Heirs of Prophecy

CHAPTER 5

Larajin followed the wild elves east through the forest. The route they took was a winding one, along game trails all but invisible to Larajin’s eyes. Even before dusk fell, she was completely turned around. When the darkness became complete, she would have lost her way entirely, save for the firm grip Doriantha had on her elbow.

Larajin expected the elves to halt for the night, but they stopped only briefly to eat a few handfuls of dried berries and to drink from a stream. Then they journeyed on through the darkness, winding their way between the trees as if they had the eyesight of owls. Even Larajin, with her excellent night vision, was hard-pressed to keep up the pace.

By the time morning dawned, she was exhausted. Even if they had stopped long enough for her to perform the morning devotions, she would have been too tired to do them properly. She kept hoping that Doriantha would at last announce that they had reached the Tangled Trees, but the march east continued as the sun rose in the sky. The farther they got from Rauthauvyr’s Road, the thicker the forest became. Larajin stumbled over roots and fought her way through prickling branches, skinning her hands and muddying the knees of her trouser skirt in scrambles up steep slopes.

The elves seemed unperturbed by the forest, moving through it with the quiet canniness of wild animals. Their bare feet skipped lightly across moss-slick stones that sent Larajin skidding into icy streams. They deftly avoided the broken branches of wind-fallen trees that snagged and tore Larajin’s clothing and knew how to space themselves so that a branch bent by the elf ahead did not strike the person following.

After receiving yet another stinging slap in the face from the bent branch of a fir, Larajin wondered if the elves were deliberately leading her through the densest forest growth in an effort to test her ability to follow them. Resolving not to appear weak, she blinked the grit out of her eyes and stumbled stubbornly on, hot, sweaty, and footsore. More than once she heard low mutters from those ahead, always including a word that was spoken as though it were a curse-a word in the Elvish tongue she was coming to recognize-the word for human.

Larajin glanced up at the sky frequently, hoping to see Goldheart winging her way above the treetops. Once, she saw a flash of crimson and her heart leaped-until she realized that it was only the brilliant red plumage of a woodpecker. Reminding herself that she had released the tressym from any further obligation, Larajin eventually stopped looking for her. It was all she could do to keep her exhausted eyes open-and to watch for the next tree root.

When the elves paused at a stream to drink, Larajin noticed with dismay that sweat had long since washed away the gold eye the priest had painted on her midriff. She offered a quick prayer of apology to Sune, asking forgiveness for her disheveled condition, and another to Hanali Celanil. She’d had no opportunity to sing the Song of Sunrise that morning or pay reverent homage to the sunset the night before. Perhaps these transgressions were the reason Sune was ignoring her prayers. It was Hanali Celanil who answered. The air filled with the floral scent of Hanali’s Heart, and Larajin’s exhaustion floated away, the blisters on her feet closed, and the ache in her muscles eased.

Thankful for this boon, Larajin pulled the tressym’s broken feather from the pocket of her shirt and cast it into the water, commending it to the goddess. The broken feather twirled a moment in a pool, flashing red and turquoise and yellow, then it was caught by the current and carried away.

The elves set out again a few moments later, bidding with curt gestures for Larajin to follow. They didn’t seem to want her with them and did little enough to aid her but kept her in sight even so, as if worried she would become lost. They were probably just following Doriantha’s orders, since none seemed inclined toward friendship. They spoke no Common and glared at Larajin with fierce looks when she tried to speak to them in the language of the wild elves. Even Doriantha said little, preferring to save her breath for the tromp through the woods.

Doriantha, however, did seem to care how Larajin was faring. From time to time she doubled back to point out the best path through a thicket or to lend a steadying hand as Larajin tried to cross a stream on a narrow log. When Larajin lagged behind, Doriantha appeared at her side, giving her a drink from her waterskin. Even so, the pace was so rapid that Larajin’s strength began to flag once more as the afternoon wore on. With every step, she prayed it would be the last one necessary to take her to the Tangled Trees.

The elves seemed to be in a hurry to get there. Larajin could guess why. They feared retribution, once the humans discovered what they had done.

When they’d crossed Rauthauvyr’s Road, Larajin had caught a glimpse of the aftermath of their attack on the caravan. It hadn’t been a pretty sight. The elves had smashed the cargo and left the bodies strewn on the road for the crows to pick at. Larajin had nearly tripped over one sellsword whose body was so pincushioned with arrows that Larajin suspected the elves had used him for target practice as he lay dying. After that, she’d averted her eyes, not wanting to see any more bodies. She’d been glad once they were across the road and into the woods once more.

She’d felt no pity for the sellswords, only revulsion at the brutality of the elves’ attack. The only one whose fate she cared about was Dray-the poor dupe. Not only had he fallen for Enik’s ruse, he’d also had the misfortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. She hadn’t seen his corpse as the elves hurried her across the road, but there was little hope that he had survived the attack.

She whispered a prayer for his soul, hoping whatever god he’d worshiped had taken pity on him. Dray was only a merchant; he hadn’t deserved to be slaughtered with the rest of them. Once the Foxmantles learned of this atrocity their wrath would know no bounds. Not even the deepest shadows of the Tangled Trees would provide a hiding place for Doriantha and her band.

In contrast to their callous indifference toward the humans they had killed, the elves had shown a reverence for their own kind. Despite their rush to get away from the road, they had tarried long enough to gather up the bones and weapons from the tomb that Klarsh had unearthed. They packed these gruesome relics along with them still-probably carrying them home for reburial, Larajin guessed.

