Heirs of Prophecy

CHAPTER 3

Larajin kneeled on a carpet of fragrant rose petals, her reflection rippling in the pool beside her. The cleric who kneeled in front of her rinsed his brush in the water, scattering flakes of gold, then dipped it again into a pot. Concentrating on Larajin’s bared midriff, he applied moistened gilt paste to her skin with delicate, tickling strokes, marking her as one of the novices who would be traveling to the temple in Ordulin.

The temple of Sune was tranquil at this hour of the morning, filled with the soothing sounds of fountains and harmonious voices chanting the Song of Sunrise under the direction of the Heartwarder. The clerics stood in a group on the other side of the sacred pond, arms stretched to the skies, moving slowly in perfect unison through the ritual exercises that accompanied the song. Closer at hand, flowers, kissed by the first pink rays of the sun, slowly opened their blossoms, while brilliant yellow songbirds flitted from branch to branch amidst the topiary.

In this peaceful setting, Larajin could almost forget the fact that a powerful wizard wanted her dead; the Hulorn’s men were no doubt scouring the streets outside even now, searching for her. Exhausted from having been up all night, she sighed, wishing that she could lie down beside the pool and be lulled into a peaceful slumber.

When she’d arrived at the temple just before dawn, it hadn’t seemed to matter that she was no more than an initiate. While Habrith had a quiet word with the temple’s Heartwarder, the clerics had welcomed her, given her their blessings, and clothed her in Sune’s vestments: a crimson robe, cut to reveal her midriff, sandals embossed with Sune’s winking eye, and a red silk scarf to tie back her hair. They had noticed the locket at her wrist and recognized it for what it was-a devotion to Hanali Celanil-but had just smiled, and commented that it must be difficult to serve two goddesses who were rivals for the same heart.

Yes, Larajin thought, she could happily tarry here forever, safely hidden within these walls. She looked up, and saw the tressym perched on the wall above, intent upon the songbirds. Larajin shook her head, willing the creature to go away. She didn’t think the clerics would react kindly to having their songbirds being killed and eaten. The tressym leaped into the air and dived into the courtyard. Larajin tensed-but the tressym bypassed the songbirds, instead gliding to a graceful landing beside the sacred pool.

The tressym bent to sniff the water, then began lapping delicately. Once she finished her drink, she stretched with catlike grace, extended one brilliant wing, and preened red and turquoise feathers with long, sure strokes of her tongue.

“She’s a beauty,” the young cleric said, pausing in his art to admire the tressym. “Is she yours?”

“She seems to think so,” Larajin quipped. “Or perhaps she thinks that I am hers.”

The cleric laughed. Auburn-haired and long-lashed, he wore the garb of the temple: tight-fitting crimson hose capped by a padded codpiece, and a crimson shirt whose short sleeves revealed finely chiseled muscles. The shirt ended well above his midriff, exposing the deep red lines tattooed into his flesh: the pattern of Sune’s lips, symbolically pressed against his belly in a sacred kiss.

He dabbed his brush back in the pot, and paused a moment before continuing his work. “Will your journey be a lengthy one, Mistress?”

Larajin did not know how to answer him. She was about to leave behind everything she knew and everyone she loved. Would she find protection among the wild elves of the Tangled Trees? More than that, would she find family, a new home?

“Mine will be a long journey,” she told the cleric, the exhaustion of not having slept making her words heavy. “One I may be on for the rest of my life.”

The cleric applied one last tickling brush stroke, then regarded the finished work appreciatively.

“Indeed? Then may Sune watch over and protect you for all of the days of your journey … and all the days of your life.” He brushed his lips against her midriff, sealing his design with a kiss.

Larajin flushed as the warmth of his lips spread up and down her body. The blush spread to her very toes and fingertips-which, she saw, were surrounded by a faint red aura-and prickled through her scalp. When the magic that had accompanied the blessing took hold, it left her feeling rested and refreshed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“My pleasure, Mistress.” He gathered up his brushes and pot of gilt paste. “I hope to see you again, should your journey at last come to an end.”

Larajin’s eyes lingered on the cleric as he departed the courtyard-he was very good looking, even for one of Sune’s chosen.

She rose and cast a pebble into the pool and watched as ripples spread across it. No answer was given to her silent question. Perhaps even the goddess did not know what Larajin would find amidst the Tangled Trees. Unless the answer was the thing that was reflected in the pool: herself.

Bending, Larajin dipped her fingers in the water, lost in thought. The tressym butted up against her, and, remembering that the creature was the one who had alerted Drakkar, Larajin flicked wet fingers at the winged cat. The tressym flattened her ears and gave an indignant hiss, then launched herself into the sky.

Larajin watched her go, shaking her head. She’d tried to slip away from Habrith’s bakery without being followed, but somehow the tressym had found her. It seemed Larajin could no more leave the little creature behind than she could escape her own shadow. At least the tressym had the good sense not to pad along behind Larajin like a dog, as she’d made her way to the temple. Instead she’d kept her distance, flitting along from rooftop to rooftop, up where few noticed her.

While she waited for the Heartwarder and her clerics to finish their ritual-they’d be setting out as soon as the Song of Sunrise ended-Larajin stared out through the courtyard’s gate at the street, which was just starting to fill with carriages and passersby. One of them stopped at the gate, and peered in through the wrought iron. For a moment Larajin thought it was one of the guard-that she’d been spotted-then a familiar voice shouted her name.

Realizing it was Tal, she hurried toward the gate, gesturing frantically for him to be quiet. At the same time, she silently cursed. She’d hoped that Tal would sleep until well after she was gone. He’d obviously awakened earlier than usual, found her note, and assumed that she wouldn’t leave the city without paying her respects at the temple. Had Drakkar guessed the same?

Larajin opened the gate and all but yanked Tal inside the courtyard. She shut it hurriedly, then dragged him into the shadow of the wall, where they couldn’t be seen from the street. They stopped beside a pile of bags and crates the clerics would take with them on their journey to Ordulin.

Tal looked as though he’d left the house hurriedly. His doublet was only half buttoned, his hair was uncombed, and a shadow of stubble covered his heavy jaw. He carried a small leather pouch in one hand and a cloth-wrapped object the size of a candlestick in the other. The latter he held in a peculiar fashion, arm extended to keep it at arm’s length from himself.

