The singing began again, and suddenly an opening appeared in its wall, just in front of where Doriantha stood. It was as if the leaves had blown away in the wind. Grasping Larajin’s arm, Doriantha led her inside.
As they entered the tent, the wall of leaves became solid again behind them. Looking around, Larajin at first wondered if her mind was playing tricks on her. It was almost as if they were standing in a forest glen on a sunny day. Instead of bare earth, as she had expected, the floor of the tent was covered in thick, lush grass, trimmed as neatly as any carpet and sprinkled with miniature white daisies. Above, against the dome of the roof, the sun seemed to be shining. It took Larajin a moment of squinting to realize that the light must have been the result of a spell. A network of branches grew out of the ground and wove its way around the interior of the tent, forming shelves, a low bed, and a bench against its walls. This living furniture was dotted with bright green leaves and tiny yellow flowers, which gave off a sweet, citruslike smell.
Seated on the bench was an elf with gray hair and dark tree-branch tattoos on her cheeks and chin. A band of silver leaves in her hair glittered where the magical light struck it, and over her leather breeches and vest she wore a cloak that looked as though it had been woven from autumn leaves of red and orange and yellow.
The woman gave Larajin an intense, expectant look. “You are Trisdea’s daughter?” she asked in fluent Common.
Larajin nodded.
The druid sighed. Larajin couldn’t tell if the sound was one of relief-or something else. Was Rylith disappointed in what she saw? Had she expected Larajin to look more like an elf?
Doriantha placed both hands upon her chest, over her heart, and bowed low in the direction of the gray-haired woman. From the deference she paid Rylith, Larajin guessed that the druid was both important and powerful, perhaps as highly placed among her people as the Hulorn himself. Larajin, not wanting to insult her, imitated Doriantha’s bow.
She must have done it wrong, for Rylith chuckled. She rose from her seat and strode to where Larajin stood, her leaf-cloak rustling. She bowed briefly in Doriantha’s direction, then took Larajin’s hands in hers.
“You have come at last,” she said. “Welcome.”
“Thank you,” Larajin fumbled. “I am glad to have finally reached the Tangled Trees and found my … my mother’s people. I hope I will be-”
“Welcome?” Rylith asked, as if reading Larajin’s mind. The tattoos on her cheeks folded into grandmotherly wrinkles as she smiled. “Set your mind at ease, child. I will speak on your behalf.”
Relief washed over Larajin as she met the gray-haired woman’s eyes. Rylith had a presence that was at once calming-and commanding. If she told the elves of the Tangled Trees to welcome Larajin, so it would be.
Rylith said something to Doriantha, who nodded and picked up a small earthenware jar from one of the shelves. She passed this jug to Rylith, who unstoppered it and offered it to Larajin. The fruity smell of fermented berries rose from within. Larajin glanced down, and saw that the jar was filled with a blue-black liquid.
“A mild draught,” Rylith said. “One that will help you to relax and to sleep. Your arrival is fortuitous. Tomorrow is the Turning, an important day among our people. The dance begins at dawn. I want you to be well rested. Until then,” she added, glancing at Doriantha as she spoke, “I think Larajin should remain here with me, in my tent.”
Doriantha nodded and returned Rylith’s glance with a look bordering on relief. The warrior’s shoulders, set so square a moment ago, at last relaxed. For the first time, Larajin realized that she’d made it as far as the Tangled Trees only thanks to Doriantha and was very thankful that Doriantha had been the first elf she’d met. Any of the other elves in the patrol would have taken one look at Larajin’s too-human face, and feathered her with an arrow on the spot. Now, noticing the looks that Rylith and Doriantha exchanged, Larajin wondered what secret they shared.
“What’s going to happen tomorrow?” Larajin asked.
Rylith nudged Larajin’s hand, motioning for her to drink. “Trust in me,” she said. “You’ve come too far not to. Tomorrow you’ll get your answers.”
Exhausted, aching in every muscle and nearly asleep on her feet, Larajin shrugged. What, really, did she have to fear? If the druid wanted to harm her, she could have done so long before now. The awe in which Doriantha regarded Rylith suggested that the druid’s magic was strong. Larajin had no more reason to mistrust Rylith than she did to trust the elves of Doriantha’s patrol who waited outside the tent with daggers and bows.
She nodded, and swallowed the liquid. It turned out to be as sweet as it smelled, though it burned like one of the Uskevren’s strongest brandies. Wiping her lips with her hand, Larajin handed the jug back to Rylith. When she saw the blue-black stain the liquid had left across the back of her hand, she imagined her lips were a dark blue. The thought made her giggle and hiccup. As giggle and hiccup alternated, she became more relaxed. Doriantha disappeared somewhere into the distance, and Rylith’s face and the walls of the tent began to blur, then soft, wrinkled hands were leading Larajin to bed.
Gratefully, she sank into the blankets, and nuzzled her face into the sweet-smelling blossoms that grew on the vine-woven bed.
Tomorrow, she told herself, echoing Rylith’s words. I’ll find my answers then.
Larajin squatted on the ground, surrounded by hundreds of elves who were drumming, feasting, and singing. They had gathered in a sun-dappled clearing in the forest, at the center of which was an ornately carved wooden pole. As thick as Larajin’s waist and about one and a half times the height of an elf, the pole had been inscribed with Elvish runes that spiraled from the bottom to the top, which was carved in the shape of an acorn.
All around this pole, elves danced. Drums of every description guided their footsteps. Enormous hollow logs boomed low when struck with massive clubs by teams of drummers, taut-skinned drums clenched between knees were pounded with bare palms, dancing fingers tapped hand drums, and ornately carved hardwood sticks clicked together. The primitive music struck a chord deep in Larajin’s soul. Excitement filled her as her heart kept pace with the frenzied rhythm.
The elves had been drumming and dancing since dawn, when a camp crier, perched high in a tree above, announced that the sun had crested the treetops. Now the sun was almost directly overhead, and they were hot, sweaty, and drooping, pausing only long enough to slake their thirst with large quaffs of nut-flavored ale that had been chilled in a shaded forest stream. Yet despite the growing heat of the day, the dancing and drumming continued without pause, fresh dancers springing to their feet to replace those who flagged.
Larajin watched, fascinated. The elves of the Tangled Trees looked just as savage as those portrayed in the master’s books, but had a proud, noble quality about them that the engravings had failed to capture. Their tattooed faces, red-blond hair twisted with feathers and bones, bare feet, and rustic leather breeches and vests might give them a primitive appearance that would be scoffed at in fashion-conscious Selgaunt, but their dances were every bit as intricate as a quick-step quadrille or tarantella. The movements were physically demanding, suggestive of martial prowess-even the women’s parts. Dancers hurtled into the air, propelled over the heads of their partners, spun furiously in a low squat that erupted into a sudden back flip, or leaped into the air, heels kicking high above their heads. Larajin was dizzy just watching.
Or perhaps it was the lingering effects of the draught Rylith had given her the night before, combined with the ale. She took another long swallow and wiped the foam from her lips, savoring the warm, muzzy glow the ale provided. With each sip, the world seemed somehow brighter, warmer, more welcoming. The ale was also helping to ease the ache in her legs and lower back left by the long march through the forest.