Struggling through the forest behind Doriantha, Larajin wondered if she was doing the right thing in following the elves. Doriantha’s band had done Larajin a favor by saving her from Enik and his men, but that aid was only coincidental. What sort of reception would Larajin face once she reached the Tangled Trees? Judging by the attitudes of these elves, it wouldn’t be the homecoming Larajin had naively imagined, back in the comfort of Stormweather Towers.

As darkness descended on the forest for the second time since their journey began, the elves at last stopped to make camp. They gathered clumps of pale green moss that hung from tree branches, long and lacy as an old man’s beard, and formed it into nestlike pillows. They splashed their sweaty faces in a nearby stream, stretched their muscles, and ate a cold supper of leathery slabs of dried mushroom and a cold paste made by adding water to a powder of dried fish. Then they sank cross-legged onto the moss, weapons within hand’s reach on the forest floor beside them, and sank into the meditative state unique to elves, known as the Reverie.

As Doriantha settled down beside her, Larajin fought to keep her eyes open just a little longer. A question burned inside her, one she’d been wanting the answer for ever since they’d set out but had no time to ask.

“Doriantha,” she said, “you said I looked nothing like my brother. Did Mast-” She paused, and amended what she had been about to say. In the woods, she was a servant no longer, answerable only to herself. It didn’t feel right using the title “master,” anymore. “Did Thamalon the Younger or Talbot ever visit the Tangled Trees?”

Larajin could see little of Doriantha’s face, save for the dark line of the tattoo across her nose and cheeks, and the glint of her eyes. It was impossible to tell what her expression was.

“The names you mention,” Doriantha said quietly, “are these the children of Thamalon Uskevren?”

“Yes. He has two sons and a daughter.”

“Full-blood human?”

“Yes, all three.” Larajin yawned, blinking sleep-heavy eyes.

“They are only half-sister and half-brothers to you, then.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “No, I was speaking of your twin.”

Exhausted as she was, it took Larajin a moment to fully appreciate what Doriantha had just said. When she did, she sat up, all thoughts of sleep having fled.

“I have a twin brother?” she exclaimed.

Rustling noises told her that she had disturbed some of the other elves with her outburst. She could see Doriantha shaking her head and gesturing for silence, but she didn’t care. The news was amazing, almost impossible to believe. She wondered what her twin brother looked like. Was he, like her, struggling with the question of whether he was elf, or human, or something in-between? Or had he known of his mixed heritage all along?

A stray thought stopped her cold.

“Doriantha,” she whispered. “Is my brother still alive?”

Doriantha glanced around. “Please-you must keep your voice low. Some of the others might understand what you say.”

Larajin nodded, and Doriantha went on. “As far as I know, your twin is still alive. He was hale and hearty, when I last saw him several days ago.”

“Where is he now?”

“As to that…” Doriantha paused, and in the starlit darkness, Larajin saw her shrug. “I only know that the druids sent him to do their bidding, far to the south.”

“South? To the Dales-or do you mean Sembia? How long ago?”

Dread coursed through Larajin as she remembered the wild elves who had defended her eighteen months ago in the Hunting Garden. Had her twin brother also run afoul of Drakkar and been charred to a gruesome corpse by the wizard’s dark magic?

Doriantha tilted her head back to peer up at the sky through the thick tangle of branches overhead.

“He left within the moon,” she answered at last.

“Less than a month ago, you mean?”

Doriantha nodded, then added, “He didn’t tell me his destination. The druids forbade him to speak of it. You can, perhaps, think of a reason why.”

After a moment’s thought, Larajin guessed the answer: the impending war. Her twin brother had gone south to Sembia then, probably as a spy, since, like her, he could no doubt pass as fully human. She prayed that he hadn’t ventured into Ordulin and been sniffed out and beaten by the mob.

She shook her head at the irony. All the while she had been heading north, to the Tangled Trees, her twin had been traveling in the other direction. For all she knew, they might have passed each other as strangers on Rauthauvyr’s Road.

“Tell me more about my brother,” she said. “What’s his name? What does he look like?”

“His name is Leifander, and as I said before, he looks nothing like you. His hair is a similar color, but his eyes are a different shade of hazel. He’s broad-shouldered, and tall, and looks … much more like the people of the forest.”

“Was he raised by wild elves?” Larajin asked.

“He was.”

Larajin nodded to herself. It made sense. Of course her twin would look more like a wild elf. If he had been raised among them, he would wear their clothes, style his hair the way they did, perhaps even have marked his face with those fearsome-looking tattoos.

“If the wild elves raised my brother then why…?” Larajin paused, and cleared the catch in her throat with a soft cough. “Why was he kept and I given to my father?”

“From what I understand, that was a mistake. A woman of our people was found to wet-nurse your brother, but she didn’t have milk enough for two infants, as well as her own. The human wet nurse was to have been only a temporary measure.”

“Yet she became my mother,” Larajin whispered. “Or rather, the woman who raised me. Her name is Shonri Wellrun.”

Doriantha had paused to peer through the darkness at Larajin. “Perhaps it was not a misunderstanding on your father’s part, after all,” she mused. “Perhaps Thamalon Uskevren saw how human you looked and decided to keep you.” She shrugged. “Whatever the reason, there are some who feel he committed a grievous sin. They believe that those who share a womb must never be sundered-that great ill comes of it. Of course, there are others who take a broader view, that your father was only playing his part in pushing the wheel of fate along its preordained path.”

