena let wizard take my wings, for his spells. How can I return to flock now? I must seek great healing, before return.”

“Goddess grant it to you,” Larajin whispered.

She realized what Kith was: an avariel elf-a breed of elf so rare that the books in Stormweather Towers had referred to them as mere legend. And here that “legend” stood in front of Larajin, broken and dejected. She wished she knew a healing spell that would regrow Kith’s wings, but such powerful magic was beyond her. Her spells could close a wound, or slow bleeding, or even splice a shattered bone, but they could not regrow flesh and feather from air.

Kith’s eyes dropped to Goldheart, who was still rubbing against her leg.

“Companion-to-Larajin, I know you mean comfort, but beautiful wings make sadness.”

Turning away, Kith strode out of the circle of light cast by the dagger, into the moonlight-dappled forest. Larajin was about to run after her but paused as she heard Kith settle again, a short distance away in the woods. From that spot came the soft sound of a woman weeping.

Torn between her desire to comfort Kith and the certain knowledge that Goldheart must be bearing urgent news, Larajin hesitated. A familiar tingle began in her ears and lips. As it grew, she heard the tressym’s meows turn into intelligible speech.

“She aches like a wounded bird,” Goldheart observed, peering off into the darkness where Kith had disappeared. “Someone should give her a swift death.”

“She needs healing,” Larajin answered curtly, “and I can’t give it to her.”

Frustrated, she dropped to her knees in front of the tressym.

“I am glad to see that you are safe, Goldheart” she said. “Did you follow Leifander? Where is he now?”

“He nested for one night in a place not far from here, and another night in a place that lies a day’s flight in that direction,” Goldheart said, nodding toward the northwest as she spoke. “The place was at the edge of a great wood and had many trees heaped in piles. The humans and elves there busy themselves day and night building walls and practicing with their long-claws.”

Larajin nodded. Goldheart must be describing a town in Deepingdale, known for its timber trade. She guessed that the “long-claws” were swords or daggers.

“He then flew toward the forest, stopping here and there to meet with groups of elves-but only nesting for one night in a single place. For the last two nights he has nested in the same spot: on a hill with no trees, only stones on top. I left him there this morning, and flew back to find you. I have been a day and most of this night returning.”

Larajin mulled that over. “Can you describe the stones on the hill?” she asked.

Goldheart thought a moment, then scratched at the ground with a paw, leaving a half-circle mark. “They formed a bent line, like this.”

“How many stones?”

“Many.”

Larajin held up one hand, fingers splayed. “This many?”

“More.”

She laid the dagger down, and held up her other hand. “This many?”

Goldheart studied her hands as the dagger’s light waned. “Perhaps.”

Larajin sat thinking as the dagger’s light gradually went out. The moonlight was bright enough that she could still see the tressym clearly. Thanks to the elf blood that flowed in her veins, she could even see the colors of her wings.

“To get to this hill, how would you travel?” she asked. “What would you see below as you flew?”

Goldheart thought a moment. “The place with the walls and piled-up trees, the edge of the forest, a river … then the hill.”

Larajin fell silent, considering this information. She had spent many long hours in the library at Stormweather Towers, reading every book she could find that described the history and geography of ancient Cormanthor, but none of the information she’d gleaned on the former elven kingdom mentioned a hill like the one Goldheart had just described.

Larajin did remember a map that showed the river Gold-heart was probably talking about. It was called the Glaemril. It was reputed to be easy to cross. With Goldheart scouting from above and giving directions, Larajin could make her way to the hill where Leifander had camped, but she couldn’t ride as fast as the tressym could fly-especially through thick forest. By the time she reached the hill, Leifander would probably be long gone.

The alternative was, of course, to have Goldheart return alone to the hill as soon as she was rested, and continue to follow Leifander, but that would leave Larajin blundering around in the forest on her own, searching in vain for a hill that might not even be visible from within the trees.

Remembering the dream she’d just awakened from, Larajin wished she had wings to fly-or that there was someone to carry her through the skies. If only the avariel elf still had her…

A thought occurred to her then. Had the goddesses been trying to tell her something? Was it they who placed that dream in her mind?

