Heirs of Prophecy

CHAPTER 11

The moon crested the trees, spilling a shimmering line of white across the lake’s surface. Lake Sember was truly as beautiful as Diurgo had said it would be. A wide expanse of deep water, the lake was bright turquoise in sunlight, a darker blue by moonlight. Its water smelled fresh and clean, tempting Larajin to slake her thirst, but instead she’d honored the prohibition against any but full-blooded elves drinking from the lake. Hanali Celanil might favor her, but she didn’t want to risk the wrath of the other elf gods.

For the hundredth time since she’d hidden herself in a clump of brambles near the lakeshore, she rose from her crouch and peered into the forest. Wind whispered through the trees, stirring branches into motion. The only other sounds were the deep croaking of the frogs that lived in the rushes farther down the lakeshore and the occasional distant splash of a fish feeding on the insects that hovered over the lake at night.

“Where are you, Leifander?” she whispered to herself. “What’s happened to you?”

She was certain she was in the right spot. A few paces away was the oak tree Leifander had described, its twinned trunks growing at angles to one another. Just beyond it was a drop of a pace or two and the water’s edge.

Beside her, Goldheart sniffed the breeze, then dropped her jaw and inhaled deeply, having caught a scent. She turned her head this way and that, as if trying to catch the direction from which it came.

“What is it?” Larajin asked.

An instant later, she heard a crackling sound that seemed to originate from somewhere out on the lake. The noise was very faint, but it seemed familiar. After a moment, she realized what it reminded her of: spring thaw, in the River Arkhen, when the ice was breaking up.

Goldheart dropped to a crouch and slunk away through the brambles. Once she was clear, she launched herself into the air and flew to the oak. She landed on one of its branches and folded her wings, staring fixedly out at the lake.

Curious, Larajin crawled out through the path she’d made through the brambles. She walked to the oak tree and crouched in the shadow of its trunk, keeping it between herself and the forest. Squinting, she tried to see what had captured Goldheart’s attention.

She spotted it almost at once. It was a finger of what looked like an inverted icicle rising slowly out of the lake some distance from the shore. A second shimmering spire followed a moment later, then a third. They were too distant to make out clearly, but she could see that each was rising from below the water’s surface, one after the other in a line as the moonbeam spread across the lake. There were four of them, each making the crackling noise as it rose, yet leaving the surface of the lake eerily still. Each had to be at least a hundred paces high.

Larajin breathed a prayer to Hanali Celanil and Sune both, thanking them for allowing her to witness this wonderful sight. She stared at the lake until the last of the crystalline towers had finished rising, then glanced at the moon. It seemed to pause for a moment, round and full, just above the tops of the trees, then it continued its ascent into the sky.

Larajin bit her lip, wondering how long the towers would remain above the lake. That part of the legend, Diurgo hadn’t known. They might remain until the moon set again-or they might sink back under the surface after just a few brief moments.

Leifander might know the answer-but Leifander wasn’t there.

Perhaps Larajin should just set out on her own for the crystalline towers. She could instruct Goldheart to wait for Leifander and guide him to the towers, once he finally arrived.

Yes. That seemed like the best idea. But first, to see if she could actually cast the necessary spell.

She glanced up at Goldheart, who once again was sniffing the breeze. The tressym stared down at Larajin, an intense expression on her face. She growled once, low in her throat, and glanced back at the forest. Briefly, Larajin considered asking the goddess to bless her with the spell that would allow her to ask Goldheart what she’d scented, then decided against it. Even if there was something threatening back in the woods, she would, if the goddesses were willing, soon be well beyond its reach.

Climbing down lower on the outcropping of rock on which the lightning-struck oak stood, Larajin kneeled and dipped her fingers in the lake. The water was deep along that section of the shore and as cool as a night breeze. To Larajin’s surprise, her touch stirred ripples that glowed a faint red, like phosphorescence in the sea. She glanced around, and noticed that the fish breaking the surface weren’t producing any such effect. The places where they leaped and landed rippled, but the water there remained a cool, dark blue. Sune was with her.