“Larajin,” he panted, a worried look in his eye. “I’m so glad I found you. Are you really leaving Selgaunt? These are dangerous times to be traveling.”

Larajin nodded. “I have to, Tal. Drakkar-”

“I want to come with you …” Tal said in a husky voice, then, before Larajin could protest, he added, “but I can’t. The Merchant Council is agitating for war against the elves. If it comes, I’m to serve in a company under Master Ferrick. Leaving now would be seen as desertion-as cowardice. I just wish …”

Larajin, horrified by the prospect of war engulfing the lands to the north-lands through which she was about to travel-could only stare at Tal.

Misinterpreting her look, he hastily added, “Don’t worry, Larajin. The elves are only half the soldiers that we are. They’re too simple to understand the tactics of battle. If it does come to war, we’ll squash those savages in a tenday. I’ll march home again without a scratch.”

Larajin said nothing. In his usual blundering way, Tal had insulted her without realizing it, not understanding that Larajin had been born to a mother who was a “savage” and therefore “simple.”

The leather pouch clinked as he thrust it into Larajin’s hands. “There’s twelve fivestars and nearly a hundred ravens in there-all I could scrape together at a moment’s notice. That should help you along.”

It was an incredible sum. “Tal, I can’t-”

Tal waved her protest away. “Yes, you can.”

Thanking him with a silent nod, Larajin found her bag and tucked the pouch inside it.

“I’ve brought something for you to protect yourself with,” Tal continued. “Here.”

He held out the cloth-swaddled bundle. Taking it, Larajin noted that it was heavy. She unwrapped the cloth and saw a dagger, its pommel embossed with the Uskevren family crest. Sliding it out of its sheath revealed a brightly polished silver blade with a strange glyph engraved upon it.

“It’s magic,” Tal said in a hushed voice, as if afraid his words would activate it. “If you say ‘illunathros’ while holding it, the blade will glow with the brightness of a torch. It may also have other magical properties, but I don’t know what…” He hastily amended whatever it was he’d been about to say. “I, uh … haven’t used it that much, so I’m not sure what they are.”

Larajin saw a twinge of guilt in his eye. She refrained from asking whom he’d stolen the dagger from. By the crest on its pommel, she could guess.

“You’re too generous, Tal. I’ll never be able to repay you.”

Out in the street, a member of the city guard called the All’s Well. Larajin glanced nervously at the gate, even though she knew the guard couldn’t see in to where they were standing. Across the courtyard, the sound of singing stopped, as the Song of Sunrise ended.

“I have to go,” she whispered. “The clerics I’ll be traveling with are leaving now.”

Tal’s eyes ranged up and down the crimson vestments Larajin was wearing and lingered on the freshly painted eye of Sune upon her midriff.

Hesitantly, he asked, “You’re not just … making this up as an excuse to follow some cleric on a quest, are you?”

Larajin’s anger flared at his over-protectiveness, but then she realized he was only asking because he cared. Tal wasn’t the one who had sent men after her to force her back to the city, when she’d tried to follow Diurgo Karn on his abortive pilgrimage to Lake Sember eighteen months past. Despite Tal’s animosity with the Karn family and his own personal dislike for Diurgo, he had defended Larajin’s right to follow the dictates of her heart-and of her budding religion. It had earned him stony silence from his father for several days afterward.

“Nothing like that, Tal. The Hulorn’s wizard really did recognize me. The danger’s real enough.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“North, to Ordulin,” she answered, giving him a partial truth.

“Ordulin?” Tal gaped. “Why there? That’s where our armies will be mobilizing, if war comes. It’s no place for-” He paused abruptly at the look Larajin gave him, then changed his approach. “Why not go to ground here, in the temple, and let me deal with the Hulorn’s men? Wouldn’t that be safer?”

“Tal,” she said carefully, “I can’t tell you exactly where I’m going, or why, except to say that I feel the goddess calling me. There are some secrets that have to be kept, even from …” She paused, choosing her words more carefully. “Some secrets that can’t be shared, even between a brother and sister. Can you understand that?”

To her surprise, he nodded. “I suppose we all have secrets,” he muttered.

His gaze shifted to something behind her. Turning, Larajin saw the Heartwarder and four novices heading toward them. She gave his arm a squeeze.

“I love you, Tal. If it comes to war, take care of yourself.”

“You too,” he said gruffly, then he turned and left through the gate, without looking back.

As the clerics shouldered their luggage, chattering brightly about the five-day carriage ride that lay ahead of them, Larajin’s thoughts were grave. She’d known there was tension between Sembia and the elves to the north. She’d heard of caravans being attacked-had known that this was not the best time to be traveling to the Tangled Trees-but she hadn’t realized that Sembia was on the verge of war. If it came to that, the Tangled Trees wouldn’t just be a strange and foreign land, it would be behind enemy lines.

Larajin made her way through the streets of Ordulin, navigating by three buildings at the city’s center that rose above all the rest: the Great Hall where the Merchant Council sat, with its gilded dome that shone golden in the late afternoon sun; the crenellated Tower of the Guards that housed the city’s soldiers; and the so-called Guarded Gate-in actuality, an enormous stone-walled and column-fronted warehouse that housed the Sembian mint. Just beyond them lay the Trader’s Quarter, starting point for the caravans that fanned north, east, south, and west through Sembia, carrying the goods of Ordulin’s many merchants.

Though Ordulin was smaller than Selgaunt, its streets were more crowded. Nobles rode past in gilded carriages, with servants holding parasols to shade them from the blaze of the sun. Merchants in elaborately patterned hose and quilted doublets walked the streets, their only concession to the muggy heat being their lace-sleeved shirts, designed to allow the non-existent breezes through. The common laborers had no such pretensions. A gang of stonemasons setting the foundations of a house sweated bare-chested in the heat, while serving women gathering water from a well in the street splashed water onto their reddened faces and bare arms.

High overhead, the tressym wheeled and circled, occasionally disappearing from sight behind a building. So far, no one had noticed her, perhaps thinking her a hawk or an eagle. Larajin hoped it stayed that way.

