Rylith was speaking, addressing the crowd. The language of the forest elves flowed swiftly from her lips, as clear and high as a mountain stream or the ripple of a wind through the wood. Larajin caught only a word or two-her own name, and Leifander’s, and the Elvish word for twins-then Rylith opened her hand. In one swift motion, before Larajin could jerk away, the druid threw the ball of magical energy. It shot forward with the speed of an arrow. In the instant that it entered her, Larajin saw a tiny white feather strike her chest, then flutter to the ground.
She gasped as sunlight flared in her eyes, washing her vision white. Waves of heat and cold gripped her body, which felt as though it was expanding, growing as large as the world itself. Thoughts whirled through her mind-a multitude of voices in three choruses: those who had died, those who yet lived, and those who had yet to be born. They had a message to impart, a message of hope and despair, joy and grief, urgings and warnings. A message she struggled to understand but could not, since it was being shouted in the Elvish and common tongues at once, each drowning the other out. The emotions behind the message, however, came through like breaking waves. The voices expected her to say something, do something, to be something.
Bobbing on the sea of human and elf faces was one she recognized. Tal. He stood amidst the throng, visible from the shoulders up, wearing chain mail over his shirt and an embroidered surcoat bearing the crest of House Uskevren. There was something wrong about his face. His deep green eyes were staring, unfocused, and his dark hair was matted and wet on one side. Something seemed to be sticking out of it, just behind the right ear, as if a twig had been caught in his hair.
With a shudder of horror, Larajin realized that an arrow was sticking out of Tal’s head, buried nearly to the fletching in a mat of blood-crusted hair.
He was dead.
The view shifted, drew back. Larajin saw hands bursting out of the earth like grasping vines, twining themselves around the ankles and calves of Tal and all those around him. The hands were dark, the color of earth, and had fingernails that flashed silver, like steel. They clawed at the flesh of those above, tearing deep gashes that wept a rain of blood onto the disturbed, heaving ground.
The elves and humans were still shouting at Larajin, calling to her, demanding she listen, imploring her to act. Unable to withstand the discordant chorus of voices that broke over her, one wave crashing in after the next, Larajin grabbed her ears with both hands and broke into a stumbling run. Somehow, despite her eyes being squeezed shut, she found her way through the elves in the clearing, running faster and faster through what must have been patches of sunlight and shadow. Blazing heat alternated with winter chill as darkness, light, darkness, then light flashed before her eyes. Something grabbed her from behind, and something else knocked against her legs, tripping her and toppling her to the ground.
She wept with relief as darkness finally claimed her.
Larajin woke to the patter of rain and the smell of wet leaves and soil. She lay on a bed of soft moss, covered by a light sheet, one hand outstretched. Cool, wet leather pressed against the back of her hand-the side of a tent.
It was too dark to see anything clearly. The walls of the tent were dark, and it had been pitched deep in the forest, with a tangle of branches shrouding it from what must be an overcast sky. The resulting gloom was as dark as a cave.
Larajin lay in the darkness, wondering what had happened. Her first thoughts were of Tal. Was he still alive? Had that truly been a vision of his death she’d seen? If so, when was it going to happen-now, or in the future? There was no way to know and little she could do to warn or protect Tal while she lay there in that tent, so far from home. The thought left her with a hollow in her stomach even deeper than her hunger pangs.
Hours must have passed since the celebration in the forest clearing. Had they carried her to this tent to recover from the druid’s spell? Larajin was confused, groggy from her long sleep, hungry, and in need of relieving herself.
She sat up and located the faint line of gray that was the tent flap. Through it blew a cool breeze that smelled of rain. As she sat up and crawled toward the exit, something shifted. Larajin saw the dim outline of a creature, perched on the horizontal pole just above the tent flap, peering at her. Enormous round eyes gleamed in the darkness, then blinked. The creature shifted again, and Larajin heard a rustle of feathers.
“Goldheart?” she asked hopefully. She reached out in the darkness to stroke the tressym.
A loud hoot filled the tent, stopping her short. The creature unfolded its wings and flapped them once, warning her away. This was no tressym. It was an owl-an enormous one, as large as a hunting dog. It peered balefully at her, snapping its beak at her questing fingers. She pulled her hand back.
As the need to relieve herself grew more pressing, Larajin tried once again to crawl outside. The owl, however, beat its wings furiously and rose from its perch, raking the air in front of it with its talons and snapping its beak. Its message was unmistakable. It didn’t want Larajin to leave the tent.
Warily, Larajin searched for another exit but found none. She was frustrated and puzzled. Had this creature crept inside the tent while she lay sleeping? Or had one of the elves deliberately placed it there to prevent her from leaving? She had read in one of the books at Stormweather Towers that wood elves used owls as watchdogs.
Whatever the reason for it being there, the owl was clearly not going to let her get past it.
Feeling her way around the tent, she located a wooden bowl and dumped out the cold food that filled it. She used it to dig a hole and relieved herself, then covered the hole with earth and settled back onto her mossy bed, glaring at the owl. Whether the creature had been left there or crawled in on its own, she’d had enough of the thing.
“Hello!” she shouted in Common. “Rylith! Are you out there? What’s going on?”
Lantern light flickered against the walls of the tent, and voices called out to one another in the elves’ tongue. Then one side of the tent brightened. A moment later, moving shadows appeared and grew on its side.
The owl, which had returned to its perch, ruffled its wings a second time when the tent flap beside it opened. An elf poked his head through the entrance, peered at Larajin from under bangs that dripped with rainwater, and nodded when he saw she was awake. He said something to her in his own language, then switched to broken Common.
“You wait,” he said. “Rylith gone.”
“Where is she?” Larajin snapped.
“Travel to setting sun.”
“She’s journeyed west? Where to?”
The elf’s only answer was a stony look. There were some questions, it seemed, he wouldn’t answer.
Frustrated by his silence, Larajin chafed. She’d expected Rylith to come to the tent, to explain what had happened-what the purpose of her spell had been. Larajin felt no different than she had before, but the magical energy must have done something to her, had some lingering effect. She also wanted to ask Rylith what her vision had meant. Not the part about Tal dying-that was clear enough-but the multitude of voices shouting at her. Larajin didn’t have the patience to just sit in this tent and wait. She’d have to find a way to get to Rylith, wherever she was. Perhaps Doriantha could help.
“What about Doriantha?” she asked the elf. “Is she here?”
He shook his head firmly. “No. Gone. Go fight.”