If so, Larajin could see little use in it. Kith’s wings were gone. She wasn’t about to fly anywhere.

Goldheart rubbed against her, reminding Larajin of her presence. Larajin looked down at the tressym, remembering how Goldheart had looked when Larajin had found her in the Hunting Garden. Goldheart’s wing had been broken and trailing behind her, feathers bedraggled and torn. Larajin had healed the wing, using the goddess’s blessing to straighten bone, smooth scar tissue, and mend torn flesh and feather. When she’d finished, the wing was as good as new. Feathers that had been broken far short of their tips were whole again.

She shouldn’t have been able to do that. According to the clerics in Sune’s temple, it took many long years of prayer and study to develop the skills needed to use magic to regrow a body part, even something as small as a finger-or a feather.

Yet Larajin had done it. How?

As Larajin crouched, stroking Goldheart’s silky fur with her free hand, she pondered. As recently as a few days before, she had managed what also should have been an impossible spell. With just the briefest bit of instruction from Rylith, she’d instantly transported herself over many miles, to a place of refuge.

Again, she had no idea how.

She sat, staring at the heart-shaped locket that hung from her wrist. After a long moment, she realized the answer. Normally, when she cast a spell, it was with the blessing of one goddess or the other. The spell was accompanied either by a red glow or by the scent of Hanali’s Heart, but both times when she had cast a spell that should have been well beyond her, both the aura and the scent had manifested at once. Both goddesses had bestowed their blessings upon Larajin in the same instant, enhancing her power to cast spells.

Larajin still had no idea what she had done differently on those occasions. Had her prayers been more fervent-or had Sune and Hanali Celanil simply both been watching over her in the same instant? If she tried to cast a spell to regrow Kith’s wings, would the goddesses respond to her prayer?

Larajin stared into the moonlight-dappled woods, toward the spot where she could hear the sound of Kith crying.

For Kith’s sake, Larajin would at least try.

Giving Goldheart a final pat, she instructed the tressym to wait where she was. Larajin didn’t need the distraction of a feline rubbing against her leg as she tried to work her magic. She sheathed her dagger and strode into the woods.

Kith squatted near the base of a tree, hands clasped around her knees. Her tears had stopped, but she refused to look up as Larajin approached. Her eyes were locked on the ground as she rocked back and forth.

Larajin kneeled beside Kith and touched her arm.

“Kith?”

Kith flinched away.

“Kith, I’m a cleric. I know healing magic. I don’t know if I am able, but I’d like to try to restore your wings.”

Kith was instantly attentive. She rubbed an arm roughly across her face to wipe away her tears.

“You know a great healing? Why you not offer before?”

Larajin felt a guilty blush rise to her cheeks. “I … wasn’t sure it would work,” she said.

She bit her tongue, resolving not to tell Kith the real reason-that she needed the avariel elf’s help to get to the hill Goldheart had described.

Larajin touched the locket at her wrist. “Shall I try?” she asked.

“Yes,” Kith whispered.

“I need to touch you-to lay hands upon what remains of your wings. I’ll try not to press too hard.”

Kith nodded and pulled her shirt down, exposing the raw stumps where her wings had been.

“I be ready,” she whispered.

“Then I’ll begin.”

Softly, Larajin began chanting a prayer. She started with the one she knew best: an invocation to Sune, a plea to set her worshipers’ footsteps on the path to beauty, and to give their hands the power to restore beauty that had been lost. She followed it with a prayer to Hanali Celanil, one that praised the goddess for creating all of the brightly feathered creatures of the world. The prayer was imperfect, a rough translation in the common tongue, but as Larajin chanted it, a familiar fragrance arose around her. At the same time, a warm amber glow began to tingle her fingertips.

The scar tissue under her fingers smoothed, and Kith sighed in relief, but then the fragrance of flowers lessened, and the glow beneath her fingertips dimmed. Larajin’s spell had smoothed the scars and was easing Kith’s pain-but it was not enough. Unless she could restore Kith’s wings entirely, she would never catch up to Leifander, Tal would die, and …

Kith gasped in pain. With a guilty start, Larajin realized that her fingers had been digging into the wing stubs. That was when she realized her mistake.