Throughout the five-day journey to Ordulin, Larajin had remained in the crimson vestments of Sune, but now she wore what she thought of as her “adventuring garb”: serviceable boots, her trouser-skirt, and a lightweight shirt. She still wore the crimson scarf of Sune in her hair, however, and the brass heart hung from her wrist. She might be trying to look nondescript, to blend in, but she would not forsake her devotions to the goddesses-both of them.

As she walked along, Larajin’s ears were filled with the noise of the streets: the clatter of carriage wheels on cobblestones, the calls of merchants from their shops, and the clip-clop of horse’s hooves. She stopped to ask a driver who was lounging on his carriage, waiting for his master, the way to Thread Street, the four-block-long collection of tailor’s shops where Habrith’s friend had his shop. The driver pointed at the next street and indicated she should turn the corner to the right. Thanking him, Larajin walked in that direction.

As she drew closer to the corner, she could hear a commotion. There was laughter and shouting … and the sound of heavy thuds and breaking glass.

Rounding the corner, she saw a knot of people at the side of the road, in front of one of the tailor shops. Its window had been smashed, and a burly man was kicking the front door with a heavy boot. The door crashed open, and the crowd surged inside. A moment later, several heavy bolts of cloth came flying out through the broken window. Laughing, the people outside scooped them up and staggered away down the street, carrying as many as they could under their arms. In front of the shop, two women each grabbed an end of the same bolt of cloth-a green fabric heavily embroidered with the outline of gold leaves-and began squabbling over it like a pair of angry chickens.

Shocked, Larajin realized these people were looting the shop. She looked around, searching for the city watch. She spotted three of them just up the street, lounging on their horses. Not one of the chain-mailed guards made a move for the bow at his pommel, however, or for the mace that hung from his belt. Instead one pointed at the looters, and the other two chuckled.

As she skirted around the mob, crossing to the other side of the road, Larajin noticed a symbol, painted on the door of the looted shop in a blaze of red: a vertical oval, with triangles jutting out of the top of it, like a face with horns. She wondered what it signified. Surely not a symbol of disease, with all of those people so willingly entering the shop. Perhaps the tailor had been convicted of a crime, and this was his punishment?

From inside the shop came the sound of blows and grunts of pain. Larajin hesitated, wondering if she should intervene, then she reminded herself that this was not her quarrel-that she was a stranger in Ordulin with trouble enough of her own. She didn’t need to go shouldering someone else’s burden, especially if the recipient of the mob’s wrath was a criminal. Wincing, she tore herself away. She’d come back to Thread Street later, when the commotion had died down, and seek out the Harper agent.

She strode instead toward the Trader’s Quarter, which lay just ahead. The smell of manure, hay, and axle grease assaulted her nose as she walked through an arched gate into a wide plaza fronted on all four sides by enormous stables. At its center was a notice board; on it was a document bearing the same symbol Larajin had seen on the tailor shop the mob had just looted. Curious, she decided to take a closer look.

She wove through the crowd of people and horses, sidestepping piles of dung that dotted the cobblestones. The notice bearing the horned oval turned out to be an official proclamation-one that sent a chill through Larajin as she read it, despite the heat of the sun on her shoulders. It reminded the citizens of Ordulin that the ten-year-old ban prohibiting elves from entering Sembia was still in effect. Not only that, but the ban now had been extended to half-elves, as well.

Dated less than a tenday ago, the proclamation ordered all half-elves living in Ordulin to leave the city immediately or face retribution at the point of a sword. It further ordered that all homes and businesses belonging to half-elves were to be marked with a sign warning the citizens of Ordulin against doing business with the enemy. An example of the symbol used to designate the property to be confiscated was printed at the bottom of the notice. It was a crude representation of an elf’s face-an oval with pointed, triangular ears.

Sickened, Larajin turned away from the notice board. She realized now that the tailor she’d heard being beaten inside his shop hadn’t committed any crime, other than being born a half-elf. He was probably the man Habrith had told her to contact. Only an agent of the Harpers would tarry so long in a city that was hostile to his race. Was it too late to run back and offer him whatever healing she could-or had the mob that had looted his shop also carried him away … even killed him?

Larajin nervously fingered an ear. Were people looking at her, noticing her too-slim build? If the scales of fate had tipped only slightly differently, giving her the pointed ears of her mother’s race, Larajin could have been the one receiving that beating.

In one corner of the plaza, a dozen men in civilian clothes practiced with pikes, taking turns thrusting at a wooden dummy under the eye of a member of the town guard. They were the militia, no doubt only recently mobilized. Larajin once again was confronted by the oval-and-triangles symbol. This time, it had been painted on the practice dummy.

Ordulin no longer felt like a safe haven. She was in as much danger there as she had been in Selgaunt. She needed to leave the city as soon as possible, to keep moving north. She’d have to try to find the Harper agent in Essembra on her own.

She scanned the notice board, looking for a suitable caravan, but while the notices advertised caravans bound for Yhaunn, for Highmoon, to Archenbridge, and back south to Selgaunt, the only caravans bound for Essembra had departed more than a tenday ago.

“Looking for a caravan, Mistress? Where to? If it’s north, I c’n help you.”

Larajin could smell the man before she turned around. His breath had the fetid odor of a bad tooth, and his appearance matched the smell. His hose had a tear in the knee, and his leather doublet was stained under the arms. One hand rested on the hilt of a sword, which hung in a rust-spotted scabbard at his hip. The man’s scalp was shaved but he wore his beard long. Flecks of what must have been his lunch still clung to it. His eyes kept darting to the money pouch that hung from Larajin’s belt. One cheek puckered as he sucked on his bad tooth.

Larajin wanted nothing to do with him, but she did want to find out more about any caravan headed north-if one existed. The fact that no such caravan was advertised on the notice board made her wary. She wasn’t going to venture down any back alleys with this lout. She rested a hand casually on the dagger she’d belted at her hip.

“North to where?” she asked him.

“To Featherdale and Essembra, and, if luck holds, all the way to Hillsfar. It’ll prob’ly be the last one heading north ’fore the road closes. We’ll have to wait out the war in Hillsfar-not that I mind.”

