As she worked her way closer to the ledge, Larajin caught glimpses of the figure entombed inside the ice. The body was female-a fact Larajin noted with relief-a slender woman with delicate features, long pointed ears and coppery-red hair in two braids that lay upon her shoulders. A forest elf, judging by her leather breeches and ornately beaded boots and vest. The ice that entombed her-Larajin was peering up through more than an arm’s length of the stuff-distorted the woman’s features, making it impossible to see whether or not she resembled Leifander. Larajin could see a dark crescent-a tattoo-on one of her cheeks.
Was it a stylized moon, the symbol of the goddess Somnilthra had worshiped? Larajin prayed it was-that she wouldn’t be forced to climb another of the towers.
She needed to get closer, to reach a ledge she’d spotted that was level with the body. Unfortunately, as she drew nearer to it, she saw there was a gap nearly a pace wide between the ledge and the ridge she’d climbed along. She knew it was crazy to risk a jump-the ice was too slippery for a safe landing-but by stretching, she just might be able to reach it with one foot. Then it would simply be a matter of transferring her weight with a slight hop, and she would be across.
Leaning out as far as she dared, she extended her right foot and tested the ledge with it. The ice seemed solid enough. Gradually, she eased her weight onto it…
And the ice below her right foot gave a deep, groaning crack.
Larajin froze, poised over the gap. An instant later, the ledge she’d been trying to reach gave way. Gasping, Larajin threw her weight back, trying to reach the safety of the spot where she’d just been standing, but her left foot slipped. Thrown off-balance, she fell to her knees. She scrabbled at the ice, seeking a handhold-and found one-but then her knees slipped from the edge. Her full weight was supported only by her hands. Pain shot through her left wrist as it twisted, and that hand lost its grip.
Just as she thought she was about to go over the edge, one scrabbling foot at last found a toehold, then the other found a foothold. She heaved herself upward, waves of agony shooting through her sprained wrist. As she pulled herself to safety, she felt her dagger catch on a outcropping of ice and yank from its sheath. It fell onto the ice and began to slide away.
Larajin grabbed for it, but her position forced her to reach with the hand that had been twisted in the ice. Her fingers still weren’t working properly. They brushed against the hilt but would not close upon it. Despite the bright moonlight, the shadows of the splintered ice made the dagger difficult to see. Was it slipping out from under her fingertips and going over the edge?
“Illunathros!” she cried.
With a bright flash of blue light, the dagger illuminated-then it slipped off into space. Despondent, Larajin watched it fall toward the lake below. It flashed brightly as it tumbled end over end.
A loud caw echoed across the lake as a small dark shape streaked through the night toward the ice tower. At the last moment before the dagger struck the surface, the weapon’s fall slowed until it was drifting down as gently as a feather. Just before it reached the water, the crow swooped low over the lake and neatly plucked it from the air with its feet. The bird wheeled in a graceful curve and began climbing toward the spot where Larajin crouched, the dagger glowing brightly in its talons.
“Leifander!” Larajin exclaimed.
The crow cawed again in greeting, then hovered next to Larajin, wings beating furiously. One wing lagged slightly behind the other, as if he were exhausted from a long flight.
Larajin reached out and took the dagger from him, nodded her head in an abbreviated bow of heartfelt thanks, and secured the dagger in the sheath at her hip.
Leifander landed, hopped sideways along the ridge toward a flat spot, then spread his wings. A moment later a ripple passed through him as he shifted back into elf form. His bare feet slid a little on the ice, and he waved his arms for a moment like beating wings before finding his balance. One arm seemed stiff, as if it pained him, and his right eye and cheek were splotchy with the shadows of fresh bruises.
“You’re injured,” Larajin observed aloud. “What happened?”
He winced, as if something other than his injuries pained him. “It’s nothing.”
“Did the elf near the forked oak attack you?”
Leifander glanced up sharply. “What elf?”
“The one who shot an arrow at me. He spotted me as I entered the water.”
Leifander looked grimly back at the shore. “He must have been one of those who patrol the lake. We’ll have trouble getting back. Especially now. The entire shore will be watching for us.”
“You were gone so long,” Larajin continued. “I thought, for a moment there, that you’d joined that elf patrol and weren’t coming back. I’m sorry I doubted-”
Leifander interrupted her with a bitter laugh. “You were right,” he said. “I did join them-for a time. The patrol needed a messenger … a swift one, with wings. I couldn’t refuse; the message was a vital one.”
Larajin’s mouth turned down in disapproval. “And so you abandoned me,” she said. “You turned your back on your duty-and our destiny.”
“Only for a short time,” he said, a guilty look in his eye.
Combined with his injuries, the look told her that something had happened to change his mind. She waited, silently, for him to tell her what it was.
“I delivered their message,” Leifander said at last. “The commander who received it knew me and had heard the rumors about me being the son of a human-and not just any human, but a powerful merchant of Sembia. She believes that hazel-eyed twins are blessed by the gods-but said half-human twins didn’t count. Worse still, she announced that half-elves are not to be counted among our allies nor to be trusted, now that Lord Ulath has declared Deepingdale neutral.”
His voice dropped to a pained whisper, and he glanced across the lake at its tree-lined shore.
“I was raised in this forest and am the son of a noble warrior. I’m as much an elf as any of them. I look like an elf, I dress and act like an elf-I am an elf-and yet all they see now is my human half.”
“Did they attack you?” Larajin asked softly.
“They claimed I was a traitor. They didn’t believe I had only gone to Selgaunt at the druids’ request. They tried to hold me, but I escaped. In doing so, I condemned myself. As long as this war continues, I won’t be welcome among my people. Neither there,” he said, pointing at the forest, “nor in your realm.”
He gave Larajin a determined, fierce look and added, “I’m committed to what you called Our destiny’ now. Fully. I want this war to end. Let’s see if Somnilthra can tell us how to fulfill that destiny.”
Larajin glanced at the woman entombed in the ice next to them. “This is her, then?” she asked.
“Of course.” Leifander cocked his head. “You must have known that, or you wouldn’t have chosen this tower to climb.”
Larajin started to smile, but just then the spire of ice shuddered. There was a deep groan, and a crack appeared above them. Splinters of ice, sparkling in the moonlight like shards of glass, tumbled free and fell onto the twins.
Unsteady on the slippery ridge, Larajin grabbed for Leifander’s hand. As she steadied herself, her legs cramped from the cold that was seeping up through her bare feet, and she shuddered.
Leifander glanced sharply at her. “You’re freezing!” he exclaimed. “Your fingers are nearly blue. Don’t you have a spell that can warm them?”
Larajin shook her head. “No more than you have a spell to heal your bruises, it would seem. I tried praying, but the goddesses didn’t answer.” She touched his injured shoulder gently. “I could heal you, however.”
“No time,” he said, glancing pointedly at a crack just above where they stood. “Besides, the bruises are only a minor inconvenience. I wish I had a spell that could help you, but the Lady of Air and Wind answers prayers for heat with violence; all she knows is the fury of the lightning strike, and the blazing heat of the wind-whipped forest fire.”