“What of our mother?” Larajin asked, uncomfortable with all this talk of destiny. “Tell me about her.”

“Trisdea was a famous warrior. One of our most accomplished archers. At a young age-she was just seventy at the time-she distinguished herself at the battle of Singing Arrows. When the fletch tally was taken at the battle’s end, her arrows were found to have felled nearly a hundred of the enemy.”

Larajin listened with rapt attention. That battle, according to the history books, took place nearly five centuries ago. Doing a quick calculation, she realized that her mother had been more than five hundred years old when she’d given birth to her. For the first time, Larajin realized the implications of having elf blood in her veins. She herself might have a life span double that of a human: two centuries or more. She suddenly felt very young, indeed.

“What did Trisdea look like?”

“Her hair was copper-red, and she wore it loose upon her shoulders. Her eyes, brown. When she was angry, or in battle, they darkened to the color of smoldering coals. When she was in prayer, they grew lighter, to the shade of blond wood. She was quick in her movements and nimble with the bow, but her stubbornness would make a boulder look fickle.”

Larajin thought her mother was everything she could have hoped for: noble, proud, and free-a wild elf, with windblown hair and tattooed cheeks.

“What else can you tell me about Trisdea? Did you know her well?”

“Everyone knew of her,” Doriantha answered obliquely. “Trisdea was also renowned as a cleric-one might say infamous. She studied among the moon elves, and learned from them the worship of Angharradh of the three faces. That belief is rare in the Tangled Wood. We pay homage to each aspect separately, as a goddess in her own right.” She raised a hand, and ticked off the goddesses on her fingers. “Hanali Celanil, who sent the tressym to aid you; Aerdrie Faenya, lady of air and wind; and Sehanine Moonbow, mistress of moonlight.

“Trisdea tried to persuade the elves of the Tangled Trees to worship all three goddesses in a single form but was not successful. Even her stature as a great warrior was not enough to sway our clerics. She clove to this notion stubbornly until the day she died, though she must have realized its futility. We wood elves worship in the old way and are slow to change.”

Larajin nodded, realizing that she must have inherited her stubborn streak from her mother. Like Trisdea, who had refused to divide her devotions, instead worshiping three goddesses in a single, triune form, Larajin had chosen a difficult path. She balanced her devotions, giving praise in what she hoped was equal measure to both Sune and Hanali Celanil.

Having heard Doriantha’s story, she now wondered if, like Angharradh, the two goddesses she had chosen to worship were a single whole-two sides of the same coin. One with a human face, the other with the face of an elf.

“Is my brother Leifander also a cleric?” she asked.

Doriantha nodded. “He pays homage to Aerdrie Faenya, queen of the winds. He’s a skinwalker.”

“What’s that?”

“He can shift his form from elf to bird and back again.”

Larajin nodded, savoring the wonder of it. She tried to imagine how riding the winds high above would feel but could not. If her twin could fly, no wonder she had not seen him on Rauthauvyr’s Road. She said a quick prayer for his safety, bidding the goddesses to protect him on his journey south and his return to the Tangled Trees.

A realization came to her then. In five hundred years of adulthood, her elf mother could have given birth to many children.

“Do I have other brothers and sisters?” Breathlessly, she awaited the answer, imagining an entire clan of relatives waiting for her in the Tangled Trees, soon to be met.

“Only one,” Doriantha answered. “A sister, who was born and grew old many years before you and Leifander came into this world. Her name was Somnilthra, and she was a great seer. She foretold many things during her time among us. She prophesied that Trisdea would die, were she to bear children again, and her prophesy rang true. Trisdea was much too old to be going through the rigors of childbirth-impossibly old to have become pregnant, some said. Somnilthra also foresaw-”

Doriantha stopped abruptly. Larajin waited, but the silence only lengthened.

“What?” she prompted at last.

“I am overstepping myself,” Doriantha said. “I forget that some stories are not mine to tell. Suffice it to say that Trisdea did not heed her daughter’s warning and now lies buried in the Vale of Lost Voices in a tomb befitting a warrior of her stature.”

Larajin let this go without further comment. Instead, she mused over all she had just been told and started to see a pattern. Her mother worshiped the triune goddess, of whom Hanali Celanil, the goddess Larajin prayed to, was one aspect. Her brother Leifander worshiped a second aspect of the triune, the winged goddess Aerdrie Faenya, and Doriantha had said that their elder half-sister, Somnilthra, was a seer, gifted with foresight by the gods.

“Was Somnilthra a cleric, too?” Larajin asked.

Doriantha nodded. “She worshiped the Lunar Lady, goddess of dreams.”

Larajin was puzzled for a moment. The elves seemed to have a dozen different names for each god and goddess.

“Sehanine Moonbow?” she guessed.

“The same.”

There it was: a pattern, woven into all four lives. A mother who worshiped three goddesses in one-and three children, each drawn to one of that goddess’s aspects. What other strange and unseen patterns were the gods weaving through her life? Larajin could only wonder.

“You spoke of Somnilthra in the past tense,” she added. “Is she dead?”

Doriantha placed a palm over her heart. “She has entered eternal Reverie. She dreams in Arvanaith.”

