Heirs of Prophecy

CHAPTER 8

With one last, desperate heave, Leifander yanked at the bolt that held his left wrist to the floor. At last the rusted bolt cracked, then pulled free. Nearly weeping with relief, Leifander wrenched himself up off the floor-as much as he could, with his right wrist and both ankles still manacled-and flailed at the rats that had been worrying his flesh. The manacle around his wrist connected with a dull thud, slamming down like a hammer onto one of the rats. Leifander had the satisfaction of hearing a squeal as the injured rat scurried away.

Another rat took its place a moment later-and met the same fate. With a fury born of pent-up frustration, Leifander thrashed this way and that, killing five or six of the foul creatures.

Finally sensing their danger, the remaining rats paused in their attack and hunkered just outside his reach, watching and waiting. It was as if they knew that the elf would tire soon enough-then they would feed.

The oil lamps had burned out some time ago, leaving Leifander in near darkness. A faint, gray circle of light came from the hole in the ceiling above-the ventilation pipe that the rats had come through. Now that the lamps were no longer filling the air with nose-clogging soot, Leifander could smell leaves and blooming flowers on the faint breeze that blew down through it.

The other end of the pipe must be above ground, he thought, in a garden, perhaps.

That gave him hope.

Still keeping a wary eye on the rats, he resumed his prayer to the Winged Mother. He’d repeated it dozens of times already. The goddess must surely hear it soon.

“Lady of the Skies, hear my plea. Send me the means to work my-”

The words tangled into a cry of pain as a rat sank filthy fangs into a tender spot on the bottom of his foot. His left foot-the one spot he couldn’t reach, with his right wrist still manacled to the floor. He tried to kick the rat off, but the manacle around that ankle allowed little movement. The rat clung to his foot, eyes gleaming in the darkness. Leifander heard a chewing sound as it began to feed.

Afresh wave of pain lanced into him as a second rat, made bold by the success of the first, sank its fangs into his heel. A third rat scurried up onto his ankle and bit him there. Straining, Leifander was just able to reach it and knock it off, but the other rats were rushing forward. Leifander felt tiny human hands pulling at his toes, as if his foot were a cow’s udder, being milked of its blood.

Gritting his teeth, Leifander resumed his prayer as best he could while the rats worried and gnawed at his left foot.

“Aerdrie Faenya, hear your priest in his torment!” he shouted at the hole in the ceiling. “Enfold me in your protecting wings, I beg of you!”

Nothing. The only sounds were the gnashing teeth of the rats and a scraping sound in the ventilation pipe above that was probably more of their foul brethren, come to join the feast. It felt as though the rats were flaying his foot, peeling back the callused skin to expose the soft and bloody tissue beneath.

He tried again. “Lady of Air and-”

He gasped at a fresh wave of pain and heard a cracking, grating sound. The rats had gnawed one toe down to the bone. He gulped back a cry.

“Lady of Air and Wind, send me aid.”

A tear squeezed out of one eye. Down in this foul, close place, would his pleas even be heard?

Above him, a creature squeezed out of the ventilation pipe and began to fall toward him. For a moment, Leifander thought it was another rat. He raised his free hand and balled his fist, preparing to punch it out of the air, but an instant later the creature spread its wings, breaking its fall. It flew in a tight circle around the room. As it let out a loud caw, Leifander burst into relieved laughter. His prayers had been answered! There was no way a crow-even a young one like this-would have pushed itself through that narrow ventilation pipe without the hand of the goddess guiding it.

The crow hovered just above Leifander, wings fanning his face with a welcome breeze. Leifander spotted a loose feather in its tail and blessed the goddess for her gift. In another instant, he’d be able to transform, to slip wings and tiny crow’s feet out of the manacles and fly away. Ignoring the pain of the rats still gnawing at his foot, he strained up for the feather.

Before he could pluck it from the crow’s tail, the door leading to the cells crashed open, and light flooded into the room. The crow, startled by the noise, flew up toward the ceiling. Cursing his ill luck, Leifander wrenched around to look at the door, ready to pummel the wizard’s feet with the manacle around his wrist in one last, futile act of defiance.