She heard a flutter of wings behind her as Goldheart flew away. Nervous, she listened for movement in the forest but heard nothing.

With the realization that she was out in the open where she might be spotted by an elf patrol, Larajin decided not to tarry any longer. Touching the locket that hung at her wrist with fingers that were still wet from the lake, she began to pray. First a prayer to Sune, to make her footsteps as light as a lover’s sigh, then a prayer to Hanali Celanil, asking her to make the waters of the lake as firm as a marriage bed.

A nearby splash startled her, but when she looked up, she saw it had only been a fish breaking the surface near where she squatted. The smell of Hanali’s Heart rose from the ripples. Encouraged by the thought that the elf goddess was also listening to her prayers, Larajin quickly pulled off her boots. She stood, and placed her bare foot tentatively on the surface of the lake, testing its resistance.

Before she could step out onto the surface, however, a tickling in her nose and throat made her cough. It felt as if Sune’s warm glow was drying her throat and as if Hanali Celanil’s fragrance was cloying her nostrils to the point where it made her eyes water. Frightened, Larajin found her breathing becoming fast and shallow. That definitely wasn’t part of the spell she’d been trying to cast-what were the goddesses doing?

Telling herself to have faith-the signs of the goddesses’ blessings were all around her-Larajin took a step out onto the lake, but instead of finding solid footing, her foot plunged beneath the surface. Unbalanced, she tumbled into the water.

The fall saved her life. In the same moment that she tumbled forward, an arrow whistled overhead, so close that it plucked at her hair, giving it a painful yank. Had her spell worked, allowing her to step out onto the water’s surface, the arrow would have buried itself in her back. As it was, it cut into the water next to her with a vicious splash.

Breaking the surface, Larajin saw an elf standing next to the forked oak tree-a forest elf, his face shadowed with tattoos, with a powerful short bow in his hand. It must have been his scent that Goldheart had caught just before she growled and flew away.

All of these thoughts flashed through Larajin’s mind in a heartbeat. Meanwhile the elf, in a motion nearly too swift to follow, swept a hand to his quiver and plucked an arrow from it, then nocked it against the bowstring. Seeing an easy target, he took his time, sighting down the length of the arrow.

Larajin did the only thing she could, forcing her body back under the water with a powerful stroke of her hands. The arrow thwooshed down into the water a mere palm’s breadth from her as she turned and swam, keeping below the surface. Then another arrow, and another arrow cut the surface, questing for her.

Forcing herself deeper, she stroked away from the spot where the elf archer stood. As long as she stayed below the surface, the water would slow the arrows, preventing them from reaching her, but with bright moonlight illuminating the lake, the elf would have no trouble spotting her when she resurfaced. With only one meager gasp of air in her lungs, she knew she’d never be able to put enough distance between herself and the archer.

Even so, she resolved to try. She swam on, gradually releasing the air in her lungs, trying to conserve it for as long as possible. Sparkles appeared before her eyes, and a dizziness gripped her, but still she swam on. If she broke the surface at the last possible moment, then immediately dived again, perhaps the elf wouldn’t spot her. But not yet-not just yet…

Larajin swam and swam-and continued to swim long past the moment she should have been gasping for air. That was when she noticed the glow around her nose and mouth and felt the cool trickle of water down her nose and throat.

At first she assumed that the pressure of the water was forcing lake water into her nostrils, but instead of the harsh burning that usually caused, she felt a cool, soothing relief. In wonder, she opened her mouth and swallowed some of the water-and was immediately rewarded with a burst of energy that strengthened her muscles and cleared away the sparkles in her head. With a growing sense of wonder, she blew the water out again-and inhaled.

She was breathing water!

With a laugh that released the few tiny bubbles of air that had been in her lungs, Larajin gave thanks to the goddesses for their blessing. She had prayed for a spell to walk on water, but they had responded instead with what she truly needed: a spell that would save her life.

