Heirs of Prophecy

CHAPTER 15

As the tent flap rustled, Larajin jumped in alarm and raised her hand to cast a spell. Beside her, Doriantha drew a dagger with a slither of steel and Goldheart fluffed in alarm. But instead of the person Larajin most feared-Drakkar-pushing his way into the tent, it was Rylith, the person she most wanted to see.

The druid blinked once in surprise to see Larajin inside Doriantha’s tent, then immediately nodded as if finding Larajin there was something she’d half expected.

She looked around the tent and asked, “Where is Leifander?”

“We don’t know,” Larajin said in a tense voice. “Doriantha saw him perched on Lord Ilreth’s manor, and told him to meet her here, but he never arrived. Goldheart spotted him flying over the Red Plumes’s camp a short time later, but then he just … disappeared.”

Rylith’s eyebrows furrowed. “Disappeared?”

Instead of questioning Larajin further, however, she turned to the tressym and uttered a series of mrrows and yrrows, then finally, a soft growl.

Rylith switched back to the common tongue. “His disappearance doesn’t appear to be the Red Plumes’s work. I think it was some spell he cast upon himself-that he somehow managed to render his crow form invisible. As for his safety now…”

Her voice trailed off as a sudden commotion erupted, far from Doriantha’s tent. Larajin could hear the shouts of men, and the faint but unmistakable thrum-thrum-thrum of a volley of arrows being loosed. It sounded as though the noise was coming from the northeast.

“The Red Plumes!” Larajin said, stiffening. “Do you think it’s Leifander they’re shooting at?”

Doriantha joined Larajin in giving Rylith a tense, expectant look, but the druid merely sat quietly, listening. After a moment, the sound of bows stopped, and there were more distant shouts.

“If Leifander is the cause of that commotion, we can only hope he has escaped,” Rylith said. “As to that-we shall see.”

Doriantha nodded in acceptance, but Larajin jumped to her feet. “What? You mean we’re just going to sit here and wait? We should-”

Rylith silenced her with a gesture, then she pulled something out of a pouch that hung at her hip. She began to chant the words of a spell. The object was a fist-sized chunk of amber of a clear, yellow color. Within it was a single speck-an insect, Larajin assumed at first, but then the speck began to move. Larajin and Doriantha leaned closer, and Larajin’s breath caught in her throat as she recognized the moving shape for what it was: a tiny black crow.

“Leifander!” she exclaimed. “But where is he?”

She peered deeper into the chunk of amber. Its base was stippled and seemed to be moving-a pattern she recognized easily, after long days of flying over it: the treetops of the great forest.

“You see these lights?” Rylith asked, pointing out a faint sparkle at one edge of the amber. “That’s Essembra. He is coming back this way.”

Larajin sighed in relief and was surprised to hear Doriantha sigh, too. She’d thought the elf woman a battle-hardened veteran, not one to be overly sentimental about the welfare of individual members of her command. It looked as though Larajin had been wrong about her.

“Rylith,” Larajin said, “I have a problem. Someone else may also be headed this way. Earlier this evening, Drakkar-the wizard who was the cause of my fleeing Selgaunt-cast a spell on me. The spell embedded a magic thorn in my paw. I think it was some sort of tracking spell.”

Rylith’s eyebrows rose at the word paw. “Show me.”

Larajin pulled off her boot and extended her foot to the druid. Rylith peered at it, her tattooed cheeks puckering as she pursed her lips. Placing her amber in her lap, she held Larajin’s foot in one hand and prodded at the sole with a forefinger, as if feeling for something under the skin. She placed the flat of her hand against the bottom of Larajin’s foot and chanted the words to a spell.

A foul, burning smell filled the air, and the spot on Larajin’s foot where the thorn had embedded itself became an intense point of heat and pain. Involuntarily, she jerked her foot back.

“What’s happening?” she gasped.

Beside her, Goldheart sniffed at the foot, then growled.

Rylith shook her head grimly. “The wizard’s magic is too strong. I can’t dispel it.”

Disappointment swept over Larajin as she cradled her aching foot. She’d been certain Rylith could help her.

“Drakkar will come for me, then,” she whispered. “He’ll find me.”

Outside the tent, a stick cracked, and Larajin jumped.