He stopped short, fist raised, gaping at what he saw. Two humans, both of them strangers. One was a dark-haired male, wearing a chain-mail shirt stretched across broad shoulders and a scarf that hid much of his face. The other was female, almost as slender as an elf, all but a few wisps of her amber-colored hair bound up in a bright red scarf. Both wore high boots that were splattered with mud and stank of sewage. The woman held a silver dagger that glowed with a bluish light reminiscent of moonlight but bright enough that it made Leifander wince. The man-who seemed to be shying away from the dagger’s light, as if it pained him-held a set of keys in one hand and a sword that dripped with blood in the other.

“Leifander!” the woman cried. “You’re alive.”

Leifander wondered how this woman knew his name. For a confused moment, he thought that the wizard must have told her, but by the way the pair looked nervously around the room, it was clear they didn’t belong there.

The man strode into the room and kicked at the rats, which scuttled away through the open door. He bent and began trying keys in the lock that held Leifander’s wrist to the bolt in the floor. The woman, meanwhile, kneeled at Leifander’s feet. He saw her wince, then swallow, as if bile had risen in her throat. His foot throbbed all the harder, as he realized how terrible his wounds must be. He shuddered when her fingers brushed his lacerated flesh.

“Be still,” the woman said. “We’re here to help you.”

She began to pray.

It was a strange prayer, spoken mostly in the human tongue, but with the odd word of poorly pronounced Elvish mixed in. Leifander heard her invoke the name of the human goddess Sune, then blinked in surprise as Hanali Celanil’s name followed.

The man fumbled with the keys, trying to find one that fit the manacle on Leifander’s wrist.

“What’s wrong with your fingers?” he asked, poking at the lock.

For a moment, Leifander wondered what he was talking about-it was his foot that was injured. Then he realized what the human meant.

“They’re tattoos,” he said through gritted teeth.

The man at last found the right key, and the wrist manacle sprung open. Leifander painfully sat up, rubbing his chafed wrist, then gestured at his ankles.

“The other manacles,” he said. “They should open with the same key.”

Above them, the crow continued to wing its way in a tight circle around the tiny room. The unnatural brightness of the dagger was frightening it. More than once, it swerved away from the glowing blade, narrowly avoiding crashing into a wall or the ceiling.

Down by Leifander’s ankle, the woman was still praying. She’d set the glowing dagger down. Its light was gradually dimming as it lay untended on the cold stone floor. A ruddy red glow, however, was replacing it. The glow seemed to be flowing from the hand that was touching Leifander’s savaged foot, and with it came a warmth that numbed the agony of the lacerations like a draught of bitterberry wine. An instant later, his foot felt whole again. Looking down, he saw that his wounds had fully closed. The only reminder of the injuries the rats had inflicted was a faint tingling.

The woman looked up, an expectant expression on her face. Realizing what is was she wanted, Leifander whispered his thanks. Her companion, meanwhile, fumbled open the manacle around one of Leifander’s ankles.

As Leifander withdrew his foot, his woodland-keen hearing picked up the sound of footsteps approaching from behind the closed door.

“Someone’s coming,” he hissed. “Be quick.”

Forcing himself up into a half squat on his freed foot-the second manacle was still tight around the ankle of the foot the woman had just healed-Leifander strained to reach the crow, but as it swooped down to meet him, it got in the way of the human, blocking his view of the manacle lock. The human swatted at the crow, backhanding it away from him.

“No!” Leifander cried, as the crow was sent tumbling.

An instant later the creature gave up and flew back up into the ventilation pipe and disappeared. Cursing, Leifander staggered to his feet as soon as the second manacle fell away from his ankle. He turned toward the two newcomers. However bold they might have been in this rescue attempt, they’d just cost him what might have been his only chance to reclaim his magic. With the crow gone, he’d be forced to rely on the two humans.

“Come on,” the woman whispered, picking up her magic dagger again. “There’s a way out, back through the cells. The guard’s station-the jakes. We can use them to reach the sewers.”

She slipped out of the room and hurried down the hallway between the cells. Leifander ran after her, jumping nimbly over the body of the guard his male rescuer must have killed, which lay in a spreading pool of blood, and skirting a second body without a mark on it that had probably been felled by the cleric’s magic. The male paused just long enough to close the door behind them, then brought up the rear, his sword ready.

The woman led them through the maze of hallways to a small room with a filth-crusted hole in the floor. From the darkness below that opening came a terrible stench. The two humans exchanged glances, and some unspoken communication passed between them. The man kneeled, hooked his arm through the hole, and levered up the flooring stone into which the hole had been cut, creating a larger opening. With a nod, the female sat down and slipped through it, feet first. Leifander heard a splashing noise, and a muffled word, and the light from her dagger flared up through the opening like a beacon.