Swimming was easier than walking, especially with the strength that breathing water gave her. With sure, clean strokes, Larajin headed toward the distant shimmer of moonlight on water-the spot where the bases of the crystalline towers broke the surface.

As she swam, she wondered where Leifander was. Had he said or done something after meeting the patrol that caused them to suspect he had human blood in his veins? Had the same archer who was just shooting at Larajin already taken Leifander’s life?

Realizing that she did not have the answers, Larajin pushed these morbid thoughts firmly out of her mind. There had to be some other explanation for Leifander not having met her, she told herself. But when she thought of one, it was just as unpalatable.

Perhaps, she thought, Leifander had been lying when he said he’d help her try to fulfill Somnilthra’s prophecy and end the war. Leifander could easily pass for a full-blooded elf. The patrol would have received him with open arms, not with a flight of arrows. Had he abandoned Larajin and their quest?

There was no use in thinking about that now. Instead, Larajin had to focus on the task at hand, locating Somnilthra and somehow awakening her.

With smooth, sure strokes, she swam toward the crystalline towers.

Soon the base of one of the towers loomed ahead in the water, shimmering like a crystal, its edges distorted by ripples. As Larajin swam nearer, the water grew colder, eventually reaching the chill temperature of glacial runoff. She shivered and felt her skin prickle with goosebumps.

The lake water was too dark for her to see any details, even with her excellent night vision; for that she would have to break the surface. She hesitated a moment just beneath the surface of the lake, wondering if the transition back to breathing air would be painful-if she would cough and sputter like a drowning person, with a fierce ache in her chest. She summoned her courage and thrust her head above the water.

Miraculously, the lake water she’d drawn into her lungs a moment before turned to air, and she was breathing again. With her first exhalation, she whispered a prayer to the goddesses. Still treading water, she craned her neck to stare up at the closest of the four towers.

Paddling closer, she touched its slippery, cold surface. She pressed a hand to it and felt it give slightly, as if melting back. The towers were just as they had appeared: cold spires of ice, as slippery as inverted icicles. Inside each of them, high above the surface of the lake, Larajin could see dark shapes entombed in the ice-the bodies of elves.

Fortunately, the towers were cracked and craggy, as rough as a freshly splintered rock face, with plenty of handholds and footholds. Climbing shouldn’t be too difficult-but which tower to choose?

Shivering, Larajin realized she’d have to make up her mind soon, or she’d be too chilled to climb. Deciding at last, she chose the tower that had been the last to rise and swam to it. This tower was the smallest of the four, with just four bodies entombed inside it, and thus probably the most recent. If it had indeed grown like an icicle, from base to point, Somnilthra would be lying in repose near its craggy tip. She would probably be the last dark figure, nearly two hundred paces above the surface of the lake.

Hauling herself out of the water, Larajin carefully began her climb. The summer air warmed her skin, but soon her hands and feet grew first cold, then numb. The going was slow. More than once she was forced to double back and find a new route, after reaching a spot where the ice became a sheer wall, too steep to climb without a pick and rope.

High above her, the moon climbed to its apex in the sky. Below, the shimmering trail it etched across the surface of the lake grew shorter.

Best not to look down, she thought. The water was more than a hundred paces below her, and the distance made Larajin dizzy. Resolutely, she continued her climb, searching out handholds and footholds in the craggy ice.

The towers continued to make cracking noises, just as they had done since they rose. Every now and then Larajin heard a deep groan then a loud snap as a piece of ice broke free. A few heartbeats later the shard hit the water below with aloud splash, making her cringe.

When Larajin was level with the third of the dark shapes inside the tower she paused to peer through the ice at it, just as she had done as she’d passed the first two. The third elf was a male, dressed in the formal garb of the Gold elves. Laid out in a reclining position, hands folded upon his breast, he looked as though he was sleeping, despite the frost on his skin and the ice that pressed tightly against him on every side.

Shivering, her hair and clothes still damp from her swim across the lake, Larajin pressed on. She followed a ridge in the ice that led up and to her right, where she could see a ledge near the spot where the last body lay. If she made it to that spot, she would be as close to the body as she could get.