Larajin looked him in the eye. “How do you know about this caravan?” she asked. “It’s not posted on the board-and you’re no trader.”

He guffawed, and Larajin winced at the smell.

“Course it’s not posted! You want some halfie reading it and telling his savage cousins in the trees we’re coming through?” He shook his head. “You got one thing right, though, I’m no trader. I’m a sellsword. Name’s Enik.”

He waited for Larajin to volunteer her name. When she didn’t, he shrugged and continued, “I been hired to protect the caravan.” He stroked the hilt of his sword. “You come north with us, and me and my steel will be what’s standing between you and them wild elves, missy.”

Larajin didn’t like the way he was rubbing the hilt of his sword. It was all too suggestive of something else. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to see if this caravan really existed. If it was the only one headed north, it might be her only chance to reach the Tangled Trees. From her readings of the Master’s books, she knew they lay more than one hundred and fifty miles to the north. She could hardly travel all that distance on foot.

This man was only a sellsword and as such could be expected to be rough and unsavory. She could at least see if the traders driving the caravan were decent folk.

“Where is the caravan assembling, and when?”

Enik gave her a twisted grin, still sucking his bad tooth. “That’ll cost you a raven. Fer all I know, you’re a halfie spy.”

Larajin froze, feeling the blood drain from her face. He hadn’t guessed that…

No, he hadn’t. Enik, still grinning, gave her a broad wink. He hadn’t spotted the elf blood in her, after all. It had just been his idea of a joke.

“Tell you what,” Larajin said carefully. “You give me the information, and when it’s proved to be accurate, you’ll get your raven-but not until we’re under way. Deal?”

Enik sucked on his tooth, considering it.

“All right.” He pointed at a warehouse just beyond one of the arches leading out of the plaza and said, “The caravan is loading its cargo of wine there, at the Foxmantle warehouse. They’ll be at it all night. Come first light, it’s away. You want to be on one of the wagons, you meet me there just before dawn.”

Larajin nodded. If what Enik was saying was true about this being a Foxmantle caravan, things were looking up. The Foxmantles might be loud and brash, their wild young daughters prone to scandalously foolish exploits, but the family was a firm friend and ally to the Uskevren-they were people Larajin could trust. All she had to do was show the head driver the dagger with the Uskevren crest on it and claim to be Mistress Thazienne. With luck, he wouldn’t have met Thazienne, and she’d have nothing to worry about.

She eyed Enik. Nothing, that was, except making sure this lout didn’t try anything during the journey north, but the dagger would also see to that.

She nodded to him, patting the money pouch at her hip. “Dawn it is, then, at the Foxmantle warehouse,” she said. “I’ll see you there.”

She kept the smile on her face as she watched him leave but let it drop the moment he was out of sight. Making her way out of the plaza, she took a circular route through the side streets that would lead her to the Foxmantle warehouse. She wasn’t going to go trustingly to meet a lout like Enik in the murky light of dawn, down some back alley behind a warehouse. Instead she’d make her own arrangements with the caravan’s head driver while the wagons were being loaded. If she liked what she saw, she’d arrange for her passage north-and worry about traveling with Enik later.

Larajin coughed as a tendril ofmist drifted back down the road toward the caravan, stinging her lungs. Beside her, on the driver’s seat of the lead wagon, Dray Foxmantle dabbed a monogrammed handkerchief to his eye.

“Gods curse that fool of a wizard,” he muttered. “Why couldn’t he have waited until there was a wind to blow the stuff away?”

Still in his early twenties-about Larajin’s age-Dray was blessed with perfectly straight teeth and dark hair that hung in tight spirals to his shoulders. His beard was trimmed to a thin line that exactly traced the bottom of his jaw, in the prevailing fashion, and a heavy gold hoop hung from one ear. He wore the family blue and purple, and a silver ring on the little finger of his left hand that bore the Foxmantle crest: three diamond-pupiled eyes, set in a diagonal line.

Dray had been flirting with Larajin ever since the caravan departed from Ordulin eight days ago, telling her how pretty she was-ignoring the fact that the long, hot journey had left her dusty and sweaty. Truth be told, she didn’t mind the flattery, though she wondered if much of it wasn’t business, rather than pleasure. Dray kept hinting, with every second breath, about a possible merger of the Foxmantle and Uskevren vineyards.

Still, she enjoyed his company. He was playful and fun and was blessed with a beautiful singing voice, as she’d found out one night around the campfire when he broke out his mandolin and sang a ballad for her. He would have made an ideal candidate for Sune’s priesthood. He even reminded her, a little, of Diurgo.

Now, however, he seemed oblivious to the possible danger of the wizard’s magical conjuring. Larajin peered nervously at the thick mist that swirled above the road a short distance ahead, hoping Klarsh knew what he was doing. The caravan had stopped-for the third time this day-so the wizard could clear away some choke creeper that had grown across the road. Even though Klarsh was well ahead of their wagon, Larajin felt nervous. The trees on either side of Rauthauvyr’s Road were enormous, forming what felt like a steep-walled canyon to either side, and the underbrush on the forest floor was thick-too thick to pass through at anything but a struggling walk. If the poisonous mist spread beyond the wizard’s control, the caravan drivers, soldiers-and Larajin-would all be killed.

Behind them, five other wagons had also pulled to a halt. The horses hitched to them snorted and pawed at the road, nostrils flaring and ears flicking nervously in response to the acrid smell of the magical mist. The drivers called out to soothe them, occasionally tugging on the reins to restrain a team as it tried to jerk a wagon forward, causing its cargo of wine bottles to rattle and clink inside their wooden cases.

The two dozen sellswords hired to protect the caravan lounged on either side of the road, glancing at the forest only every now and then. Like Enik, they were a scruffy-looking lot-tough enough and well armed, but not nearly as disciplined as Larajin would have liked. She supposed that, with nearly all of the able-bodied fighters in Ordulin being conscripted into the militia, these were the only men Dray could find.

They were nominally under the leadership of Paitar, a capable-looking man in his late fifties with iron-gray hair and eyes to match. Walking with a slight limp that he’d gained earlier in his career as a soldier, he glared at the sellswords, tersely ordering them to keep an eye on the forest, but was answered only by grunts and shrugs. Paitar kept glancing back at Dray, as if waiting for a supporting word, but none was forthcoming.