Rylith placed a hand on Larajin’s shoulder. “If he does, may the goddesses protect you. May they grant that you won’t have to face Drakkar alone.”

As if on cue, the tent flap whipped open. Leifander rushed inside, an urgent look on his face.

“Doriantha! Maalthiir is planning to-”

Noticing Larajin and Rylith, he halted in mid-sentence.

“Rylith,” he breathed, placing both hands over his heart and giving a quick bow. “It’s good to see you.” He glanced at Larajin. “And you, Larajin,” he added, though his words were strained. “I’m … going to need your help.”

“You were spying on Maalthiir?” Rylith asked.

Leifander nodded, his eyes sparkling.

“Sit,” Rylith commanded. “Tell us what you’ve seen and heard.”

Leifander did as he was told and began telling the others something about Maalthiir planning to carve a road through the forest to the upper reaches of the Sea of Fallen Stars.

“It must be the reason behind the alliance,” Leifander added. “Maalthiir knew the High Council would never agree to another road being built-especially not now. He probably hoped to gain the council’s favor by sending his soldiers to fight with us. Do you think they’ll grant him permission?”

Larajin, listening while she pulled her boot back on, now knew the name of the “master” Drakkar had spoken of earlier.

“Maalthiir isn’t planning to ask the council’s permission for anything,” she said grimly. “He won’t have to. Not once the drow control the forest.”

Leifander and Doriantha both gave her startled looks. Rylith’s eyes merely widened.

“The drow?” Leifander blurted. “What do they have to do with any of this?”

Quickly, Larajin related the story of what she’d seen and heard at the tower.

“Gods curse Maalthiir-and his wizard Drakkar!” Doriantha exclaimed. “That’s why they’re insisting all of the elf forces march toward Essembra. They hope we’ll leave the rest of the forest unguarded.”

Leifander’s eyes had a thoughtful look. “Drakkar,” he said slowly. “Maalthiir mentioned him.”

“What did he say?” Rylith prompted.

“Something about the mist that caused the blight. He said Drakkar could dispel it.”

“All of it?” Doriantha asked. “Impossible. It’s spread throughout the forest, over an area of many miles.”

Leifander shrugged. “Maalthiir made it sound as though Drakkar could dispel all of it at once with a wave of his hand.”

It was Rylith who made the connection. “The poisonous mist,” she said slowly. “It must be Drakkar’s doing.”

Leifander shook his head. “It’s no mere spell,” he said. “The mist came from wands-like the one I captured.”

“Wands that must have been made by Drakkar,” Rylith said, “and imbued with a spell that made their effects permanent.” As she said the latter, she glanced at Larajin’s foot, then away again.

“Drakkar is at the root of this war,” Larajin said grimly. “He wormed his way into the Hulorn’s confidence, and got him to persuade Sembia’s Merchant Council to use the wands. He knew it would provoke the elves.”

“I suspected as much,” Rylith said, “but there’s more. The choke creeper ‘infestation’ that prompted the use of the wands-it too was deliberate.”

“You mean, someone planted the stuff?” Larajin asked.

She shuddered, remembering how the creeper had nearly strangled her.

As Rylith nodded, Leifander’s eyes widened.

“The Sembians!” he exclaimed. “It must have been them. When I carried the druids’ message to Thamalon Uskevren, in Selgaunt, I saw choke creeper sprouting in his garden. I thought it was a weed he’d foolishly overlooked, but now I see the truth. He must be involved in all of this.” His lips curved in a sneer. “It makes me feel dirty, to have this man’s blood in my veins.”

Larajin’s cheeks flushed with anger as Leifander talked about Thamalon Uskevren-her father-like a common criminal, but it was Rylith who reprimanded him.

“Leifander! I will not have you speak this way. You are not thinking. The Sembians have nothing to gain from this war. It has cut off their trade with the cities of the north. You are wrong about your father. Thamalon Uskevren is a friend to the elves. The choke creeper was in his garden because he was trying to help us-he was trying to find a way to exterminate it without using the wands.”

Leifander’s mouth opened. “You knew this all along? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted you to draw your own conclusions about your father,” Rylith answered.

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, Leifander’s face colored. He stared into the distance, then slowly nodded.