As she worked her way closer to the ledge, Larajin caught glimpses of the figure entombed inside the ice. The body was female-a fact Larajin noted with relief-a slender woman with delicate features, long pointed ears and coppery-red hair in two braids that lay upon her shoulders. A forest elf, judging by her leather breeches and ornately beaded boots and vest. The ice that entombed her-Larajin was peering up through more than an arm’s length of the stuff-distorted the woman’s features, making it impossible to see whether or not she resembled Leifander. Larajin could see a dark crescent-a tattoo-on one of her cheeks.

Was it a stylized moon, the symbol of the goddess Somnilthra had worshiped? Larajin prayed it was-that she wouldn’t be forced to climb another of the towers.

She needed to get closer, to reach a ledge she’d spotted that was level with the body. Unfortunately, as she drew nearer to it, she saw there was a gap nearly a pace wide between the ledge and the ridge she’d climbed along. She knew it was crazy to risk a jump-the ice was too slippery for a safe landing-but by stretching, she just might be able to reach it with one foot. Then it would simply be a matter of transferring her weight with a slight hop, and she would be across.

Leaning out as far as she dared, she extended her right foot and tested the ledge with it. The ice seemed solid enough. Gradually, she eased her weight onto it…

And the ice below her right foot gave a deep, groaning crack.

Larajin froze, poised over the gap. An instant later, the ledge she’d been trying to reach gave way. Gasping, Larajin threw her weight back, trying to reach the safety of the spot where she’d just been standing, but her left foot slipped. Thrown off-balance, she fell to her knees. She scrabbled at the ice, seeking a handhold-and found one-but then her knees slipped from the edge. Her full weight was supported only by her hands. Pain shot through her left wrist as it twisted, and that hand lost its grip.

Just as she thought she was about to go over the edge, one scrabbling foot at last found a toehold, then the other found a foothold. She heaved herself upward, waves of agony shooting through her sprained wrist. As she pulled herself to safety, she felt her dagger catch on a outcropping of ice and yank from its sheath. It fell onto the ice and began to slide away.

Larajin grabbed for it, but her position forced her to reach with the hand that had been twisted in the ice. Her fingers still weren’t working properly. They brushed against the hilt but would not close upon it. Despite the bright moonlight, the shadows of the splintered ice made the dagger difficult to see. Was it slipping out from under her fingertips and going over the edge?

“Illunathros!” she cried.

With a bright flash of blue light, the dagger illuminated-then it slipped off into space. Despondent, Larajin watched it fall toward the lake below. It flashed brightly as it tumbled end over end.

A loud caw echoed across the lake as a small dark shape streaked through the night toward the ice tower. At the last moment before the dagger struck the surface, the weapon’s fall slowed until it was drifting down as gently as a feather. Just before it reached the water, the crow swooped low over the lake and neatly plucked it from the air with its feet. The bird wheeled in a graceful curve and began climbing toward the spot where Larajin crouched, the dagger glowing brightly in its talons.

“Leifander!” Larajin exclaimed.

The crow cawed again in greeting, then hovered next to Larajin, wings beating furiously. One wing lagged slightly behind the other, as if he were exhausted from a long flight.

Larajin reached out and took the dagger from him, nodded her head in an abbreviated bow of heartfelt thanks, and secured the dagger in the sheath at her hip.

Leifander landed, hopped sideways along the ridge toward a flat spot, then spread his wings. A moment later a ripple passed through him as he shifted back into elf form. His bare feet slid a little on the ice, and he waved his arms for a moment like beating wings before finding his balance. One arm seemed stiff, as if it pained him, and his right eye and cheek were splotchy with the shadows of fresh bruises.

“You’re injured,” Larajin observed aloud. “What happened?”

He winced, as if something other than his injuries pained him. “It’s nothing.”

“Did the elf near the forked oak attack you?”

Leifander glanced up sharply. “What elf?”

