Heirs of Prophecy Read online

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

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

  Yet Larajin had done it. How?

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

  Again, she had no idea how.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Larajin kneeled beside Kith and touched her arm.

  “Kith?”

  Kith flinched away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Yes,” Kith whispered.

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

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

  “I be ready,” she whispered.

  “Then I’ll begin.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Trilling her delight, she burst into the air.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Please,” Kith said. “Ask.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  CHAPTER 10

  The windriders flew in from the west, their nine mounts aligned in a V-shaped formation. Leifander shaded his eyes and peered into the setting sun, watching as the griffons and their riders drew nearer. Gradually they changed from distant silhouettes to individuals he could recognize.

  At the point of the formation was Lord Kierin, resplendent in a red surcoat over chain mail and a burnished bronze helm, carrying a lance that sported several cream-colored ribbons that fluttered behind him. His griffon was a tawny giant with wings that shaded from pale brown to black at their tips. With the white head of a bald eagle and the body of a powerful lion, the griffon’s forelegs ended in powerful talons, its hind legs in a lion’s paws. Its tail streamed out behind it as it flew, lashing from side to side.

  The other windriders rode similar mounts and were also armored in chain and helms. Each carried a lance, but these were primarily for show. Any real fighting was done with the powerful recurved bows and brightly fletched arrows that hung in quivers behind their saddles.

  They circled once around the hilltop where Leifander stood, then landed gracefully next to its half-circle crown of upright stones. Lord Kierin housed his lance in a sling next to his stirrup, then swung out of the saddle. He was tall for an elf, with long white hair that matched the color of the ribbons on his lance. His eyes were the color of a summer sky. A deep vertical line creased his forehead, and his brows were drawn together in what had become a habitual frown. He was well beyond his middle years, in his third century of life, but Leifander had never seen a warrior with such poise and grace.

  “Is it you, Leifander?” Lord Kierin said. He spoke the dialect of the Gold elves, but Leifander knew enough of it to reply in kind.

  “I am he who bears that name.” Leifander placed both hands upon his heart and bowed so low that his braid swung over his shoulder and touched the ground with its tip. “I beg your mercy for my transgression.”

  The other windriders had dismounted and gathered around the spot where Leifander and Lord Kierin stood. Five were male, three female, and all were moon elves with pale hair and amber eyes. They stood with legs slightly bowed from long years of riding, and seemed to stare through Leifander into the middle distance, as if still scanning the horizon.

  Lord Kierin gave a deep, melancholy sigh. “Your words have placed me in great danger, it is true, but your transgression was no fault of your own. It was magic that moved your tongue and caused you to tell my true name, and so I forgive you.”

  Relief washed through Leifander in an icy shiver. It was Lord Kierin’s right, should he so choose, to end Leifander’s life. He had been generous.

  “I hardly recognized you, my boy,” Lord Kierin said, switching into the forest elf dialect and dropping the formal tone he’d been using a moment earlier. “You have grown to an enormous size since last I saw you. Tell me, how is your father faring?”

  He was referring, of course, to Leifander’s adoptive father. Leifander had yet to summon the courage to tell others about the human blood that flowed in his veins.

  “He is well, thank you, Lord Kierin,” he answered, “as is my mother.”

  Lord Kierin switched back to the dialect that the other windriders spoke. “I hear that your eyes were also busy while you were in Selgaunt—with results much more to our favor.” A rare smile twitched the corners of his mouth. “Did Lord Ulath send the rings with you?”

  “He did.” Leifander reached into the leather bag that was slung across his shoulder. Inside was an intricately carved wooden box the size of a loaf of bread. He handed it to Lord Kierin.

  The windrider held it in his hands a moment, studying the floral patterns carved on its lid and sides, then he pressed a sequence of hidden catches—each the center of a flower—and the box sprang open with a soft click.

  The other windriders gathered around as its contents were revealed. There were four pairs of rings, each pair consisting of a simple gold band for a human finger, and a larger gold band that was nearly the size of a bracelet with a hinge on one side that allowed it to open and a pin to close it on the other. The smaller ring of each pair was nested inside the larger, in a depression in the box’s black velvet lining. The slanting rays of the setting sun gave the gold a ruddy glow, throwing into relief the delicate tracery of runes engraved on the rings.