Enik-whom the men did listen to, when they were of a mind to-strode toward where Larajin and Dray sat, wiping a trickle of sweat from his forehead. Sunlight glinted off a gold ring on his little finger, which seemed to be a new addition to his otherwise scruffy wardrobe since their departure from Ordulin. As he stared up at Dray, she noted that he had none of the traditional deference that a hireling normally displayed in the presence of a noble. Instead he met Dray’s eye directly, cheek puckering as he sucked his tooth.

“Sun’s hot, and it’s been a thirsty march,” Enik said. “How about we open a couple of bottles from the cargo and slake our thirst?”

Dray opened his mouth as if about to protest, but then his eyes got a dreamy, faraway look. He licked dry lips, and nodded.

Paitar, having overheard the exchange, strode forward. “That’s not a good idea, my lord,” he told Dray. Eyes narrowing, he gave Enik a sideways look. “The men should stay sharp. We’ve still got a way to-”

Dray cut him short. “Don’t be silly, Paitar,” he said. “In this heat I’d like a drop myself.” He turned to Enik, and with an exaggerated wink, added, “No more than a bottle between every two men. I expect you to stay sharp.”

Enik touched his forefinger to one eyelid-obviously a signal his men understood, for they were on their feet in an instant, crowding around the back of the last wagon in line. Boards creaked as a crate was opened and corks popped, and the sellswords were tilting bottles to the sky, Adam’s apples bobbing as they gulped down the wine.

Shaking his head and muttering curses under his breath, Paitar let his hand drift toward the hilt of his sword. A moment later, when Enik wrapped an arm around his shoulder and murmured in his ear, he nodded, and a slow smile spread across his face. Letting Enik lead him, he made his way back to the last wagon, ignoring the questioning looks the drivers gave him.

As Enik threw a leering grin back over his shoulder at Larajin, Dray reached into one of the crates behind him and pulled out a slender blue bottle that bore an elaborate label.

“Ice wine,” he told Larajin. “The finest the Foxmantle vineyards has to offer, from the pick of last year’s crop. Very expensive-which is why I insisted on driving this wagon myself. The other wagons all carry lesser vintages. Would you do me the honor of sharing a bottle with me, Thazienne?”

Larajin was still watching the sellswords at the back of the caravan. They’d passed a bottle forward to the driver of the rear wagon, and seemed to each have a bottle to themselves. Paitar was drinking and laughing with the rest of them, one arm draped around Enik’s shoulder.

“Dray,” she cautioned as he popped the cork of the bottle in his hand. “They’re drinking more than you permitted.”

He glanced back briefly, then shrugged. “So they are. Even so, they’re still more than a match for elves. And don’t forget, we have Klarsh with us.”

He peered ahead, trying to spot the wizard through the thick white mist, then he glanced up at the sun, noting its position in the sky.

“We should reach Essembra well before evening,” he said, “and I don’t anticipate any trouble along the way. All of the attacks have been on the stretch of road north of town. We’ll be perfectly safe, even with a tipsy guard. Let them have their fun.”

Larajin knew nothing about soldiering, but she didn’t think it prudent for the sellswords to be letting down their guard within the wood, even in an area that was supposedly safe. When Dray offered the bottle to her, she declined it with a slight shake of her head. She peered into his eyes. Even though he’d drunk only a little wine, they had a dreamy, glazed look.

“Dray,” she said carefully, “it looked as though you were going to tell Enik that his men couldn’t have any wine. What changed your mind?”

Dray shrugged again and took a pull from the bottle. “Delicious!” he pronounced. “I’ll have to commend our vintners.” Then he seemed to remember Larajin’s question. “Oh, yes. Enik. He seems like a good fellow. I like him.”

The vagueness of his reply clinched it. Dray might be foolhardy-taking a caravan north when war was imminent proved that much-but he wasn’t stupid. Enik must have used magic on Dray, to convince him that he was harmless. Some sort of spell, no doubt, or that ring.

Now that she thought about it, Larajin could remember several times in the last few days when Dray or Paitar had been about to reprimand one of the sellswords, only to change his mind at a word from Enik. Larajin shuddered, thankful that Enik hadn’t tried using the ring’s magic on her. Or maybe he had tried, and one of the goddesses had been watching over Larajin.

In any case, she didn’t like the look Enik had just given her as he tipped back his wine. Three of the five drivers had tied off their reins and joined the sellswords near the rear wagon. Larajin was suddenly very aware that she was the only woman among more than a dozen men, all of them rapidly getting drunk-and all of them capable of being magically compelled to do whatever Enik wanted them to. Maybe she should just strike off through the woods on her own and hope forthebest.

“These woods used to be part of Cormanthor, didn’t they?” she asked Dray.

He nodded.

“I’ve heard of a place called the Tangled Trees, where the wild elves are said to live. How close is it-are we under any danger of attack?”

Dray waved a hand at the forest to their right. “It’s somewhere in that direction, but don’t worry, Thazienne, my dear,” he reassured her, patting her hand. “It’s deep within the forest, at least three days’ march from here. The wild elves shy away from the road. We’ve nothing to fear from them.”

Larajin squinted ahead into the mist and saw that it was thinning. The wizard must have completed his task. A breeze that was probably magical, given the muggy stillness of the air elsewhere in the wood, was blowing the last of the mist into the woods at the side of the road.

“I’m going ahead to talk to Klarsh,” she told Dray. She jerked a thumb in the direction of the sellswords. “I think you’d better see to them. If you don’t, they’ll drink all of your cargo.”

Dray swallowed the last of the ice wine and laid the empty bottle on the floor at his feet.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “It is time we got moving, anyhow. I’d like to get to Essembra in time for a hot meal and a bath, to wash the dust from my hair.”

He tied off the reins and climbed down from the wagon. As he walked away, Larajin reached for her bag. Holding it in front of her body, she chose her moment carefully-when Dray was busy shaking a finger at a bored-looking Enik-and slipped down from the wagon. She jogged up the road, keeping the wagon between herself and the men, hoping that Enik would be too busy working his magic on Dray and Paitar to notice. She felt guilty abandoning them-both seemed like decent men-but sticking around seemed like a bad idea. She might be able to counter a simple charm, but she didn’t know any spells that would protect her from more than a dozen drunken men.