“The one who shot an arrow at me. He spotted me as I entered the water.”

Leifander looked grimly back at the shore. “He must have been one of those who patrol the lake. We’ll have trouble getting back. Especially now. The entire shore will be watching for us.”

“You were gone so long,” Larajin continued. “I thought, for a moment there, that you’d joined that elf patrol and weren’t coming back. I’m sorry I doubted-”

Leifander interrupted her with a bitter laugh. “You were right,” he said. “I did join them-for a time. The patrol needed a messenger … a swift one, with wings. I couldn’t refuse; the message was a vital one.”

Larajin’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “And so you abandoned me,” she said. “You turned your back on your duty-and our destiny.”

“Only for a short time,” he said, a guilty look in his eye.

Combined with his injuries, the look told her that something had happened to change his mind. She waited, silently, for him to tell her what it was.

“I delivered their message,” Leifander said at last. “The commander who received it knew me and had heard the rumors about me being the son of a human-and not just any human, but a powerful merchant of Sembia. She believes that hazel-eyed twins are blessed by the gods-but said half-human twins didn’t count. Worse still, she announced that half-elves are not to be counted among our allies nor to be trusted, now that Lord Ulath has declared Deepingdale neutral.”

His voice dropped to a pained whisper, and he glanced across the lake at its tree-lined shore.

“I was raised in this forest and am the son of a noble warrior. I’m as much an elf as any of them. I look like an elf, I dress and act like an elf-I am an elf-and yet all they see now is my human half.”

“Did they attack you?” Larajin asked softly.

“They claimed I was a traitor. They didn’t believe I had only gone to Selgaunt at the druids’ request. They tried to hold me, but I escaped. In doing so, I condemned myself. As long as this war continues, I won’t be welcome among my people. Neither there,” he said, pointing at the forest, “nor in your realm.”

He gave Larajin a determined, fierce look and added, “I’m committed to what you called Our destiny’ now. Fully. I want this war to end. Let’s see if Somnilthra can tell us how to fulfill that destiny.”

Larajin glanced at the woman entombed in the ice next to them. “This is her, then?” she asked.

“Of course.” Leifander cocked his head. “You must have known that, or you wouldn’t have chosen this tower to climb.”

Larajin started to smile, but just then the spire of ice shuddered. There was a deep groan, and a crack appeared above them. Splinters of ice, sparkling in the moonlight like shards of glass, tumbled free and fell onto the twins.

Unsteady on the slippery ridge, Larajin grabbed for Leifander’s hand. As she steadied herself, her legs cramped from the cold that was seeping up through her bare feet, and she shuddered.

Leifander glanced sharply at her. “You’re freezing!” he exclaimed. “Your fingers are nearly blue. Don’t you have a spell that can warm them?”

Larajin shook her head. “No more than you have a spell to heal your bruises, it would seem. I tried praying, but the goddesses didn’t answer.” She touched his injured shoulder gently. “I could heal you, however.”

“No time,” he said, glancing pointedly at a crack just above where they stood. “Besides, the bruises are only a minor inconvenience. I wish I had a spell that could help you, but the Lady of Air and Wind answers prayers for heat with violence; all she knows is the fury of the lightning strike, and the blazing heat of the wind-whipped forest fire.”

He glanced pointedly at Larajin’s magic dagger. “That blade produces a cold blue light,” he said. “Will it also produce a warm one?”

“I don’t know,” Larajin answered-then an idea occurred to her. “If it did, we could use it to melt a hole in the ice and reach Somnilthra.”

“I heard you shout a word as the dagger fell,” Leifander continued. “What was it?”

“Illunathros.”

Leifander nodded, as if recognizing the word, then stared at the dagger.

“Why isn’t it glowing now?” he asked.

“Its magic only activates if I’m holding it,” Larajin said.

“Can I see it?”

Larajin pulled the dagger from its sheath and handed it to Leifander, who turned it over in his hands, peering closely at it.

“Ah,” he said. “I thought so. You see here-the Uskevren crest? It’s a later addition, welded onto the hilt. The blade itself is of elven make.”