Arvanaith. Larajin had read about it in one of the books in Stormweather Towers’s library. It was said to be a final resting place-a heaven-that the souls of venerable elves slipped away to when their time on this earth was done. From all accounts-all of them hearsay, since the author of the book was human-Arvanaith was a beautiful place, a paradise where an aged soul prepared for its eventual return to this world. Larajin wondered if half-elves journeyed there too when they grew old and died. She prayed to Hanali Celanil that it was so.

Yawning, she fought to keep her eyes open. Wind sighed through the branches of the trees that sheltered them, carrying the scents of loam and leaves. The soft moss she lay upon was a welcoming pillow that beckoned her to sleep. Beside her, Doriantha had settled again on her own bed, her stories seemingly at an end.

“How far is it now to the Tangled Trees?” Larajin asked, stifling yet another yawn.

“If we rise at first light, we’ll reach camp by tomorrow evening. Just in time for the Turning.”

Larajin was too sleepy to ask what that was. Instead she sank onto her mossy bed and drifted into an exhausted sleep, dreaming of the mother and sister she had never met-and of the brother she hoped to meet someday soon.

The first warning that they were approaching the elven camp came in the form of a snarl from the treetops, ahead and to the left. It was echoed a moment later by a loud yeowl, directly overhead. An enormous shape hurtled down through the tangle of branches, landing with feline grace no more than two paces ahead of Larajin. Round eyes glared at her, and sharp white teeth glinted in the moonlight as a giant lynx stared her down. Its tail lashed behind it as it growled and its ears were flat against its head. Suddenly wide awake, Larajin froze, barely daring to breathe.

Doriantha spoke a sharp word in the wild elves’ tongue. Tail still lashing, the lynx gave Larajin one last baleful glare, then turned and padded obediently toward Doriantha. The elves behind Larajin laughed as Doriantha stroked the head of the lynx, which rubbed against her like a contented house cat. One of them nudged Larajin forward.

Angry at herself for being so frightened of what was obviously one of the wild elves’ pets, Larajin stumbled forward on aching feet, following Doriantha and the lynx. Ahead in the forest, she could see the dark shapes of tents sprinkled among the trees. They were round and squat, like mushrooms. Under the thick canopy of branches their brown leather would have been invisible from the skies above. While most of the tents were silent and dark, Larajin could hear low voices murmuring inside one or two of those she passed by, and the occasional giggle or moan that made would have made her blush, had she not been so exhausted.

After walking for a few moments more, she saw a small tent up ahead that was illuminated from within. A single figure moved inside it, casting a dark shadow on its strangely mottled walls, which glowed a bright, translucent green.

As they drew nearer to this tent, Doriantha paused and spoke another command to the lynx. It turned and leaped into a tree, climbing swiftly up its trunk. One of the elves protested the lynx’s departure, gesturing at Larajin, but Doriantha cut him off with a curt word. She spoke at length to the members of her patrol in their own language, and at last they grudgingly nodded their heads.

She turned then, to Larajin. “There is someone inside the tent who will want to meet you,” she said quietly, “an important person, a druid of the Circle of Emerald Leaves. Please do not give the members of my patrol any cause for alarm.”

Larajin glanced around her, and saw that several of Doriantha’s band had their hands close to the hilts of their daggers. One had even unlimbered her bow and was silently stringing it. Larajin started to raise her hands to demonstrate that they were empty, then thought better of it. The locket that hung around her wrist could be as effective as any weapon, if the goddess so willed it. She didn’t want to remind the elves of its presence.

Instead she nodded, and meekly followed Doriantha while the other elves waited behind. She could feel their suspicious eyes upon her back, all the way to the tent.

The mottled texture proved to be the result of the tent’s construction. The walls were stitched together from hundreds of overlapping leaves of every shape and size. From within came the sound of a woman singing in the wild elves’ tongue. Intrigued though Larajin was, exhaustion and the raw ache of her blistered feet made her wish that Doriantha had saved this introduction with whoever waited inside until morning.

Doriantha paused outside the tent and drummed her fingers against its taut leaf wall, then spoke a single word, “Rylith?”

It must have been the name of whoever was inside the tent, for the singing immediately stopped. Doriantha added something more, speaking quickly in the wild elves’ tongue. Larajin heard her own name spoken by the person inside, then Leifander’s. Doriantha shook her head and answered with an Elvish word Larajin understood: “No.”

The singing began again, and suddenly an opening appeared in its wall, just in front of where Doriantha stood. It was as if the leaves had blown away in the wind. Grasping Larajin’s arm, Doriantha led her inside.

As they entered the tent, the wall of leaves became solid again behind them. Looking around, Larajin at first wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. It was almost as if they were standing in a forest glen on a sunny day. Instead of bare earth, as she had expected, the floor of the tent was covered in thick, lush grass, trimmed as neatly as any carpet and sprinkled with miniature white daisies. Above, against the dome of the roof, the sun seemed to be shining. It took Larajin a moment of squinting to realize that the light must have been the result of a spell. A network of branches grew out of the ground and wove its way around the interior of the tent, forming shelves, a low bed, and a bench against its walls. This living furniture was dotted with bright green leaves and tiny yellow flowers, which gave off a sweet, citruslike smell.

Seated on the bench was an elf with gray hair and dark tree-branch tattoos on her cheeks and chin. A band of silver leaves in her hair glittered where the magical light struck it, and over her leather breeches and vest she wore a cloak that looked as though it had been woven from autumn leaves of red and orange and yellow.

The woman gave Larajin an intense, expectant look. “You are Trisdea’s daughter?” she asked in fluent Common.