The man stood guard with his sword, staring back up the hallway, and motioned urgently toward the hole.

“You next,” he ordered. “It’s only a short drop.”

Leifander took one look back down the hallway-he could hear shouts of alarm coming from the room in which the wizard had interrogated him-and made up his mind. Shivering, he forced down his fear of tight, dark spaces and concentrated on the magical blue light filling the space below the opening in the floor. Grimacing at the filth, he sat on the lip of the hole, then slid in, feet-first.

He landed with a splash in knee-deep sewage and was immediately overwhelmed by a smell that made him gag. The walls were close and tight on either side, barely wider than his shoulders, and the curved ceiling was just a handspan above his head. He felt crushed by the weight of stone around him, unable to breathe. Dizzy, short of breath-unable to move. The woman yanked him aside, and an instant later her larger companion wedged himself down through the hole. He splashed into the sewage beside them, bending at the waist to keep his head from banging the ceiling. His sword scraped against the stone wall as he turned. He reached up and dragged the flooring stone back into place, sealing them inside the tunnel.

The shouts coming from above grew louder and were joined by the sound of running footsteps. The woman whispered something, and the light from her dagger blinked out.

Somehow the darkness made the walls seem even tighter, more confining, than they had before. Leifander’s breath came quick and fast as he felt the stone all around him, walling him in on every side. Putting a hand on the wall beside him in an effort to steady himself didn’t help-it only reminded him how close the walls were. Head spinning, stomach heaving, he fought for air and found none. Bright sparkles floated before his eyes.

The woman took Leifander’s hand. Steadied by her touch, he fought his way back from the brink of panic. Forcing his eyes open, he met hers in the gloom, and nodded. In response, she tugged his hand. Leifander needed no further instruction. Wading through the stinking water as quietly as he could, he set off after the woman, while her companion followed close behind. As they rounded a bend, the shouts of the guards above slowly faded into the distance.

Leifander waited in the sewer, squatting on a ledge just below a grate that gave a view of the street above. Sunlight streamed down through the grate, forming a barred square on the ledge beside where he crouched in the shadows. The man who had rescued him-Tal, his name was-had climbed up through the grate while a wagon was parked above, using it to cover his emergence from the sewer. He’d gone to find Leifander some clothes to cover his nakedness and had left the woman to wait with him.

The woman stood in ankle-deep sewage farther back in the shadows. She looked as though she’d like to be out of the muck, but there wasn’t room on the ledge for both of them, unless she wanted to risk being seen by those passing above. At least she had boots to keep her feet dry. She alternated looking up at the grate with sideways glances at Leifander, but didn’t stare at him directly. After a moment, he realized why. Humans were uncomfortable with nakedness. Several times she seemed on the verge of speaking, only to hesitate and say nothing.

Leifander’s bare feet were slimed with sewage that felt as though it had crept into every pore. He wriggled his toes and grimaced at the slippery feeling. He wished for a cool, cleansing rain, but the sky above was a flat, hot blue.

Ignoring the woman, he began to pray in his own language. The Winged Mother had sent one crow to him already. Perhaps she would send another. All he needed was one feather, then he wouldn’t have to worry about clothes or creeping about in an enemy city. He could just fly away.

“What’s that you’re chanting, Leifander? “the woman asked suddenly. “Is it an elven prayer? I’m a cleric, as well. I worship one of the elf goddesses, Hanali Celanil.”

Leifander snorted at her foolish prattle. A human claiming devotion to an elf deity? Ridiculous. He ran a hand in frustration through the tufts where his braids had been, concentrating on his prayer.

The woman didn’t take the hint. “Are you praying to Aerdrie Faenya?” she persisted. “Are you casting a spell?”

Angry, Leifander switched to the common tongue. “You’re interrupting,” he told her bluntly, then he realized what she’d just said.

This woman not only knew his name, she knew which goddess he worshiped. A suspicion suddenly dawned.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Your sister,” the woman said, finally turning to meet his eye. “Your twin sister, Larajin.”

He stared at her a moment. So it was all true. He did have a twin sister. Yet she looked nothing like him, and her mannerisms were as crass and fumbling as any human’s. How could two people who shared the same womb have turned out to be such opposites? The gods must be laughing at the joke they had played.