“You’re right,” he said at last. “I wasn’t thinking. There is only one person who has anything to gain in all of this.”

“Maalthiir,” Doriantha spat. “All of the strands of the web lead back to him.”

A brief silence followed, broken only by the sound of Gold-heart’s wings rustling as she worried a frayed feather with her teeth. Doriantha held up her dagger. Her eyes glittered as brightly as its polished steel.

“I say we kill the spider,” she said. “Maalthiir must die.”

She started to rise, but Leifander caught her arm.

“Don’t!” he exclaimed. “You’ll only be playing into his hands. Make an attempt on his life, and he’ll have an excuse to turn on us.” He gestured in the direction of the Red Plumes’s camp. “Maalthiir has already tricked us into permitting hundreds of his soldiers to march into the heart of Cormanthor. He’s hoping for a falling out-maybe not so soon as this, but eventually. If an incident doesn’t occur on its own, he’s planning to cause one.”

Grudgingly, Doriantha sank back down again.

“Something has to be done,” Rylith added, “but Leifander is right, Doriantha. Even if you succeed in killing Maalthiir, it will not stop this war. It will only throw tinder on the flames and force us to fight on three fronts: the Sembians, the drow, and the Red Plumes. We will be defeated-and the great forest will be lost.”

Though the discussion was animated, Larajin was only half listening. Instead she pondered Somnilthra’s prophecy. Somnilthra had said that, together Leifander and Larajin could heal the rift between human and elf and end the war. She’d told them to make use of a heart and to use love rather than hate.

A heart in love …

Larajin realized the answer. Love, she reflected, could make people do things they would not ordinarily do-foolish things, things contrary to their nature. Larajin herself had played love’s fool less than a year before. Smitten with love for Diurgo-a noble who barely acknowledged her existence-she’d tried to follow him on his pilgrimage to Lake Sember. She hadn’t cared about the consequences. The furor caused by her leaving Stormweather Towers without telling anyone where she was going, the anxious moments she’d caused her family, the possible dangers she’d face. It hadn’t even mattered that Diurgo felt nothing for her. She’d ignored all of this and run after him, driven on by the beating of a love-smitten heart.

Her eyes fell on Doriantha. At first she saw only the tattoos, rough clothing, and feathered braid, then she looked deeper and saw a woman whose keen intelligence and fiery spirit would cause any man to fall in love with her, even a city-bred human.

Perhaps, if the goddesses were willing, even a human with a pathological hatred of elves. If Maalthiir were in love with an elf, Larajin realized, he might abandon his plans to backstab her people, but could it be done? Could the two goddesses work together through Larajin to fill his heart with a love that went beyond the foolish, into the realm of the foolhardy?

If they could-if Maalthiir’s love was strong and foolish enough-he might even be persuaded to work at brokering a peace between his elf allies and Sembia-or even to use his army against the drow…

Then Larajin realized the flaw in her plan. Thanks to Leifander spying on Maalthiir, the Red Plumes were as stirred up as a nest of hornets. There was no way she was going to get close enough to cast a spell on him, even in tressym form. Yet the attempt would have to be made that night-before Drakkar found her.

Larajin’s gaze fell on Leifander, and in that moment she remembered that the prophesy was not hers alone to fulfill. Her brother had a role in all of this, too. That was what the goddesses had been trying to tell them, all along. The twins must combine their magic. Together, they could do anything.

The thought filled Larajin with a sudden rush of hope, leaving her giddy. Breathless, she interrupted the discussion.

“I know how we can do stop this war,” she cried, “how we can mend the rift between human and elf. It was just as Somnilthra said, we have to use love to conquer war.”

She turned to Doriantha, and saw open skepticism in the elf’s eyes. The hardest part would be persuading Doriantha to play along with what would sound like a ridiculous plan, but if the spell Larajin cast on Maalthiir was strong enough, Doriantha could even slap him across the face without dampening his feelings for her. She needn’t even pretend to care for Maalthiir. She just might relish the thought of tricking him into using his Red Plumes to rid the forest of drow.

“Doriantha,” Larajin said, “I’m going to tell you something I know will sound crazy, but please hear me out. Leifander and I will need your help.”