  One of the windriders—a woman with a shiny patch of puckered skin running from her cheek to her right ear, the tip of which had been burned away by whatever attack had left that burn scar—glanced at the rings, then up at Lord Kierin.

  “Only four?” she asked. “Lord Ulath is stingy.”

  Lord Kierin gave her a look that made Leifander quail, even though he was not the recipient of it.

  “Lord Ulath has a city to protect, Valatta,” Lord Kierin reprimanded. “He has been most generous. Four rings will suit our purposes admirably. When the humans drop their disguise and open their wagons, we can attack from four directions at once. The humans won’t know which way to turn. Once the first four have revealed themselves, the rest can join in the fray.”

  Valatta gave a curt nod, in deference to her commander, but her eyes were blazing. “By virtue of my loss, I demand the right to be among the first four.”

  Leifander, seeing the ache that lay deep within her fierce glare, felt an echoing pang in his own heart. Just as he had, Valatta had lost someone dear to her.

  Lord Kierin laid a hand upon the shorter elf’s shoulder.

  “Valatta,” he said, “I know you yearn to be the first to feather the enemy with your arrows, but we will let the beasts decide the question. Whichever of them most calmly accepts the ring will be among the first four.”

  He pulled one of the larger rings from the box, and turned toward the spot where the griffons crouched, unhaltered and waiting with perfect obedience for their masters.

  “We’ll test your mount first, Valatta.”

  Without another glance at Leifander—by elven standards he was a mere youth, not even as old as one of their squires—the windriders followed Valatta to her griffon. Only Lord Kierin remained where Leifander stood, arms folded as he watched his riders.

  Valatta greeted her mount, gentling the griffon by working her fingers into its feathers to give its neck a good scratch. She took its reins in one hand and kneeled beside it, uttering a sharp command. Obediently, the griffon placed a taloned foot on her leg.

  Valatta opened the golden ring and fastened it around the griffon’s ankle. As it closed, the griffon disappeared from sight. Leifander, despite having known what was going to happen, blinked in surprise at the suddenness of the transformation. One moment the griffon was there, the next it was not. He could
see right through the spot where it must be to the tall slab of granite that a moment before had been blocked by the griffon’s body. But the griffon was still there; under it was a flattened spot in the breeze-blown grass.

  Valatta nodded, a satisfied smile on her lips. “That was easy enough,” she said. “She seems to—”

  Suddenly the hand that held the reins was wrenched upward. Her eyes widened in pain and three slashes of red sprang into being on her thigh. A loud cry—like the scree of an eagle but somehow also containing the snarl of a roaring lion—pealed across the hilltop. Hearing its cry, two of the other griffons responded in kind, fur rising in a line along their backs.

  Jerked to her feet, Valatta staggered this way and that as she fought to control her invisible mount. Leifander heard the rushing beat of its powerful wings and saw Valatta’s arm jerk back and forth as the griffon shook its head. Blood streamed down her leg, soaking her trousers above the spot where the griffon’s talons had raked her flesh.

  “Elsanna, no!” she cried, bracing her feet and gripping the invisible reins with both hands in an effort to prevent her mount from launching itself into the air. “Drop, Elsanna! Drop!”

  One of the elves closest to Valatta grabbed at an invisible wing but was shaken loose a moment later. Another added his voice to Valatta’s, also shouting for the griffon to drop to the ground. Others scrambled for their own mounts, grabbing their reins and yanking the creatures’ heads down to the ground to keep them submissive.

  Leifander glanced nervously at Lord Kierin. The Gold elf remained calm, save for a slight deepening of his frown. He raised his hands and briefly touched his fingertips to his eyes, then flicked his hands forward and spoke a single word.

  A heartbeat later, Valatta’s arms drooped. Swiftly, she kneeled down and removed the ring from her mount’s ankle, revealing the sleeping form of her griffon. Chagrined, she handed the ring to another of the windriders, then limped to one of the standing stones and leaned on it, clenching her teeth against the pain of the scratches on her leg.