Hopefully, it would be some time before anyone noticed she was gone. It would take Dray some time to get the caravan moving again-especially if Enik “persuaded” him to join in another round of wine. By the time they looked around, she would be well into the woods. The only problem was that she had to get far ahead of the wizard before entering the forest. His magical wind had rather quickly blown the mist to either side of the road. Slow to dissipate, it clung between the trees in wispy patches, drifting to a halt when the breeze Klarsh had summoned was gone.

The area that had been cleared lay just ahead of where Dray had halted his wagon, an expanse of putrefying vegetation that befouled the road and spread several paces beyond it, into the woods. The larger trees to either side of the road were still whole, but their trunks were blistered and cracked where the magical mist had washed over them like a roiling tide.

Larajin rounded a bend in the road and breathed a sigh of relief, realizing that she was hidden from Enik’s sight. A patch of blighted vines squished under the soft leather of her boots, lending a foul odor to the air, She nearly stepped on a dead mouse that had been caught by the mist. It lay on its back, limbs contorted and mouth gaping wide. She kneeled for a moment to offer up a quick prayer for its soul, passing her hand once over its tiny corpse-then winced as a wisp of mist that still clung to the ground stung her skin.

Stealing a glance at the treetops, she was relieved to see a familiar flash of turquoise some distance behind where the caravan had stopped. The tressym had stayed well away from the mist, thank the goddess.

A pace or two ahead, Klarsh stood with hands on hips, surveying the damage his wand had wrought. He was an older man, with thinning gray hair and a hard, clean-shaven face that would have looked more at home on a soldier. He wore a robe of heavy black wool, despite the heat of the day, with the sleeves rolled up. Despite the mist that had swirled around him moments ago, he breathed easily. Larajin, on the other hand, felt her eyes watering.

“Klarsh,” she called. “I need to relieve myself. I’m just going a little ahead, to find a spot in the forest that’s-”

“Quiet, girl,” he hissed.

His attention had shifted to something at the edge of the road. Without another word, he strode toward the base of an ancient, enormous oak. He spent several moments inspecting peculiar scratches on its trunk, then bent down and pulled a small knife from a sheath at his hip. He thrust the blade into the soil, scooping up dirt as if he were using a spoon. When he stood he began chanting a spell, holding the knife out in front of him, blade level with the ground.

Larajin, fearful that the magical mist was about to boil across the road a second time, began backing hurriedly away. Before she had taken two steps, Klarsh flicked his knife, sending a scattering of dirt flying from the blade. He continued chanting, and a moment later his spell took effect. The ground beneath the tree began to buckle and heave, like waves on the sea. As the motion of the ground grew ever more frantic the oak leaned, groaned, leaned some more … and its roots tore free of the soil. It fell, splintering smaller trees like twigs and slamming into the ground with a crash that knocked Larajin to her hands and knees. Several lesser crashes followed, as smaller trees dominoed in its wake, then all was silent.

As Larajin clambered, shaking, to her feet, wiping the stinging sludge from her hands, all she could do was thank the goddess that the oak hadn’t fallen in her direction. The trunk of the tree-as wide across as a stable door-would have crushed her like an ant.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she sputtered at Klarsh, shock causing her to momentarily overlook the fact that she was shouting at a powerful wizard. “I might have been killed!”

He ignored her, and strode over to the hole the oak’s ruptured roots had torn in the ground. The wizard bent down, and pulled from the hole something that looked like a tarnished bowl, holding it by the golden knob that protruded from the bottom of it. He turned it in his hands, so the knob was at the top, and shook it gently. A round white object fell out and landed at Klarsh’s feet. It was a skull.

Shocked, Larajin realized that this was not a bowl that Klarsh held but a helm, its silver tarnished and black from long years of lying under the ground. Only the crest at the top of the helm-a knob of gold as thick as her thumb-had survived intact. More gold glinted in the ruptured ground at Klarsh’s feet.

Larajin heard the sound of running footsteps behind her. A moment later the sellswords appeared, Enik in the lead and spluttering curses.

“What in the Nine Hells …”

A feral smile spread across Enik’s face as he saw what Klarsh held. He strode forward and plucked the helm from the wizard and juggled it gleefully in one hand.

“Well done, Klarsh-well done, indeed.” He turned to show it to the other sellswords. “Didn’t I tell you the Vale of Lost Voices would give up its dead? All we had to do was find one of the tombs. We’re rich, boys. Rich!”

Whoops and cheers greeted this pronouncement. A moment later they turned to cautious, surly looks as Dray jogged up the road.

Despite the fact that he was a Foxmantle, Dray wasn’t quite as stupid as Larajin had supposed. As soon as he saw the overturned tree and Enik holding the dirt-encrusted helm, his eyes widened in alarm.

“Put that back,” he ordered. “That’s an elven burial you’re disturbing. It isn’t right.”

Paitar appeared a moment later, sword in hand. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

Enik squared off with Paitar, tossing the helm to one of his men and letting his hand hover near the hilt of his sword. Instead of drawing it, however, he spoke in a soft voice.

“Now, now, Paitar, there’s no need to draw steel. We’re all friends here, and friends share. You’d like to be a wealthy man, wouldn’t you?”

Paitar paused, blinked, then slowly lowered his sword. At a gesture from Enik, one of the sellswords stepped forward, yanked the sword from his hand, and danced back out of reach. Two others grabbed Paltar’s arms with rough hands, and a fourth held a dagger to his throat.

Dray, slower to react, was even easier to subdue.

“Not a noise-from either of you,” Enik told them.

He gestured a second time, and six of his men turned and jogged back toward the wagons, a purposeful look in their eyes.

Larajin could only stare, dumbfounded by the realization that the events that were unfolding must have been carefully planned, long in advance. That same realization was slower in coming to Dray. He struggled in the grip of the two ruffians who held him, tearing his shirt.

“Klarsh! Do something!” Dray shouted. “They’re thieves-stop them!”

Klarsh smiled. “I think not. I’d like to receive my share.”