Before Doriantha could reply, Larajin turned to the druid and said, “Rylith, we’ll need your help, too. Would you be able to use your amber to locate Maalthiir?”

Rylith nodded.

Larajin turned to her brother and asked, “Leifander, could you summon up a breeze and use it to carry a small, light object in a precise path over a distance of several hundred paces?”

He made a dismissive gesture. “Child’s play.”

“Could you do it if you could only see the object in Rylith’s amber?”

“I suppose,” he said, frowning, “but to what end? And what object?”

Larajin picked up a downy feather that Goldheart had preened from her wing, noting with satisfaction that it was predominantly red-Sune’s sacred color.

“This feather,” she said.

Leifander and Doriantha stared at her blankly, but on Rylith’s face Larajin saw the dawning of a smile. Quickly, Larajin began to speak.

Larajin completed her prayer and held up the tressym feather. Small and downy, it was perhaps the most unusual “weapon” of war ever wielded. Tiny though it might be, it vibrated with magical power. Its color had deepened to a vivid crimson that almost seemed to glow in the darkness, and the scent of Hanali’s Heart wafted from it as though it had been soaked in perfume.

“It’s ready,” she told Doriantha. “Now it’s time for you to kiss it.”

Doriantha hesitated, her lip curling, then leaned forward. She gave the feather the briefest of kisses, and stared skeptically at it.

“Are you sure this will work? Isn’t the enchantment on it too obvious?”

“Only up close,” Larajin said. “It’ll be Leifander’s job to blow the feather up against Maalthiir in such a way that he doesn’t see it coming until it’s too late.”

Overhead, a thickly leafed duskwood tree swayed in the wind, throwing a patter of shadows across the moonlit forest floor. The breeze-cool and refreshing, and carrying rich woodland scents-had been summoned by Leifander. He sat cross-legged on a mossy boulder, eyes closed and arms extended. His hands drifted in lazy circles, fanning the breeze that fluttered the glossy black feathers in the end of his braid.

Rylith, standing next to him, peered intently into her amber. “I see him,” she said softly. “Maalthiir is at the center of a group of soldiers. He has just passed through the northern gate and is walking in the direction of the manor house.”

Larajin nodded. “We’d better hurry. Once he’s indoors, it will be more difficult.”

She strode to where Leifander sat and held the feather up in front of him. “Ready?” she asked.

He drew a deep breath, opened his eyes, then nodded. Larajin let go of the feather, which started to drift to the ground. Leifander exhaled. Caught by his breath, the feather at first tumbled through the air, then seemed to find its bearings. It floated away through the forest, weaving its way through the trees.

“Quickly,” Larajin told Rylith. “The amber.” Then, to Doriantha, “Go now. The feather will reach him before you do.”

As Doriantha slipped away into the night, the druid raised the fist-sized chunk of amber so Leifander could peer into it. The image inside, which a moment ago had shown a group of Red Plumes striding up Rauthauvyr’s Road, suddenly shifted. Something rushed into view from a distant point, deep within the amber’s yellow depths. It drew close enough for Larajin to recognize it as the tressym feather-and it was gone.

“What’s happened?” Larajin asked, alarmed.

“Watch,” Rylith said.

Larajin did, and saw that the image inside the amber had changed yet again. Instead of the view being fixed at a single point, like a watcher looking down from above, the objects inside the amber seemed to lunge wildly past while the viewpoint constantly changed. A tree appeared, loomed close for a moment, then was gone. A clump of ferns raced up from below-then tumbled away as the view soared up toward the sky like a bird. The angle shifted wildly to avoid a tree branch that suddenly came into view, then a level course once more.

Watching, Larajin realized that the amber was showing the world from the perspective of the feather. Blown by the breeze, tumbling this way and that, it floated out of the forest and into a clearing, then drifted above an expanse of trampled earth that Larajin recognized as Rauthauvyr’s Road. A palisaded wall loomed ahead-and a moving carriage, the passage of which sent the feather spiraling-and the open gates approached, and passed by.