Larajin nodded.

The druid sighed. Larajin couldn’t tell if the sound was one of relief-or something else. Was Rylith disappointed in what she saw? Had she expected Larajin to look more like an elf?

Doriantha placed both hands upon her chest, over her heart, and bowed low in the direction of the gray-haired woman. From the deference she paid Rylith, Larajin guessed that the druid was both important and powerful, perhaps as highly placed among her people as the Hulorn himself. Larajin, not wanting to insult her, imitated Doriantha’s bow.

She must have done it wrong, for Rylith chuckled. She rose from her seat and strode to where Larajin stood, her leaf-cloak rustling. She bowed briefly in Doriantha’s direction, then took Larajin’s hands in hers.

“You have come at last,” she said. “Welcome.”

“Thank you,” Larajin fumbled. “I am glad to have finally reached the Tangled Trees and found my … my mother’s people. I hope I will be-”

“Welcome?” Rylith asked, as if reading Larajin’s mind. The tattoos on her cheeks folded into grandmotherly wrinkles as she smiled. “Set your mind at ease, child. I will speak on your behalf.”

Relief washed over Larajin as she met the gray-haired woman’s eyes. Rylith had a presence that was at once calming-and commanding. If she told the elves of the Tangled Trees to welcome Larajin, so it would be.

Rylith said something to Doriantha, who nodded and picked up a small earthenware jar from one of the shelves. She passed this jug to Rylith, who unstoppered it and offered it to Larajin. The fruity smell of fermented berries rose from within. Larajin glanced down, and saw that the jar was filled with a blue-black liquid.

“A mild draught,” Rylith said. “One that will help you to relax and to sleep. Your arrival is fortuitous. Tomorrow is the Turning, an important day among our people. The dance begins at dawn. I want you to be well rested. Until then,” she added, glancing at Doriantha as she spoke, “I think Larajin should remain here with me, in my tent.”

Doriantha nodded and returned Rylith’s glance with a look bordering on relief. The warrior’s shoulders, set so square a moment ago, at last relaxed. For the first time, Larajin realized that she’d made it as far as the Tangled Trees only thanks to Doriantha and was very thankful that Doriantha had been the first elf she’d met. Any of the other elves in the patrol would have taken one look at Larajin’s too-human face, and feathered her with an arrow on the spot. Now, noticing the looks that Rylith and Doriantha exchanged, Larajin wondered what secret they shared.

“What’s going to happen tomorrow?” Larajin asked.

Rylith nudged Larajin’s hand, motioning for her to drink. “Trust in me,” she said. “You’ve come too far not to. Tomorrow you’ll get your answers.”

Exhausted, aching in every muscle and nearly asleep on her feet, Larajin shrugged. What, really, did she have to fear? If the druid wanted to harm her, she could have done so long before now. The awe in which Doriantha regarded Rylith suggested that the druid’s magic was strong. Larajin had no more reason to mistrust Rylith than she did to trust the elves of Doriantha’s patrol who waited outside the tent with daggers and bows.

She nodded, and swallowed the liquid. It turned out to be as sweet as it smelled, though it burned like one of the Uskevren’s strongest brandies. Wiping her lips with her hand, Larajin handed the jug back to Rylith. When she saw the blue-black stain the liquid had left across the back of her hand, she imagined her lips were a dark blue. The thought made her giggle and hiccup. As giggle and hiccup alternated, she became more relaxed. Doriantha disappeared somewhere into the distance, and Rylith’s face and the walls of the tent began to blur, then soft, wrinkled hands were leading Larajin to bed.

Gratefully, she sank into the blankets, and nuzzled her face into the sweet-smelling blossoms that grew on the vine-woven bed.

Tomorrow, she told herself, echoing Rylith’s words. I’ll find my answers then.

Larajin squatted on the ground, surrounded by hundreds of elves who were drumming, feasting, and singing. They had gathered in a sun-dappled clearing in the forest, at the center of which was an ornately carved wooden pole. As thick as Larajin’s waist and about one and a half times the height of an elf, the pole had been inscribed with Elvish runes that spiraled from the bottom to the top, which was carved in the shape of an acorn.

All around this pole, elves danced. Drums of every description guided their footsteps. Enormous hollow logs boomed low when struck with massive clubs by teams of drummers, taut-skinned drums clenched between knees were pounded with bare palms, dancing fingers tapped hand drums, and ornately carved hardwood sticks clicked together. The primitive music struck a chord deep in Larajin’s soul. Excitement filled her as her heart kept pace with the frenzied rhythm.

The elves had been drumming and dancing since dawn, when a camp crier, perched high in a tree above, announced that the sun had crested the treetops. Now the sun was almost directly overhead, and they were hot, sweaty, and drooping, pausing only long enough to slake their thirst with large quaffs of nut-flavored ale that had been chilled in a shaded forest stream. Yet despite the growing heat of the day, the dancing and drumming continued without pause, fresh dancers springing to their feet to replace those who flagged.

Larajin watched, fascinated. The elves of the Tangled Trees looked just as savage as those portrayed in the master’s books, but had a proud, noble quality about them that the engravings had failed to capture. Their tattooed faces, red-blond hair twisted with feathers and bones, bare feet, and rustic leather breeches and vests might give them a primitive appearance that would be scoffed at in fashion-conscious Selgaunt, but their dances were every bit as intricate as a quick-step quadrille or tarantella. The movements were physically demanding, suggestive of martial prowess-even the women’s parts. Dancers hurtled into the air, propelled over the heads of their partners, spun furiously in a low squat that erupted into a sudden back flip, or leaped into the air, heels kicking high above their heads. Larajin was dizzy just watching.