Gentling her touch, she whispered an apology. At the same time she resolved, in that instant, to merely heal Kith. If her spell was successful and Kith’s wings were restored, she would not demand that Kith fly her to the hill where Leifander was camped. She would not even ask. If the goddesses willed it, Kith would offer of her own accord. If not…

Firmly, Larajin pushed any thought of the consequences out of her mind. Instead she began to pray once more. This time, the spell was entirely of her own devising. A name sprung to her lips unbidden: Lady Fireheart. Chanting it, Larajin felt a warmth rise in her heart and course down her arms toward her hands. It burst from her fingertips in a bright ruby glow. At the same time the scent of Hanali’s Heart filled the air, a scent so strong that Larajin and Kith might have been crouching in an entire field of blossoms.

In that moment, Larajin felt something move under her hands. Kith must have felt it too. She gave a trilling cry that was half surprise, half joy, and shuddered. Her wings started to grow.

Flesh and muscle extended under Larajin’s hands, and bone rushed outward to support them. A joint formed, then another length of wing, and all along it feathers sprouted and grew. Muscles twitched, skin rippled-and Larajin’s hands were cast from the wings as they slowly unfurled, then burst into full extension as Kith sprang to her feet.

Larajin stared in wonder at Kith, who stood with a delighted look on her face, her wings fluttering gently. They were longer from shoulder to wingtip than the elf was tall, and their color was a shimmering white, each feather tipped at its end with a deep, glossy black. Kith stood confident and strong. Gone was the cringing, stooped posture she’d had earlier.

Trilling her delight, she burst into the air.

Larajin craned her head back, watching as Kith rose smoothly into the sky. Her white wings glowing in the moonlight, Kith circled once over the spot in the forest where Larajin stood. A moment later she was joined by Goldheart, who rose through the treetops to chase after her. Laughing, she tumbled with the tressym above the treetops, first letting Goldheart chase her, then sliding into a swooping turn or loop that put her in pursuit of the tressym.

On the ground below, Larajin watched the avariel elf and tressym at play. They shot overhead, Kith’s wings making a whooshing sound loud enough for Larajin to hear, then disappeared behind the treetops. A moment later they soared back in a sweeping turn, disappeared from view again, then rose in a climb that saw both pairs of wings beating furiously, in what was seemingly a race to touch the moon. At the peak of their climb, each looped, one after the other, and dived toward the trees. So steep and rapid were their dives that Larajin winced, thinking they were about to dash themselves against the ground, but at the last instant each swooped just short of the treetops and disappeared from sight once more.

For several long moments Larajin stood alone in the forest, wondering if Goldheart and Kith had flown away and forgotten her, then she heard the beating of wings. First Kith then Goldheart descended between the trees, landing gently where Larajin stood.

Kith bowed deeply to Larajin, throwing her hands out behind her. Now that the elf had her wings back, what had at first appeared a peculiar motion made sense to Larajin. As the hands swept back, the wings unfurled, adding a sweeping grace to the bow, then the wings folded tight against Kith’s back as the elf straightened.

“Larajin, great thanks,” Kith said in a quiet trill. “From deep of my heart to tip of wing. I want return thanks to you. May I help for you, before winds carry home?”

Beside her, Goldheart folded her own wings and began washing a paw. Despite the tressym’s seeming indifference, however, Larajin saw Goldheart glance coyly in her direction, as if sharing a secret.

“There is something you could help me with, but only if you truly wish to do so,” Larajin answered.

“Please,” Kith said. “Ask.”

“There is a hill within the wood, a little over a day’s flight northwest of here. Are your wings strong enough to carry me to it?”

Kith gave a trilling laugh, and unfurled her wings. Wedging one foot against a fallen log to brace herself, she flapped them with such vigor that the resulting wind buffeted Larajin, blowing her hair back over her shoulders.

“Strong?” Kith said, her eyes sparkling with delight. “More than before. Your goddess be most great.” She folded her wings, chuckling. “When go?”

“As soon as possible,” Larajin answered. “Tonight. I’ll set the horse free-this close to Archenbridge, someone is sure to find it-and we can leave.”

Kith nodded her agreement, and looked up at the sky.

“Moon is bright,” she observed. “Good night for fly.”