Dizzy, Larajin had to look away for a moment to clear her head. She watched Leifander instead, marveling at his control. He was drawing air in through his nostrils and blowing it out through pursed lips in a constant stream, like a trained musician. Eyes locked on the amber, he shifted his head ever so slightly this way and that, altering the flow and direction of his magical breeze. His brow was furrowed in a look of intense concentration, and a trickle of sweat rolled down his temple and tattooed cheek, eventually dripping from his jaw. He ignored it, his chest rising and falling slowly, hands still fanning the air.

Larajin turned her attention back to the amber. The feather moved through the town, drifting over rooftops and corrals, seeking the road Maalthiir and his men were walking. As it passed over the chimneys of the temple of Gond, the image inside the amber tumbled wildly as a current of hot air from a chimney caught it, and for several heart-stopping moments Larajin thought Leifander had lost control of the feather. When the view steadied, the street zoomed up from below.

Walking along it were six men. Their figures enlarged inside the amber as the feather drifted down toward them. One of the figures-an officer with a scar running in a vertical line down one cheek-looked up as if sensing something was wrong, and Larajin held her breath. Maalthiir, walking beside him, noticed his officer looking up and glanced in the same direction, a look of bloodthirsty anticipation on his face, as if he was expecting the return of the crow that had spied on him earlier.

As Leifander blew out the last of his breath in a rush Maalthiir’s face enlarged, filling the amber completely. Closer still-a square, stubbled jaw-and closer still-tight, cruel lips-and-

Nothing. The amber was empty.

Leifander slumped, closing his eyes. His breathing became rapid and shallow, and his skin paled. Larajin reached for his shoulder, thinking he was going to fall, but then his eyes opened and his back straightened.

“I did it,” he said in a proud voice. “The feather struck Maalthiir full on the lips. It was amazing. Never have I felt so close to the Lady of Air and Wind. I felt like a nestling, enfolded in her powerful wings.”

“And now it’s up to Doriantha,” Larajin said. “May Hanali Celanil and Sune watch over her, and protect her.”

That brought Leifander down to earth.

He gave Rylith a worried look and asked, “Can you see her in the amber?”

The druid spoke a flowing phrase in Elvish. A figure appeared within the amber. It was Doriantha, walking along Rauthauvyr’s Road. Anxiously, Larajin peered over Rylith’s shoulder, watching as Doriantha was challenged at the gate, then allowed to pass through. Doriantha hurried up the road, toward the manor, then up its steps. The view shifted then, showing her entering the great hall. Figures were clustered at the end of it. Maalthiir, his officers, and Lord Ilmeth of Essembra were there. They were involved in an animated discussion, heads close together, but when Doriantha entered, Maalthiir glanced up and the scowl on his face softened. When Doriantha placed a hand above her heart and gave a graceful bow, the scowl melted from his face. A moment later, after beckoning Doriantha forward and listening to her speak, his expression changed to a dreamy smile.

“The spell worked!” Larajin exclaimed with relief.

“It did indeed,” Leifander added a moment later. He too was staring into the amber, watching Larajin’s plan unfold. “You see? Maalthiir’s drawn away from his men and has led Doriantha to a quiet corner to talk. Just look at the desire, burning in his ugly eyes. He’ll be asking her to lay with him in another moment. Yes, there! They’re leaving the hall together.”

With that last comment, Leifander’s voice had dropped to a low growl. Tearing his eyes away from the amber, he leaped from the boulder and began pacing back and forth across the clearing.

Watching him, Larajin suddenly realized something. Her brother had feelings for Doriantha. The elf warrior, in turn, cared for Leifander. Hanali Celanil had blessed them both, though their love had yet to fully blossom.

Larajin offered up a prayer for Doriantha’s safety, imploring the goddesses to give the archer’s budding romance with Leifander time and tranquility in which to blossom. It would be a grim thing indeed if Maalthiir or his officers were to discover Larajin’s plot and Leifander were to lose a second woman he adored to the Red Plumes’s wrath.

Intent upon her prayer, Larajin at first didn’t pay any attention to Rylith’s quick intake of breath, but then the druid spoke in a strangled whisper.

“No-what was Doriantha thinking? She has stabbed him!”

“Who’s been stabbed?”

A glance into the amber gave Larajin the answer. She saw Maalthiir staggering into the great hall, hands clasped to a stomach that was leaking red. The officer with the scarred face sprang immediately to his side, easing him to the ground and laying hands upon his wound, probably invoking a healing spell. In that same instant, Doriantha came into view.