Or perhaps it was the lingering effects of the draught Rylith had given her the night before, combined with the ale. She took another long swallow and wiped the foam from her lips, savoring the warm, muzzy glow the ale provided. With each sip, the world seemed somehow brighter, warmer, more welcoming. The ale was also helping to ease the ache in her legs and lower back left by the long march through the forest.

Every now and again, a wooden platter of food passed round from hand to hand, always finding its way to the spot where Larajin sat. She recognized none of the dishes but savored their exotic tastes. There were slices of sticky-sweet orange fruit, squares of roasted meat flavored with salt and the smoke of an open campfire, crisp curl-topped ferns cooked with pungent mushrooms, and brown bread crunchy with seeds and nuts. All of it had been prepared over simple cookfires inside the brown leather tents that surrounded the clearing.

Glancing over the heads of the dancers, Larajin caught sight of Rylith. The druid was walking around the pole in a slow circle that had begun in a crouch at dawn, fingers tracing the spiraling script. Several times, she glanced up at the acorn at the top of the pole-or perhaps to the sky above it-but most of the time her attention was on the ground. She seemed to be measuring the shadow cast by the pole. All morning it had been growing shorter until it was less than a palm’s width long.

Nobody had taken the time yet to explain to Larajin what was going on, but she found that she didn’t care. Rylith had indeed spoken to the elves, and as she’d promised, Larajin was a welcome guest. Even the elves of Doriantha’s patrol, who had been so suspicious, had in the morning greeted Larajin with welcoming smiles.

Every elf Larajin had met that morning, in fact, had been overly attentive to her, greeting her with the same bow that Rylith had. They made sure her ale cup was full, and that the platters of food did not pass her by. The fierce challenges of the night before were gone, replaced by coy, curious glances.

No wonder, Larajin thought. The elves of the Tangled Trees received few human visitors and fewer still who claimed to have wild elf blood flowing in their veins. No, forest elf, Larajin corrected herself. That was what these people called themselves, and so should she. Though Larajin was willing to embrace them as kin, it would be another matter altogether to get them to see her in the same light. They were obviously still a bit wary of her completely human appearance-more than once, she caught them staring at her. Which was strange, since they shouldn’t have been surprised by the way she looked, after having Leifander grow up among them.

Larajin returned her attention to the dancers. She longed to ask the elves next to her what the celebration was all about, but the few words of Forest Elf that she spoke had proved barely enough to do more than exchange names. All she could make out was that the dance had something to do with the sun and the year, which was either beginning or ending-or both. Perhaps it was a primitive version of the Midsummer Night celebrations she’d attended a year before in the temple of Sune. She wondered if it would end, like them, with couples slipping away to consummate their flirtations.

Between the throbbing drumbeats, Larajin heard a cry of pain, echoing out of the forest. Startled, she sprang to her feet and glanced around, thinking that someone had been injured, but an elf woman beside her shook her head and gestured for her to sit down again. The woman patted her stomach, then mimed holding a baby in her arms.

Larajin nodded, understanding. The cry was that of a woman in labor. Seating herself again, she wondered if she, too, had been born during a gathering like this, surrounded by enormous trees in a leaf-shadowed tent smelling of the moss that lined its floor, while outside, elves drummed and danced. It was a far cry from the formal halls of Stormweather Towers, where births took place in rooms with scrubbed stone floors, clean beds, and trained midwives.

Taking another sip of ale, Larajin basked in the warm glow it left her with and nodded in time with the music. Despite having been there less than a day, she was already coming to understand the forest elves. In just one morning she had learned the polite way to eat, with just her first two fingers and thumb instead of the whole hand. The elves had also taught her the proper way to greet a friend, with one hand on her heart. Especially honored guests were greeted with both hands-in the manner that Doriantha had bowed to Rylith. They had even suggested, tapping a finger against her cheek, that she adopt their custom by getting a facial tattoo. Giddy with ale, she was actually considering it.

Larajin nodded and smiled at the elves around her, thanking them for each new bit of lore. Despite the fact that they were instructing her in matters of formal etiquette-something Erevis Cale had tried to drum into her ever since she was born, much to her dislike-she felt at home there, a lost daughter returned to her roots. The forest elves were a strange and wild folk, to be sure, but being among them somehow felt … comfortable. Like her, they didn’t worry about getting dirt on their knees or brambles in their hair.

Larajin shared their love of the forest and their delight at being surrounded by green and growing things. Having nothing but an open sky overhead made her feel free. She felt at home there-more than she ever had within the dusty confines of Stormweather Towers-and safe from Drakkar’s threats. The forest elves had accepted her, would protect her.

Some of their customs were strange, but they fit her more comfortably than did a servant’s quiet obedience. These people had a way of holding themselves, of walking and sitting, that mirrored her own. For the first time, her own mannerisms seemed natural. She missed Tal, and her friend Kremlar, and dear old Habrith, but in the Tangled Trees, she was among her own people. Here, at last, was a place she could call home.