“How do you know?”

“The word that activates its magic-it’s Espruar. Translated, it would be ‘cold illumination of the moon.’” He paused, lost in thought, then snapped his fingers. “That’s it.” He held the dagger up, and looked into Larajin’s eyes. “I’d like to try something … the word, in Espruar, for ‘warm light of the sun.’”

Larajin nodded her consent.

Leifander held the dagger aloft and spoke a single word, “Solicallor!”

The blade glowed a dull orange, like metal freshly pulled from the forge. Though she stood a pace away from Leifander, a wave of heat washed over Larajin. Leifander drew his breath in with a hiss. The hilt itself must have been uncomfortably hot, but he clung to it with determination. He held the dagger toward Larajin, and she warmed her hands over its ruddy glow. Before its heat faded, he rose to his feet and thrust the blade into the ice next to them.

The ice melted away. Trickles of water flowed from the hole the dagger’s heat bored in the tower, only to slow and freeze again into dripping icicles near their feet. Leifander methodically pushed the dagger deeper into the ice, forcing it in until his arm was inserted up to the shoulder and the blade was no more than a finger’s width from Somnilthra’s cheek. He withdrew the blade and handed it to Larajin. Even as she took it, the glow faded and the metal cooled. She tucked it away in its sheath.

“What do we do now?” she asked. “How do we awaken Somnilthra?”

Leifander gave her a startled look. “I thought you knew.”

Larajin shook her head. “You’re the elf!” she protested.

“Half-elf-as are you.” His eyes grew thoughtful, then twinkled. “Do you suppose, if we put those two halves together, we might come up with the answer?”

The tower gave another shuddering rumble, and a piece on the far side broke free and fell to the lake below with a splash. Larajin stared at Somnilthra, but despite the cracking of the ice and the rumbles that coursed through her tower, the entombed elf lay silent and still.

“I know a spell that can be used to contact an elfin the Reverie,” Leifander said at last, “but I don’t know if it will reach all the way to Arvanaith.” He glanced at Larajin. “Have you been blessed with any spells that magically alter speech?”

Larajin nodded eagerly. “Only one,” she said. “It lets me speak to Goldheart.”

“The tressym?” Leifander’s eyes brightened. “That’s good. It means you’re touching the creature’s mind. If the gods are willing, they might grant you the power to also touch the mind of someone so long in the Reverie. If we pray together, to our respective gods, we might be able to reach Somnilthra. I can locate her spirit in Arvanaith, and you can touch her mind and hear her whispered thoughts.”

Larajin stared at the hole the dagger had melted in the ice. It almost reached Somnilthra, but not quite.

“Do you think she’ll hear me?” she asked doubtfully.

Leifander shrugged. “We won’t know until we try.”

He kneeled and spread his hands behind him in a pose that reminded Larajin of Kith’s bow. A loud rumble came from the crystalline tower next to them, reminding Larajin that they didn’t have much time left. The moon was steadily slipping toward the horizon, and she could see that the towers were slowly descending toward the surface of the lake.

She bowed her head and cupped her hands over her midriff, gently pressing the locket at her wrist against the spot where the mark of Sune had been. She began to pray. Beside her, she heard Leifander doing the same in the melodious language of the forest elves.

Inside the ice, moonlight shifted on Somnilthra’s face as the moon set. Or had that been her eyelids flickering? Larajin concentrated on Somnilthra’s tattooed cheek and prayed even more fervently.

“Hanali Celanil hear me and bless me,” she whispered. “Sune hear me and answer. Give me the power to speak to my sister, and be heard. Bless her with speech, and give me the power to hear her in return.”

The locket grew warm and began to glow a dull red, and the scent of Hanali’s Heart rose around her. Encouraged by these signs, Larajin leaned closer to the hole in the ice and cupped her hands around it, as she would around someone’s ear.

“Somnilthra,” she said into the darkened tunnel. “Can you hear me?”