Leifander, who had joined Larajin and Rylith in peering into the amber, let out an anguished cry.

“What is she doing-why doesn’t she flee? She’ll be killed!”

Doriantha was pointing behind her, at the hallway she’d just emerged from. Two of Maalthiir’s men seized her-strangely, Doriantha did nothing to resist them-while the remaining three ran in the direction she’d been pointing. After a few moments they reappeared, forcing two captives ahead of them at sword point.

Rylith let out a relieved sigh as the two men holding Doriantha released her and gave quick, apologetic bows.

“All is well. It appears that it was not Doriantha who attacked Maalthiir, but someone else-two humans. My guess is they are Sembian spies.”

“Sembians?” Larajin asked in átense, low voice.

A sense of premonition gripping her, she peered more intently at the amber in Rylith’s hands. The two captives were on their knees, one with blood running from a gash in his leg, the other holding his head as if he’d been struck. As Larajin watched, their hands were forced behind their backs, and bound.

Maalthiir, his bloody wound stanched by magic, sat up groggily and said something. The officer who had been tending him nodded, then strode over and slapped the captive with the wounded leg. He barked an order over his shoulder, obviously relaying Maalthiir’s orders. One of the Red Plumes bent his bow, stringing it.

The second captive-the one who had been holding his head-turned to see what was happening. As he did, Larajin recognized his face. Suddenly, she knew what would come next-she’d seen it in her vision.

“Goddess, no!” she said in a high, tight voice. “That captive-it’s Tal. They’re about to execute him!”

Heart pounding, Larajin winged her way toward the town as fast as she could fly. Fear lent an urgency to each stroke of her wings, and determination made her ignore the oldiers in the streets below who were pointing up at her and shouting. An arrow sang past her, barely a pace away, but she only realized the soldiers below were shooting at her when a second arrow, closer than the first, snagged her wing and sent her tumbling. Furiously, she beat her wing to loosen it from her feathers, then recovered and flew on.

A short distance behind her, a small black shape trailed in her wake. Leifander had skinwalked only a heartbeat or two after Larajin did, but whether he meant to help her or to try to stop her was unclear. Nor did it matter. The only thing Larajin could think of was Tal.

Swooping down to street level, she flew toward Ilmeth’s Manor. With a rush of relief, she saw that Tal was still alive. Two Red Plumes had dragged him out onto the street, and were trying to force the struggling Tal to his knees. The archer-one of the Red Plumes-stood a few paces away, an arrow nocked but the bow held loosely at his side. The other captive lay on his face in the street in a pool of blood, the point of an arrow protruding from his back. The soldiers threw Tal face-first onto the ground beside the body, then took a quick pace back. The archer raised his bow as Tal struggled to rise.

Howling her fury, Larajin dived at the archer. She raked him with all four feet, claws tearing at his face. Above her, she heard a hoarse caw, and from behind her came a stranger sound-the snarl of an angry dog. She risked a glance back, and saw Tal rising to his feet, getting ready to run. There was no time to see if he made it, however. She had to avoid the archer, who flailed at her, cursing.

Larajin scratched his arm, but her claws slid harmlessly off the thick leather bracer that protected it. His fist connected with her head, knocking her spinning through the air. She crashed into a wooden rail in front of the building opposite Ilmeth’s Manor, and felt something crack in one wing, then she fell heavily to the ground. Shaky, unable to rise, she looked up and saw the archer aiming his arrow at her.

So this is how I’m going to die, she thought, vision blurring from the pain of her injured wing. Silently, she began to pray. Goddess enfold my soul in your love, I-

A heartbeat before the archer loosed his arrow, a large dark shape streaked up the street. Leaping into the air, it struck the archer full in the chest, knocking him down.

The other two soldiers-Ilmeth’s men-were also in trouble. Leifander, still in crow form, had landed on the rooftop above Larajin and was flapping his wings furiously. The blast of magical wind he summoned caught the two full on, tumbling them backward like blown leaves against the steps of Ilmeth’s Manor. Inside the manor, Red Plumes officers shouted orders, drew steel, and tried to join the fight. The wind howled in through the open doorway, driving them back.

