Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [70]
He turned to go, but Larajin caught his arm a second time.
"Th-the prophecy!" she sputtered. "The war." She glanced at Tal with troubled eyes, as if expecting him to lend his voice. "Rylith says we're the only ones who can stop it. She's a druid-a fellow elf. If you won't believe me, surely you'll believe her."
Beside her, Tal was looking increasingly nervous.
"Uh, Larajin," he whispered. "People are listening."
It was true. At the mention of the word "elf," more than one head had turned. Their argument was starting to attract attention, but Leifander didn't care. Exhausted from his long battle with the rats, itching in the hot clothes, still smelling of the sewer, and with the gods-cursed bells on the turban tinkling in his pinched ears, he'd had enough. He wanted to be rid of the two humans, to get away on his own somewhere where he could summon a crow, skinwalk, and launch himself into the clean blue sky and be quit of the stinking city.
"Larajin," Tal whispered again. "If we stand here and argue, the guards might see us. If he wants to leave, let him."
"Tal, it's not that simple," Larajin pleaded. "I have to make Leifander understand. If there's war, you'll…" She hesitated, blinking back tears. "The elves will kill you."
Now people were stopping and staring. "Elves?" one noblewoman asked in a fluttering voice.
"Should we call the guard?" a man asked, looking nervously around.
"They're just talking about the war," another muttered, shaking his head and walking on.
"That's right," Tal said quickly. "Nothing to get alarmed about. We're just-" Whatever else he had to say was drowned out by the rumble of a passing carriage.
Leifander was feeling claustrophobic again, hemmed in by the crush of people in the street. Tal and Larajin might have been trying to help, but they were only drawing unwanted attention.
"Black Archer pierce you both!" he hissed, yanking his arm out of Larajin's grasp.
Larajin's face paled. "Take it back!" she cried. "You've cursed him-take it back."
Leifander touched his forefinger to his lips through the fabric of the scarf, then flicked the curse up toward the heavens. "No."
"Take it back!" Larajin said again, in a high, tight voice.
Stubbornly, Leifander shook his head.
"Gods curse you!" she screamed, lunging at him and slamming both palms into his shoulders.
Taken by surprise, Leifander tripped backward over the curb. He fell heavily but sprang to his feet a moment later. Only when he heard the gasps of the crowd that had formed a circle around them did he realize what was wrong. His turban had been jostled off when he fell. The crowd was staring at his ears, their faces frozen in horror.
The silence broke. "An elf!" one man howled. "A spy! Call the guard!"
Pandemonium broke out all around them. People collided with one another, some scrambling to get away, others struggling to draw daggers or swords and lunge forward. Still others turned with gallant concern as the noblewoman who had spoken earlier fainted, crumpling slowly to the ground in a heap amid her skirts.
Leifander spun, looking for an exit, but found none.
He thrust out his hands, tattooed fingers splayed, then remembered at the last moment that he was unable to skinwalk. Nearly weeping with frustration, he wished for a feather-just one tiny black feather-so that he could fly.
Then Larajin spoke, in a tone he had not heard her use before. She sang out a single word in a voice as sweet as song, vibrant and pure. "Calm. Be calm, everyone!"
Amazingly, it worked. All around them, the crowd jerked to a sudden halt, and slowly limbs and faces relaxed. Leifander felt his own body relax as a feeling of peace settled upon him like the sweet languor found at the bottom of a bottle of wine. At the same time, a wonderful fragrance filled the air. After a moment, he recognized it as the scent that accompanied the wmter-blossoming Hanali's Heart. He noticed the heart-shaped locket hanging from