A part of her was startled to realize that she was speaking fluent Elvish. Another part of her, embraced by the love of the goddesses, remained serene and listened for the answer. When it came, it was little more than a sigh, one laden with the exhaustion of many long years in Reverie.

Yes?

Leifander glanced up, an exuberant look in his eye. Had he heard the voice too?

Who…?

After that single word, the voice faded beyond hearing. Larajin tapped her brother’s shoulder.

“Keep praying,” she hissed.

Nodding grimly, Leifander bowed his head and resumed his chant.

At the same time Larajin spoke again-quickly-into the hole.

“Somnilthra, it is your half …” She paused, then amended her words. “It is your sister and brother, Larajin and Leifander, the twins. The rift you predicted between human and elf has come to pass. Sembia and what remains of Cormanthor are at war. You prophesied that we could end the strife between the two races, but we don’t know how. Tell us what to do!”

Inside the ice, Somnilthra’s head shifted ever so slightly, as if she were trying to turn her face in their direction. The skin above her eyebrows was creased, in what Larajin imagined to be a frown. Her voice, heavy from the Reverie, drifted gently into Larajin’s ear, though her sister’s lips did not move.

To heal the splinter in the stone, you must use a heart. Hate may win wars, but only love will conquer them. Harness love, and you will win everything. Unharness hate, and you will lose everything, even your very lives.

“But what does that mean?” Larajin asked, speaking louder now. “How do we use love to conquer war?”

Somnilthra sighed-a sigh deeper than any Larajin had ever heard before.

Your gods will show you the way. Once again, her voice was growing faint. I must…

And it was gone.

Leifander rose to his feet. Despite the fact that he was barefoot on the ice, he was sweating.

“I couldn’t stay in contact with her any longer,” he said, shaking his head. “She drifted away.”

The spire of ice shuddered under Larajin’s bare feet. She peered down at the surface of the lake-closer now than it had been when they started their prayers.

“Could you hear Somnilthra when she spoke?” Larajin asked.

Leifander nodded. “I heard her words, but I don’t know what they meant. We need wisdom-a wisdom well beyond our twenty-five years. Someone older, wiser, and more versed in the ways of magic must answer the riddle we’ve just been given.”

They glanced at each other and said the name at the same time: “Rylith.”

“The last time I saw her was several days ago, at the Standing Stone,” Larajin said. “The gods only know where she is now.”

“The gods aren’t the only ones who will know where she is,” Leifander said. “The other members of the sacred circle will know where she is-or, at least, should be able to get a message to her.”

“Where can we find them?” Larajin asked. “Are they far from here?”

Leifander pointed to the northeast. “The druids-at least one of them, at all times-maintain a constant vigil at Moontouch Oak. It lies in that direction.” Then he added with a chuckle, as if at a private joke, “It’s not far, as the crow flies.”

“How many days on foot?”

His mirth vanished. “At least eight … possibly ten or twelve. The forest is quite thick, and there’s the River Ashaba to ford.”

Larajin winced. “That’s too long,” she said grimly. “By then Tal might be-”

She caught sight of a familiar figure winging its way toward them across the lake. She waved to attract Goldheart’s attention, and the tressym did a graceful loop. Larajin was relieved by the creature’s playful antics. Whatever Gold-heart had been up to, she at least hadn’t gotten feathered by elven arrows.

Goldheart landed on the ridge beside them and rubbed against Larajin’s leg. She filled the air with a loud purring, as if relieved to see that Larajin had survived her brush with the elf archer.

“Easy for you to say, Goldheart,” Larajin chided. “You flew away when things got dangerous. By the time the elf shot that first arrow, I’ll bet you were already halfway to …”

All at once, a thought occurred to her. Maybe it wouldn’t take a tenday, after all, for them to reach Moontouch Oak. Maybe there was a quicker way.

“Leifander,” she asked slowly. “Could you teach me how to skinwalk?”