At last able to rise to her feet but still unable to straighten her injured wing, Larajin looked around. She saw no sign of Tal-she prayed that meant he’d escaped-but she did finally get a good look at her savior. It was an enormous wolf that stared back at her with bright green eyes. Amazingly, the wolf reared up and walked like a man on its two hind legs. Bending at the waist, he reached down with paws that looked like elongated, hairy hands, picked her up, and gently cradled her to his chest, then he ran.

The pain of her injured wing nearly made Larajin faint. Gentle though he was, the wolf-creature couldn’t help but jostle her as he ran. Larajin had a dim sense of buildings flashing past, then a gate, and shouting soldiers, and arrows singing past. Head lolling, she happened to look up and saw Leifander flying low and hard after them, then trees were on either side and the wolf-creature’s run became a series of leaps and zigzags as he made his way deeper into the forest.

The pain in her wing was intense, all consuming. Larajin tried to cast a healing spell, but the prayer would not come to her lips. She found herself unable to maintain concentration, and she began slipping out of tressym form. Her torso and limbs elongated, fur and feathers shrank back into her skin, and her injured wing became an injured left arm. The wolf-creature, suddenly finding his burden increased tenfold, staggered under the increased weight and nearly dropped her. Sagging to his knees, he lowered her to the forest floor.

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

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

“Larajin?”

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

“Tal?” she asked.

The werewolf nodded.

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

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

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

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

Leifander dipped his head in a slight bow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They didn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Drakkar, please,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Of course you will.” With that brief comment, he forced open her mouth, and jammed the thorn into her tongue.

Grimacing at the bitter taste, Larajin tried to spit the thorn from her mouth, but instead it wormed its way ever deeper into her tongue. Drakkar stared down at her, waiting for whatever foul magic he’d just worked on her to take effect.

She glared up at him. Drakkar had blasted Leifander’s mind, had bound Tal in silver knowing it was poisonous to him, and now was about to subject her to some equally foul magic, then kill her. She strained her eyes, glancing at Leifander’s drooling face, at Tal’s struggling form. Two brothers whom she’d do anything to be able to save-even sacrifice herself, so strong was her love for them …

…and Larajin realized the spell the goddesses wanted her to cast. It was the most powerful one in their arsenal-the one that had already turned Maalthiir into a lovesick fool. All Larajin had to do was get Drakkar to lower his lips to hers.

The thorn wriggled deeper into her tongue. Then, all at once, the pain of it disappeared. Drakkar, as if sensing his magic had come to fruition, straightened.

“Now then,” he wheezed. “What were you doing at the tower in the forest? What did you see and hear?”

“I saw you meeting with … the drow,” she answered, keeping her voice deliberately faint and weak. “You were … talking about … the plan to …”

Drakkar leaned closer. “To what?”

Larajin whispered. “I heard you say …”

As Drakkar cocked his head, Larajin offered up one last, silent prayer to Sune and Hanali Celanil. As she completed it, magical energy flowed through her, causing her entire body to flush a deep red and the floral scent to rush from her pores. For one brief instant, the paralysis left her-but that instant was enough. Jerking her head upward, she kissed Drakkar full on the lips. Then her body stiffened and became rigid once more.

The wizard staggered back, angrily wiping the back of his hand against his lips. His face twisted in an angry sneer, and he raised his staff, clearly about to discharge the full force of its magical energies upon her-but a heartbeat later, his expression slowly began to change. The sneer softened, then left his face entirely. His eyes widened, and his lips parted in a soft smile.

“Larajin,” he sighed.

Larajin closed her eyes, breathing a sigh of thanks to her goddesses. She gave Drakkar an imploring look.

“Free me?”

“Of course, Larajin, dear. Of course.” With a wave of one dark hand, he released her.

Larajin sat up and immediately kneeled over Tal, who was still struggling against his bonds, albeit feebly. He seemed too weak to speak or even to acknowledge Larajin as she whispered encouragement to him and stroked his brow. Out of the corner of her eye, Larajin saw a dark glint in Drakkar’s eyes. She instantly understood the look for what it was.

“You needn’t be jealous,” she told the wizard. “He’s only a … my brother.” She blinked. Why had she said that? She’d intended to say that Tal was a friend, yet something had compelled her to blurt out the truth instead.