“You don’t look like an elf,” he told her. “Or even like a half-elf.”

Her eyes flicked to his ears and the tattoos on his face and hands. “You don’t look like a half-elf either. I’d have sworn you were a full-blooded forest elf.”

“How did you know where I was?” he asked, changing the subject. “Why did that other human-Tal-come to rescue me?”

Her face colored. “I was the one who rescued you, with Tal’s help-and with Rylith’s. We were beside a stream, near the Standing Stone, and when I looked into one of its pools I saw-”

Leifander’s mouth dropped open. “You were with Rylith? Rylith of the Circle of the Emerald Leaves?”

“Why does that surprise you?”

Leifander shook his head. “Your father said you knew nothing of the forest elves-nothing about our people-until a few months ago. Why would one of the high druids of the sacred circle take you under her wing?”

“Our father, you mean,” she corrected him.

Leifander dismissed that with an impatient wave.

“Rylith says that twins with hazel eyes are favored of the gods,” she continued, “and that their birth is an omen of good fortune to come. You and I have a … a special destiny.”

Leifander merely nodded. Any child could have told him that. Who did this human think she was, to parrot back to him his own people’s lore? He frowned at the wall, not looking at her. Yet despite himself, he listened.

“Rylith says our half-sister Somnilthra prophesied that we would heal a great rift. Rylith says this rift is the one between human and elf-the one that led to this war.”

Leifander quickly turned his head. “The High Council has declared war?”

“Yes, but Rylith says there’s still time to stop it-some action that you and I can take that will prevent the war from happening. I must confess, I haven’t a clue what it might be.”

Leifander shook his head. “Why would we want to stop the war?”

That seemed to surprise her. It took Larajin a moment to find her voice. When she did, her tone was incredulous.

“Because … people will die.” When he shrugged, she quickly added, “And not just humans. The war could wipe out the forest elves and raze the forest.”

“Nonsense,” Leifander retorted. “The humans will never defeat us. They can’t even see in the dark. Some of us may fall, but the forest will remain ours forever.”

Above them, a wagon rumbled over the grate, then stopped, blocking the sunlight.

“Why don’t you care if there’s a war?” Larajin asked, her voice rising in exasperation. “There must be someone you love, someone you don’t want to see killed.”

Leifander lowered his eyes. “She’s already dead.”

It had been said in a whisper, more to himself than to Larajin, but she’d heard him nonetheless. Her expression changed in an instant.

“What happened?” she asked softly.

He glared at her. “Humans killed her. Red Plumes, from Hillsfar. She ventured too close to their city, and they tried to capture her for their ‘games.’ I’m told she died bravely, killing two of them before she herself was slain.”

Pride should have flared in his heart, but the pain was still too new. Chandrell had been his first love-worshiped from afar since she was a woman of fifty-eight years, and he a mere boy of twenty-one. Officially, he had yet to reach maturity, though the blood of a man already flowed hot in his veins. When she’d kissed him on the cheek after he’d done her a slight favor, he’d vowed to ask her to leap the bough with him, once he was at last old enough. He had prayed to his goddess that she would find no other lover before then.

Chandrell had been killed more than two years ago, but thinking of her still made his eyes sting. He’d succeeded in damping down his emotions all that time, but they squeezed out in the form of a single tear.

“I’m sorry,” Larajin said softly, “but it would seem your quarrel is with Hillsfar, not with Sembia.”

“It’s with humans!” Leifander snapped, angrily wiping the tear away. “They should all be put to the sword.”

“Then you might as well start with yourself,” she spat back. “Or at least, half of yourself.” She thrust a hand out, offering the magic dagger. “Here. Be my guest.”

Leifander knocked her hand aside. This stupid woman was missing the point. Humans-Sembians, specifically-started the war with their magical depredations upon the forest. They had been the ones to break the ancient pact, and now they had to pay. If it meant a war, so be it. The elves would give a good accounting of themselves. Even if they were outnumbered, they would be fighting in the forest, on their own terms. The forest would protect them-and they would protect it, in turn.

“Your people understand nothing of pride, of honor,” he told her. “That’s what this war is about. Our dignity!”

“This talk about ‘your people’ and ‘my people’ is nonsense,” she shouted back at him. “I’m a half-elf-and so are you!”

Leifander’s rebuke was cut short by a grating noise overhead. Looking up, he noticed that Tal had returned.