“Impossible,” he snorted. “It takes months of study and prayer. I fasted and prayed in the treetops for many days before I was able to call the Crow to me. You’d need to do the same to seek out your totem animal. Without it-”

Larajin glanced pointedly at Goldheart. “What if my ‘totem animal’ was already here?”

Slowly, Leifander’s eyebrows raised. He glanced down at the tressym, which looked up at him with luminous yellow eyes.

“She is sacred to my goddess,” Larajin reminded him, kneeling down to stroke Goldheart’s silky fur. She peered up at Leifander. “Will you teach me what to do?”

“I can try,” Leifander conceded at last. He glanced at the first of the crystalline towers, which already was visibly lower in the water. “Your lesson will have to be a quick one.”

“Let’s begin then.”

Leifander gave a resigned sigh. “Start by assuming the same posture as the tress-as your totem. You see? Just as I assume the posture of the crow.” He squatted, holding his arms to the side.

Larajin studied Goldheart, who was sitting with catlike grace on the slippery ledge, her wings neatly folded. Larajin kneeled beside her-aware that her legs were articulated in the wrong direction but trying for the same pose as best she could-and straightened her arms, placing her palms flat on the ice. She hunched her shoulders, imagining wings.

“Close your eyes.”

She did. A moment later, she felt a tickle of fur. Goldheart was twining herself between Larajin’s arms. Larajin allowed herself a smile-whether aware of it or not, Goldheart was helping. A floral scent rose to Larajin’s nostrils, and she felt a warmth at her wrist.

“As you pray, imagine your body shifting,” Leifander continued. “The feathers come, and your body twists, and you feel your bones shift…”

He continued, describing the sensations that preceded skin-walking. Larajin listened avidly, imagining herself becoming a tressym. All the while, the manifestations of the goddesses’ presence grew stronger. Larajin could see the amber glow of her locket, even with her eyes closed.

Leifander switched the course of his instruction. “At the same time that you are imagining your body shifting, you pray. The words of the prayer are … They begin with …”

He paused, and Larajin opened her eyes a crack, to see him shaking his head in frustration.

“It won’t work,” he said. “I can’t put the prayer into words. The common tongue is too coarse.”

“Then speak it in Elvish,” Larajin said, switching to that language as the power of the goddesses swept through her, filling the air with a floral scent as thick as perfume. “Say the words of the spell, and I’ll repeat them.”

Leifander sniffed, and nodded at the bright red glow that enveloped them both. He began his prayer. Larajin echoed him, substituting the salutations and names of the goddesses she worshiped.

As she did, she imagined herself inhabiting the body of a tressym, with whiskers and wings and fur. Something tickled like a shiver down her spine, running swift as water from the nape of her neck to the tip of her … tail? Surprised, she sank-claws? — into the ice. Suddenly dizzy as she shrank to a fraction of her former size, she spread her-wings? — flapping them for balance.

She rose into the air.

As her eyes sprang open, she saw Leifander, still squatting on the ledge, but in crow form. He stared up at her for a moment with glossy black eyes, then let out a hoarse croak of amazement. Startled, Larajin began to think about the wonder of her transformation, instead of just feeling it, and for a moment she forgot how to fly. She tumbled through the air, gasping, but then instinct took over and her wings beat strong and sure.

As she rose to the level of the ledge once more, Goldheart launched herself into the air. The tressym shot past Larajin like an arrow, as if goading her into a chase. Laughing, Larajin obliged. Flying was wonderful, exhilarating-even more amazing than breathing water had been. She chased Gold-heart through the sky, and they tumbled like two kittens, high above the moonlight-dappled surface of the lake. They flew, hard and fast, in a laughing race to the lightning-struck tree at the lake’s edge.

A dark shape shot past them, cawing furiously, then made a sharp turn to the side. Only then did Larajin remember the danger. The elf who had tried to kill her earlier was down there still, somewhere on the shore, and there would probably be others scouring the edges of the lake, looking for her. She doubted they’d recognize her in tressym form, but it was best not to take any chances.

Nodding to show that she understood, she turned in a graceful arc and allowed Leifander to set their course.