Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [2]
Larajin ran a finger along the top of her own ear. It was smooth and round-a legacy of her human father, Master Thamalon Uskevren the Elder. From her mother-a "wild elf of the Tangled Trees-Larajin had inherited her rust-colored hair, slim build, and impulsive nature.
What had her mother been like? Beautiful, certainly, to have lured the master's affections away from his wife. Well respected by her people, Habrith had said, but Habrith-who was like an aunt to Larajin-had refused to tell her more. She said only that Larajin would find out on her own in due time, when the moment had ripened.
Larajin knew she would one day travel to the Tangled Trees, but something was holding her back. It was fear, perhaps, or the comforts of Stormweather Towers, or the fact that the few Elvish words she'd managed to glean from dusty old tomes would not enable her to make her complicated story understood.
A thud startled Larajin out of her reverie. She peered around the high back of the armchair in which she sat, thinking that someone had entered the library-that she was about to be caught handling the master's precious tomes. She saw with relief that the door to the library was still closed and realized the noise had just been a book falling over on one of the shelves. From elsewhere in Stormweather Towers came the sound of raised voices, but in the hall outside the library, all was quiet.,
On the carpet at her feet, a tressym sighed contentedly, eyes closed. The catlike creature sat like a sphinx, forepaws extended and wings tucked tightly against her back. Even folded flat, the wings were exquisitely beautiful. Unfolded, they rivaled a peacock's feathers, with spots of brilliant turquoise, vibrant yellow, and ruby red, all edged in tabby-stripe black.
As if sensing Larajin looking at her, the tressym opened luminous golden eyes and inclined her head.
Brrow? she asked quizzically.
Larajin bent down to stroke silky, blue-gray fur. As
always, she was amazed at how the tressym trusted her. Anyone else foolish enough to try to pat the creature would have had her hand shredded by those sharp claws.
"You shouldn't be here," she chided. "You're a wild creature-you should have flown back to wherever you came from, after I healed you. Why do you keep sneaking into Stormweather Towers? Don't you know your being here is dangerous-for both of us?"
The only answer was a rumbling purr. The tressym closed her eyes and in a moment was fast asleep.
Larajin settled back into the armchair and turned the page, wrinkling her nose at the musty smell of age-spotted paper and old leather. The book was a history of the founding of Sembia, an unfortunately rather dry account of what must in fact have been truly heroic events. Larajin would liked to have learned more, for example, about the great clash between humans and elves at Singing Arrows in the year DR. What had prompted the historians to give such a bloody battle so poetic a name? Also given short shrift was the visit to the Elven Court of Sembia's first Overmaster, Rauthauvyr the Raven, in. Instead of describing elven customs, the author dwelled interminably on arcane legal arguments about whether or not Sembia had the right to construct a road.
There was one tantalizing detail, however. A footnote at the bottom of a page containing a list of the members of the council noted that these were not the "true names" of the elves. It added that every elf was given both a true name and a common name by his parents on the day that he was born.
Larajin had been named by her adoptive human mother, the servant Shonri Wellrun. Now she wondered-had the elf woman who died giving birth to her twenty-five years ago lived long enough to give her daughter a true name?
Lost in thought, Larajin heard the tressym hiss, but she paid it no heed, assuming the creature was reacting to something in a dream. A long shadow fell across the
pages, and a hand reached down and jerked the book out of her lap, causing Larajin to shriek in alarm.
"This is the final stone,