“By the gods, keep quiet!” he hissed down at them. “I could hear you halfway down the street.”

He lay prone on the road under the wagon and was reaching for something beside him. He found it, and passed a sack down to Larajin, who sheathed her dagger and waded forward to grab it. She opened it and began thrusting clothes at Leifander, not bothering to wait until he took them, just piling them on the ledge at his feet, together with a waterskin.

“Here,” she said tersely. “Wash the worst of the sewage off, and disguise yourself with these. Unless you’d rather let a mob drag you through the streets.”

Leifander picked up the nearest piece of clothing, a pair of white hose. Larajin was right, of course. If he was going to try to summon one of his feathered kin, he’d have a better chance of it away from the stinking sewer, and that meant going up onto the street. He had to pass as human, at least temporarily. He poured water over his legs and calves, rinsing off as much of the sewage as he could, then grudgingly yanked the hose over his wet feet. He put on a matching white doublet with sleeves slashed in gold and royal blue. There were leather gloves to cover his tattooed hands and black velvet slippers for his feet, and a gold turban set with tinkling silver bells, that sat awkwardly on his ears. In order to get it to fit, he had to tuck the points of his ears inside it. He grimaced, feeling foolish, then picked up the last item of clothing-a scarf similar to the one that Tal had worn and obviously intended to serve the same purpose-and wrapped it around his face, hiding his tattoos. It smelled strongly of perfume-a welcome change from the sewer.

Tal grinned down from above. He was no longer wearing the scarf that had covered his own face. He looked like any other human, which made Leifander wonder what he’d been hiding.

“Not bad,” Tal said. “You look just like one of our-”

The wagon he was hiding under creaked as someone got into it, interrupting whatever he’d been about to say. Tal glanced back over his shoulder. From that direction came the sound of restless hooves against cobblestones.

“Let’s get moving,” he hissed, extending a hand down through the hole where the grate had been.

Leifander took it and allowed Tal to help him climb out of the sewer. He wriggled out onto his belly-soiling the fresh white clothes on the dirty cobblestones-and a moment later was joined by Larajin. The wagon above rolled away justas Tal slid the grate back into place. Suddenly exposed, the three lay at one edge of a crowded street.

There were humans everywhere-nobles strutting along with parasols to shade themselves from the late afternoon sun, peddlers pushing carts filled with rattling wares, gilded carriages rattling past, and throngs of humans carrying packages, boxes, and sacks, winding their way through the crowd. No one seemed to pay the slightest attention to the three “humans” who had appeared on the road after the wagon pulled away, though one or two did wrinkle their noses as they passed, no doubt smelling Larajin’s filthy boots. As Tal, Larajin, and Leifander stood, brushing themselves off, only one or two heads turned. After a few brief, puzzled frowns they turned away, more concerned with going about their own business than satisfying idle curiosity.

“Come on,” Larajin said, taking Leifander’s arm. “My friend has a perfume shop, just a little down the road. We can hide there until we figure out how to get out of the city.”

Leifander shook off her hand. Remembering his manners, he pressed a hand to his heart and gave her a brief bow.

“I thank you for helping me escape,” he said, “despite the fact that had you arrived a moment later, I would have accomplished an escape on my own.”

Ignoring Larajin’s skeptical look and Tal’s snort of disbelief, he continued, “I do not require any further assistance. We may share the same parents-” At this, Tal’s eyebrows rose-“but that puts you under no obligation. Good-bye.”

He turned to go, but Larajin caught his arm a second time.

“Th-the prophecy!” she sputtered. “The war.” She glanced at Tal with troubled eyes, as if expecting him to lend his voice. “Rylith says we’re the only ones who can stop it. She’s a druid-a fellow elf. If you won’t believe me, surely you’ll believe her.”

Beside her, Tal was looking increasingly nervous.

“Uh, Larajin,” he whispered. “People are listening.”

It was true. At the mention of the word “elf,” more than one head had turned. Their argument was starting to attract attention, but Leifander didn’t care. Exhausted from his long battle with the rats, itching in the hot clothes, still smelling of the sewer, and with the gods-cursed bells on the turban tinkling in his pinched ears, he’d had enough. He wanted to be rid of the two humans, to get away on his own somewhere where he could summon a crow, skinwalk, and launch himself into the clean blue sky and be quit of the stinking city.