Enik guffawed and sucked on his tooth, considering the struggling Dray. “He’ll fetch a good ransom.” His eyes turned to Larajin and he said, “As will she. House Uskevren will pay handsomely for the return of its wayward daughter, I warrant, and we’ll be safe in Hillsfar, with a war to prevent anyone from reaching us.”

Still chuckling, he strode toward her.

Paitar, who had been quiet, began to struggle. He was rewarded with a stab in the throat. A rush of blood sprayed the face of the sellsword with the knife. Cursing, the man finished the job, slamming the hilt of his sword onto Paltar’s head and knocking him down. The old soldier was dead before he hit the ground, the flow of blood from his neck no longer pulsing.

Dray sagged between the two men who held him, looking like he was about to faint.

Larajin backed cautiously away, knowing that she had to act. Quickly, she whispered a prayer. She was rewarded an instant later with the floral fragrance of Sune’s Kisses. She thrust out a hand, palm-first, at Enik, and uttered the one-word command that would trigger her spell.

“Flee!”

Enik jerked to a halt, one foot dangling above the ground in mid-step. For a moment, his eyes widened in fear. He half-turned to flee-then shook his head, like a man awakening from a dream.

He drew his sword and danced back a step, shouting over his shoulder, “Watch it, lads, she’s got spells. Klarsh! Do something.”

With a sinking heart, Larajin realized her magic had not been powerful enough to subdue the brigand. Was his will really that strong-or had she done something to displease the goddesses?

No time to wonder about that now. Klarsh had already begun muttering a spell. Determined to go down fighting, Larajin drew the magic dagger Tal had given her and assumed one of the fighting postures he’d taught her. Enik looked scornfully at her and laughed. As he started to speak, Larajin steeled herself, trying to close her mind to the magic she was certain was about to be unleashed upon her.

“Hey, now, missy,” Enik said in a low voice. “Have you forgotten that old Enik’s your pal? Why don’t you give me that pretty little dagger before you hurt your-”

A hissing noise, like the switch of a whip through the air, cut off his words. Enik’s expression changed, his eyes widening and his jaw dropping open. For a moment, Larajin thought something had gone wrong with his spell, then she realized that that other objects were whistling through the air all around her.

Arrows.

Enik looked stupidly down at the bloody barb of the arrow protruding from his chest, let his breath out in a bubbling sigh, and collapsed to the ground. Behind him, the other sellswords cursed, drawing their swords and whirling to face the threat. The wizard hurriedly cast a spell, and disappeared with a soft pop.

Larajin saw slender shapes flitting through the woods and caught a glimpse of a tattooed face. Elves!

Whirling, she clutched her bag to her chest, uncertain which way to run. From behind her came the screams of men and the whinnies of startled horses. The caravan was also under attack. She could hear arrows burying themselves in the sides of the wagons with harsh thuds.

She started to run up the road, but just ahead of her an arrow hit one of the brigands, causing him to howl in pain. Skidding to a stop, she decided to dash for the woods instead, but collided with Dray. He steadied her, then bent down and grabbed a sword from the lifeless hand of one of the brigands.

“Run!” he shouted. “I’ll hold them back.”

Before she could suggest that he, too, should run, an arrow struck Dray’s arm. He doubled over in pain and nearly dropped the sword. A second arrow buried itself in the ground near his feet.

Seeing that it was hopeless to stand and fight, Larajin turned and did as Dray had bade her. She ran.

A driverless wagon thundered past, pulled by terrified horses. Larajin sprinted beside it, using it to shield herself from the elves’ attack. Blighted vegetation cracked underfoot as she ran, and another arrow, fired under the wagon, narrowly missed her legs.

Realizing that she was still a target, she turned and sprinted for the woods on the side of the road opposite the one the arrows were coming from. Mist still hung in patches here and there between the trees. She zigzagged around it, fighting her way through the blight-slimed underbrush. Branches ripped her bag from her arms and tore open the mouth of her money pouch, spilling its coins. Larajin winced at their loss but kept running, one hand still clutching her dagger. She dodged around a tree, putting its massive trunk between herself and the elf archers.

Distracted by the screams of fighting men and a loud groan that might have been Dray’s voice, she stumbled over a root, then recovered and ran on. Behind her, the curses and shouts were getting fainter-and fewer. A moment more, and they were replaced by silence, then came the sound of bottles being smashed.

Larajin ran on through the forest, angling north to parallel the road, all the while casting nervous glances over her shoulder. It sounded as though the elves were sacking the caravan-would that keep them so busy they would forget about pursuing her?

Out of the corner of her eye, Larajin saw something whipping up off the forest floor toward her-a rope? It coiled around her leg. Jerked to a sudden halt, she crashed to the ground, the wind knocked from her. A snare! The elves must have set a trap.

Her dagger lay beside her, where she’d dropped it. Head still spinning from her fall, Larajin groped for it, but as her fingers closed around the hilt, another snare whipped around her forearm, preventing her from using the dagger to cut herself free.

No-not a snare, she realized, looking down. That wasn’t a rope around her arm; it was a leaf-covered vine. It looked like ivy, but it moved with a sinuous grace, and a purposefulness that suggested sentience. She realized that it must be the choke creeper the caravan drivers had spoken of it. This infestation was the reason the wizard was clearing the road.

She watched in horror as the loose ends of the vine coiled their way up her arm and leg like constricting snakes. Struggle as she might, she could not pull herself free. The vines were as strong as braided steel. More of them were questing blindly toward her, drawn by her frantic motions. She had blundered onto a wide patch of the creeper. The entire floor of the forest seemed to have come to life, to be reaching for her. Under that tangle of greenery, she could see the white of bones. She was not the first creature to have been caught in this trap.

Something tickled the back of her neck. Larajin jerked away, throwing herself violently to the side, but to no avail. One of the vines was around her neck. Larajin forced the fingers of her free hand under the vine, struggling to prevent it from crushing her throat, but this gave only momentary relief. Unable to rise, to flee, she wished now that an arrow had found her, instead. Knowing that she was about to die, she began choking out the words of a prayer.

As if in answer, an angry howl came from somewhere above. An instant later Larajin heard the fluttering of wings and saw the tressym swooping down through the trees.