As the sun climbed still higher in the sky, a patch of bright sunlight found her. Filtered through the branches though it was, the sunlight was hot on her shoulders and the crown of her head. Larajin rose to her knees, intending to shift to a patch of shade, when, as one, all of the drums stopped. She looked up, and saw Rylith standing rigidly at the center of the clearing, one hand extended overhead, face upturned and fingers splayed as she reached toward the sun. Around her, all of the dancers had sagged to the ground. They sat, panting, eyes locked on the druid.

As Rylith stood, stiff asa statue, a haze of heat formed in the air above her outstretched hand. Small as a clenched fist, confusing to the eye, the shimmer flickered rapidly back and forth between flame-white and shadow-black. At the same time, a beam of sunlight lanced straight down onto the pole while an ink-dark shadow seeped out from its base and began to creep upward in a slow spiral. Light and shadow met at the acorn atop the pole and crackled there with magical energy. Even though she sat a good distance away, Larajin’s nose tickled, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. She felt as if a thunderstorm was crackling overhead, about to break over her.

A gasp whispered through the crowd when Rylith clenched her hand shut around the flickering heat haze. She lowered her hand to her chest, as if clutching something precious, then lifted it to her lips and whispered to it. Her gaze ranged over the assembled crowd, and as it lingered, then passed over each elf, he or she gasped expectantly, then gave a disappointed sigh.

Then the druid seemed to find what she had been searching for. She stared in Larajin’s direction, and Larajin, still half sitting and half kneeling, twisted around to glance behind her. Several of the elves seated behind her were leaning forward expectantly, eyes locked on the druid. Their faces fell. Turning around again, Larajin saw that Rylith had moved away from the pole and had stepped to within a few paces of her. The druid gestured with her free hand for Larajin to rise.

Uncertain why she had been singled out, Larajin obeyed and found she was unsteady on her feet. With an effort, she regained her equilibrium. She didn’t want to embarrass herself by falling over, not with the elves all around her looking up at her with expectant faces. Rylith stepped closer, and Larajin could hear the whirring of the magical energy the druid cupped in her hand. It was a high-pitched, fluttering noise, like the sound of a hummingbird’s wings.

Rylith was speaking, addressing the crowd. The language of the forest elves flowed swiftly from her lips, as clear and high as a mountain stream or the ripple of a wind through the wood. Larajin caught only a word or two-her own name, and Leifander’s, and the Elvish word for twins-then Rylith opened her hand. In one swift motion, before Larajin could jerk away, the druid threw the ball of magical energy. It shot forward with the speed of an arrow. In the instant that it entered her, Larajin saw a tiny white feather strike her chest, then flutter to the ground.

She gasped as sunlight flared in her eyes, washing her vision white. Waves of heat and cold gripped her body, which felt as though it was expanding, growing as large as the world itself. Thoughts whirled through her mind-a multitude of voices in three choruses: those who had died, those who yet lived, and those who had yet to be born. They had a message to impart, a message of hope and despair, joy and grief, urgings and warnings. A message she struggled to understand but could not, since it was being shouted in the Elvish and common tongues at once, each drowning the other out. The emotions behind the message, however, came through like breaking waves. The voices expected her to say something, do something, to be something.

Bobbing on the sea of human and elf faces was one she recognized. Tal. He stood amidst the throng, visible from the shoulders up, wearing chain mail over his shirt and an embroidered surcoat bearing the crest of House Uskevren. There was something wrong about his face. His deep green eyes were staring, unfocused, and his dark hair was matted and wet on one side. Something seemed to be sticking out of it, just behind the right ear, as if a twig had been caught in his hair.

With a shudder of horror, Larajin realized that an arrow was sticking out of Tal’s head, buried nearly to the fletching in a mat of blood-crusted hair.

He was dead.

The view shifted, drew back. Larajin saw hands bursting out of the earth like grasping vines, twining themselves around the ankles and calves of Tal and all those around him. The hands were dark, the color of earth, and had fingernails that flashed silver, like steel. They clawed at the flesh of those above, tearing deep gashes that wept a rain of blood onto the disturbed, heaving ground.

The elves and humans were still shouting at Larajin, calling to her, demanding she listen, imploring her to act. Unable to withstand the discordant chorus of voices that broke over her, one wave crashing in after the next, Larajin grabbed her ears with both hands and broke into a stumbling run. Somehow, despite her eyes being squeezed shut, she found her way through the elves in the clearing, running faster and faster through what must have been patches of sunlight and shadow. Blazing heat alternated with winter chill as darkness, light, darkness, then light flashed before her eyes. Something grabbed her from behind, and something else knocked against her legs, tripping her and toppling her to the ground.

She wept with relief as darkness finally claimed her.

Larajin woke to the patter of rain and the smell of wet leaves and soil. She lay on a bed of soft moss, covered by a light sheet, one hand outstretched. Cool, wet leather pressed against the back of her hand-the side of a tent.

It was too dark to see anything clearly. The walls of the tent were dark, and it had been pitched deep in the forest, with a tangle of branches shrouding it from what must be an overcast sky. The resulting gloom was as dark as a cave.

Larajin lay in the darkness, wondering what had happened. Her first thoughts were of Tal. Was he still alive? Had that truly been a vision of his death she’d seen? If so, when was it going to happen-now, or in the future? There was no way to know and little she could do to warn or protect Tal while she lay there in that tent, so far from home. The thought left her with a hollow in her stomach even deeper than her hunger pangs.

Hours must have passed since the celebration in the forest clearing. Had they carried her to this tent to recover from the druid’s spell? Larajin was confused, groggy from her long sleep, hungry, and in need of relieving herself.