The thorn. Like the one that had pierced her foot earlier that evening, it had vanished, but its magic was still strong.

Drakkar’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. “This werewolf is your brother? Who is he?”

Finding herself unable to lie, Larajin let the truth tumble out. “He’s the youngest son of the Uskevren household, Talbot.”

“How is he the brother of a serving girl?”

“His father Thamalon had a-dalliance-with my mother. Tal is my half-brother.”

“Ah.” The explanation seemed to satisfy Drakkar. He glanced at the slack-jawed Leifander, who starred dully back at him. “And the elf? He claims to be Thamalon Uskevren’s son. Is he your brother, too?”

Larajin blinked in surprise. Drakkar already knew about Leifander’s parentage? The spell compelled her to answer.

“Yes. He’s my brother too.”

The wizard merely grunted.

“Drakkar,” she continued. “You know I can’t lie to you. If I promise to prevent either of my brothers from harming you, will you reverse the spells you cast on them? Please … for my sake?”

Drakkar glanced briefly at Tal, then stared at Larajin, a look of intense longing on his face. “Answer one question for me, first.”

Larajin braced herself.

“Do you love me?”

“No.”

He winced.

Larajin had to speak quickly, or all would be lost. “Can’t you understand how it pains me to see my brothers like this?” she asked Drakkar. “Imagine how you felt, just now, when I admitted I didn’t love you. My anguish is equal to what you just felt, but at least you have hope, that one day, if you redeem yourself…”

She let her voice trail off, wary about saying too much. She wanted to give Drakkar the illusion that she might love him, one day. If she continued speaking, however, the truth would come out. She didn’t even trust herself to look at Drakkar, lest the thorn compel her expression to show what she truly felt. Fear. Disgust. Hatred.

“Very well!” Drakkar cried.

He made a quick hand gesture and spoke a word in the drow tongue. With a faint hissing sound, the magical coils vanished. Tal groaned and rolled over onto his back, staring at the sky. Dark singe lines crisscrossed his flesh, but at least he was alive.

“And Leifander?” Larajin asked.

Drakkar beckoned for Leifander to approach him. Leifander blinked in confusion a moment, then at last grasped what the wizard wanted. He walked to Drakkar, obedient and docile, and gave the wizard an innocent, trusting look as Drakkar’s questing fingers moved across his scalp.

“Ah!” Drakkar grunted after a moment or two. “There.”

He plucked something out of Leifander’s scalp, and held it up for Larajin to see. It was another thorn. Drakkar flicked it away into the forest.

Leifander’s eyes cleared instantly. With a harsh caw, he leaped for the wizard’s throat. Larajin, however, had anticipated this, and shouted a single command: “Stop!”

Once again, the fragrance of Hanali’s Heart filled the air as the locket at Larajin’s wrist pulsed red. Suddenly rigid, Leifander strained against Larajin’s spell a moment or two, then, finding himself unable to attack Drakkar, he whirled on her.

“Why?” he asked in a strangled voice.

“I made a promise to Drakkar,” Larajin said, “that if he restored your mind, I wouldn’t let you harm him.”

“My … mind?” Leifander rubbed a temple and looked around like a sleeper who had suddenly awakened. He saw Tal groaning on the ground, and added, “What happened here?”

Drakkar continued to eye Leifander warily. His fingers hovered over on his staff, ready to pluck a thorn at the first sign of trouble.

“I’m having a talk with Drakkar,” Larajin answered. “Just like Doriantha is talking to Maalthiir.”

Understanding bloomed instantly in Leifander’s eyes.

“I see.” He glanced at Drakkar, then feigned disgust. “Fine. Talk to him, then.” Deliberately, he turned his back on her.

Larajin turned her attention back to Drakkar, whose posture was still tense and ready. Infatuated with her he might be, but he was still cautious.

“Drakkar, like you, I’m half human and half elf,” Larajin continued. “I’ve faced a lack of acceptance because of it, but I’m not a traitor to my people.”

“Nor am I!” Drakkar wheezed. “My people-”

“You’ve turned your back on your human side,” Larajin said, “and that saddens me.” She let the words hang in the air a moment, then added, “Do you know what would make me very happy?”

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.”