“No,” she choked out, as a strand of the vine rose into the air, questing for the tressym. “Don’t…”

The vine around her neck tightened, forcing her fingers into her throat. Unable to speak, Larajin could only weep, certain that the tressym would be lashed from the sky.

But the tressym proved more agile than the questing vine. A leafy tendril caught and bent one of the feathers at the tressym’s wingtip-but then she was swooping back up into the sky with powerful beats of her wings. She repeated the action, and with each dive and ascent more and more of the vines followed her-and Larajin found that her hand, which still held the dagger, was free.

She sat up, slashing at the vine around her throat. The sudden movement triggered the rest of the tangled mass, which rippled toward her, but the tressym had bought her the time she needed. With a single swift stroke of her dagger-whose magical blade parted the vine as easily as rotted twine-Larajin was free.

Scrambling to her feet, she leaped back from the tangle of vines, onto a clear patch of ground. Sobbing with relief, she glanced up and saw the tressym perched safely on a branch, watching her with large, round eyes.

“Thank you, my little friend,” Larajin said. “You and I are balanced now-one rescue for another. If that’s why you’ve been following me all this time, consider your debt to me paid. You are free to go, but if you do decide to follow me farther, I think you should have a name. Certainly you’ve displayed a heart of gold today-and so, I grant you the name Goldheart.”

She pointed the blade of her dagger at the tressym, like a king bestowing honors on a knight, then she bowed.

When she rose, Goldheart was gone. A single bent feather, fallen from her wing, drifted down through the branches. Larajin ran and caught it-then jumped back in alarm as a wild elf stepped out from behind the trunk of the tree in which Goldheart had been perched, bow at full draw and arrow nocked. Larajin thought about raising her dagger, then realized what a futile gesture that would be. If the elf had intended to shoot her, Larajin would be dead by now. Instead the archer just stared.

Larajin stared breathlessly back, incredulous to finally meet a wild elf, face-to-face. The woman’s almond-shaped eyes were every bit as feral as the picture in Master Thamalon’s book, and the black band tattooed across her nose and cheeks made her look fiercer still. Her long, blonde hair was drawn back in a ponytail, exposing the rest of the tattoo, which completed its circle of her scalp over her pointed ears. Her skin was a dusky brown-the same color as the tanned leather of her clothes. She wore rough breeches and a vest decorated with animal teeth that had been sewn onto it like buttons. Muscles bunched in her bare arms as she held her bow at full draw.

The irony of this meeting was not lost on Larajin. Rather than having to go looking for the wild elves of the Tangled Trees, they had come to her. Now, instead of introducing herself to them as kin, Larajin would be pleading her case as a captured enemy.

“I … elf-friend,” she stuttered, using the few words of the wild elf tongue she had been able to glean from the books in the master’s library. “I look … forest-mother from … trees-woven-into-trees…”

Wings fluttered above. The elf woman glanced up at Goldheart, but her arrow remained unwavering in its aim. The tressym circled once overhead, then turned and winged her way to the east.

“You must be blessed of the goddess, to have one of her favorites come to your aid,” the elf said.

Startled, Larajin realized the woman had spoken in the common tongue. The words were heavily accented-and overlaid with the distinctive inflections of a Sembian. Larajin wondered who had taught her the language.

Larajin blurted out her explanation. “I pay homage to Hanali Celanil,” she said, holding up her wrist to show the gilded heart that dangled there. “I am part elf myself. My mother was-”

A brief peal of laughter cut Larajin short. The elf had a skeptical, almost scornful expression on her face. Her eyes darted from Larajin’s ears, to her hair, to her fair skin. She was believing none of it.

Behind the woman, from the direction of the road, came the sound of lilting voices. The elves had obviously completed their prédation upon the caravan and now were breaking the eerie silence they had maintained throughout their attack. Larajin wondered if Dray had survived. She prayed that the elves had shown him mercy-and that they would extend that mercy to her. She decided to try a different approach.

Slowly, not wanting her movements to be misinterpreted, Larajin turned her dagger to show the elf its hilt. If this elf spoke Sembian-flavored Common, perhaps she knew a little of Sembia’s geography-and politics. A member of a noble household might be deemed one worth keeping alive, worth ransoming.

“I am a member of a noble Sembian house,” Larajin began. “My …” She hesitated, then decided there was no harm in telling the truth, so far from home. “My father is Thamalon Uskevren. This is his dagger. It bears our family crest.”

Recognition flickered in the elf’s eyes. She knew the master’s name!

Larajin took a deep breath, hoping the elf would listen, this time.

“Twenty-six years ago, Thamalon Uskevren journeyed north to the Tangled Trees. He met an elf woman-a wild elf of the forest-and … lay with her. A year later he returned, and found that she had given birth to his child. She died during the birthing, and so I was given to my father. I was raised in his house, in Sembia, but now I have returned. I am looking for …” She paused, unsure for a moment how to continue. “For my roots. My … family.”

She waited, praying the elf would believe her.

The elf’s eyes had grown wider as Larajin spoke. Suddenly, in one swift motion, she lowered her bow. Removing her arrow, she slid it into the quiver at her hip. She pressed both hands against her heart, palms to her chest, and bowed.

“I should have paid more heed to the goddess’s sign. Perhaps then I would have recognized you,” she said as she straightened, “but it is little wonder that I didn’t. You and your brother are as different as day and night.”

“My brother?”

Before Larajin had a chance to ask more, the elven woman motioned for silence. Behind her, a dozen elves came running lightly through the wood. She turned quickly and signaled to them. They slowed their pace, at the same time lowering their weapons. The woman spoke to them in their own rapid tongue, pointing several times at Larajin, and once getting her to lift her hand and show the elves the tressym feather she was holding. There were mutters, at first, but then more than one of the elves began nodding.

The woman turned back to Larajin. “You will come with us, to the Tangled Trees,” she said. “We will leave at once.”

Larajin nodded, and allowed a smile of relief to creep to her lips. Silently she thanked the goddesses-first Hanali Celanil, then Sune-for watching over her. Despite the terrible fact that men had just fought and died on Rauthauvyr’s Road, Larajin had survived, and would soon be on her way to the Tangled Trees. The goddesses seemed to be watching over her, after all.