She sat up and located the faint line of gray that was the tent flap. Through it blew a cool breeze that smelled of rain. As she sat up and crawled toward the exit, something shifted. Larajin saw the dim outline of a creature, perched on the horizontal pole just above the tent flap, peering at her. Enormous round eyes gleamed in the darkness, then blinked. The creature shifted again, and Larajin heard a rustle of feathers.

“Goldheart?” she asked hopefully. She reached out in the darkness to stroke the tressym.

A loud hoot filled the tent, stopping her short. The creature unfolded its wings and flapped them once, warning her away. This was no tressym. It was an owl-an enormous one, as large as a hunting dog. It peered balefully at her, snapping its beak at her questing fingers. She pulled her hand back.

As the need to relieve herself grew more pressing, Larajin tried once again to crawl outside. The owl, however, beat its wings furiously and rose from its perch, raking the air in front of it with its talons and snapping its beak. Its message was unmistakable. It didn’t want Larajin to leave the tent.

Warily, Larajin searched for another exit but found none. She was frustrated and puzzled. Had this creature crept inside the tent while she lay sleeping? Or had one of the elves deliberately placed it there to prevent her from leaving? She had read in one of the books at Stormweather Towers that wood elves used owls as watchdogs.

Whatever the reason for it being there, the owl was clearly not going to let her get past it.

Feeling her way around the tent, she located a wooden bowl and dumped out the cold food that filled it. She used it to dig a hole and relieved herself, then covered the hole with earth and settled back onto her mossy bed, glaring at the owl. Whether the creature had been left there or crawled in on its own, she’d had enough of the thing.

“Hello!” she shouted in Common. “Rylith! Are you out there? What’s going on?”

Lantern light flickered against the walls of the tent, and voices called out to one another in the elves’ tongue. Then one side of the tent brightened. A moment later, moving shadows appeared and grew on its side.

The owl, which had returned to its perch, ruffled its wings a second time when the tent flap beside it opened. An elf poked his head through the entrance, peered at Larajin from under bangs that dripped with rainwater, and nodded when he saw she was awake. He said something to her in his own language, then switched to broken Common.

“You wait,” he said. “Rylith gone.”

“Where is she?” Larajin snapped.

“Travel to setting sun.”

“She’s journeyed west? Where to?”

The elf’s only answer was a stony look. There were some questions, it seemed, he wouldn’t answer.

Frustrated by his silence, Larajin chafed. She’d expected Rylith to come to the tent, to explain what had happened-what the purpose of her spell had been. Larajin felt no different than she had before, but the magical energy must have done something to her, had some lingering effect. She also wanted to ask Rylith what her vision had meant. Not the part about Tal dying-that was clear enough-but the multitude of voices shouting at her. Larajin didn’t have the patience to just sit in this tent and wait. She’d have to find a way to get to Rylith, wherever she was. Perhaps Doriantha could help.

“What about Doriantha?” she asked the elf. “Is she here?”

He shook his head firmly. “No. Gone. Go fight.”

“Has she gone to ambush another caravan?” Larajin asked hotly. “Wasn’t killing Dray Foxmantle enough for her?”

That earned her a blank look. Larajin tried again, using simpler words. “Who does Doriantha fight?”

“Sembians,” the elf said, then added, with a feral grin. “Now is war.”

“War,” Larajin echoed in a whisper.

That was it, then. The dam holding the mutual hostilities of the elves and the Sembians in check had finally broken. Was that why she’d seen an image of Tal’s death? Was he marching, even now, toward a confrontation with the elf archer who would seal his doom?

And what would happen to her now? This elf didn’t seem as friendly as the others had. Instead of smiling deferentially at her, he glowered. In fact, now that the glow of the ale-and whatever had been in that draught Rylith had given her-was gone, Larajin’s certainty of her welcome was fading, fast. Had the elves only been pretending to accept her as one of their own? Had she just imagined their smiles?

For the first time since she’d set out on her journey to the Tangled Trees, Larajin realized the ramifications of her decision. The elves had seemed so benign, so welcoming, earlier in the day. Did they now see only her human features and consider her a prisoner of war?

She rose to her feet, keeping a wary eye on the owl. “When did Doriantha leave? Can I go to her?”

The elf shook his head. “No go. Stay. Wait. Leifander come. Then you …” Unable to find the word in Common, he linked his fingers together. “Like so again. Prophecy time come, and gods take. All be good for forest elves.”

Larajin didn’t like the sound of that last part. What did he mean, exactly, by “gods take?” And what had he meant by that gesture? Larajin and her twin had been united that closely only once-in the womb. Did he mean they would be united again in death?

The elf stared at her a moment longer, then turned and stroked the owl. Seeing her chance, Larajin quickly whispered a prayer to Sune, pleading with the goddess to provide her with a spell. If she could command the elf to take the owl away with him, she might be able to slip out of the tent and find someone to help her, but though she prayed fervently, no answer came. There was no rush of magical energy, no red glow from the locket. Even the goddess had turned her back on Larajin.

The elf withdrew from the tent, leaving the owl. Defeated, Larajin turned her prayers toward Hanali Celanil, asking the goddess to fill with compassion the hearts of the elves who now held her prisoner.

As she finished her prayer, she sniffed the air. Was it only wishful thinking, or was there a faint scent of Hanali’s Heart in the air? Would the elf goddess persuade her people to spare Larajin’s life?

Time would tell.