“Larajin,” Tal whispered again. “If we stand here and argue, the guards might see us. If he wants to leave, let him.”

“Tal, it’s not that simple,” Larajin pleaded. “I have to make Leifander understand. If there’s war, you’ll…” She hesitated, blinking back tears. “The elves will kill you.”

Now people were stopping and staring. “Elves?” one noblewoman asked in a fluttering voice.

“Should we call the guard?” a man asked, looking nervously around.

“They’re just talking about the war,” another muttered, shaking his head and walking on.

“That’s right,” Tal said quickly. “Nothing to get alarmed about. We’re just-” Whatever else he had to say was drowned out by the rumble of a passing carriage.

Leifander was feeling claustrophobic again, hemmed in by the crush of people in the street. Tal and Larajin might have been trying to help, but they were only drawing unwanted attention.

“Black Archer pierce you both!” he hissed, yanking his arm out of Larajin’s grasp.

Larajin’s face paled. “Take it back!” she cried. “You’ve cursed him-take it back.”

Leifander touched his forefinger to his lips through the fabric of the scarf, then flicked the curse up toward the heavens. “No.”

“Take it back!” Larajin said again, in a high, tight voice.

Stubbornly, Leifander shook his head.

“Gods curse you!” she screamed, lunging at him and slamming both palms into his shoulders.

Taken by surprise, Leifander tripped backward over the curb. He fell heavily but sprang to his feet a moment later. Only when he heard the gasps of the crowd that had formed a circle around them did he realize what was wrong. His turban had been jostled off when he fell. The crowd was staring at his ears, their faces frozen in horror.

The silence broke. “An elf!” one man howled. “A spy! Call the guard!”

Pandemonium broke out all around them. People collided with one another, some scrambling to get away, others struggling to draw daggers or swords and lunge forward. Still others turned with gallant concern as the noblewoman who had spoken earlier fainted, crumpling slowly to the ground in a heap amid her skirts.

Leifander spun, looking for an exit, but found none. He thrust out his hands, tattooed fingers splayed, then remembered at the last moment that he was unable to skinwalk. Nearly weeping with frustration, he wished for a feather-just one tiny black feather-so that he could fly.

Then Larajin spoke, in a tone he had not heard her use before. She sang out a single word in a voice as sweet as song, vibrant and pure. “Calm. Be calm, everyone!”

Amazingly, it worked. All around them, the crowd jerked to a sudden halt, and slowly limbs and faces relaxed. Leifander felt his own body relax as a feeling of peace settled upon him like the sweet languor found at the bottom of a bottle of wine. At the same time, a wonderful fragrance filled the air. After a moment, he recognized it as the scent that accompanied the winter-blossoming Hanali’s Heart. He noticed the heart-shaped locket hanging from a red cord around Larajin’s wrist. It was glowing a dusky amber color.

Maybe she really did draw her magic from an elf goddess.

Tal seemed unaffected by the spell-or perhaps he was merely quick witted. He stepped forward and laid a hand on Leifander’s shoulder. With only the slightest of winks, he turned to the crowd.

“This man is a spy,” he told them. “He serves Sembia.” He thumped a hand against the House Uskevren emblem on his surcoat. “He’s half human and part of my company. Anyone who wants to challenge him will have to take it up with my commander, Master Ferrick.”

The name seemed to carry some weight. More than one sword slid back into its scabbard, but one man, a portly noble in a maroon doublet and hose, wasn’t satisfied.

“What about the woman?” he asked. “She’s awfully slender. Is she a halfie, too?”

Fear caused Larajin’s eyes to widen, but otherwise she kept her composure. “I’m as human as you are,” she told the noble, then she yanked the scarf from her head, shaking her hair back from her ears. “Look here-do you see any points?”

Grudgingly the noble shook his head. His was the last challenge. The crowd seemed to believe Tal’s bluff. People were already starting to disperse.

The glow surrounding Larajin’s locket faded, and the scent of flowers vanished from the air.

“Come on,” Tal muttered. “Let’s get out of here.”

Leifander, seeing the wisdom in this suggestion, scooped up his turban and pulled it back on, making ready to follow. Once he was away from the crowd, on a quiet street, he could try again to summon a crow.

Larajin, however, was slower to react. She stood in place, eyes glistening, whispering what sounded like a prayer.

“Hanali Celanil, forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to deny my heritage.”

With a heavy sigh, she turned to follow them.