Every now and again, a wooden platter of food passed round from hand to hand, always finding its way to the spot where Larajin sat. She recognized none of the dishes but savored their exotic tastes. There were slices of sticky-sweet orange fruit, squares of roasted meat flavored with salt and the smoke of an open campfire, crisp curl-topped ferns cooked with pungent mushrooms, and brown bread crunchy with seeds and nuts. All of it had been prepared over simple cookfires inside the brown leather tents that surrounded the clearing.
Glancing over the heads of the dancers, Larajin caught sight of Rylith. The druid was walking around the pole in a slow circle that had begun in a crouch at dawn, fingers tracing the spiraling script. Several times, she glanced up at the acorn at the top of the pole-or perhaps to the sky above it-but most of the time her attention was on the ground. She seemed to be measuring the shadow cast by the pole. All morning it had been growing shorter until it was less than a palm’s width long.
Nobody had taken the time yet to explain to Larajin what was going on, but she found that she didn’t care. Rylith had indeed spoken to the elves, and as she’d promised, Larajin was a welcome guest. Even the elves of Doriantha’s patrol, who had been so suspicious, had in the morning greeted Larajin with welcoming smiles.
Every elf Larajin had met that morning, in fact, had been overly attentive to her, greeting her with the same bow that Rylith had. They made sure her ale cup was full, and that the platters of food did not pass her by. The fierce challenges of the night before were gone, replaced by coy, curious glances.
No wonder, Larajin thought. The elves of the Tangled Trees received few human visitors and fewer still who claimed to have wild elf blood flowing in their veins. No, forest elf, Larajin corrected herself. That was what these people called themselves, and so should she. Though Larajin was willing to embrace them as kin, it would be another matter altogether to get them to see her in the same light. They were obviously still a bit wary of her completely human appearance-more than once, she caught them staring at her. Which was strange, since they shouldn’t have been surprised by the way she looked, after having Leifander grow up among them.
Larajin returned her attention to the dancers. She longed to ask the elves next to her what the celebration was all about, but the few words of Forest Elf that she spoke had proved barely enough to do more than exchange names. All she could make out was that the dance had something to do with the sun and the year, which was either beginning or ending-or both. Perhaps it was a primitive version of the Midsummer Night celebrations she’d attended a year before in the temple of Sune. She wondered if it would end, like them, with couples slipping away to consummate their flirtations.
Between the throbbing drumbeats, Larajin heard a cry of pain, echoing out of the forest. Startled, she sprang to her feet and glanced around, thinking that someone had been injured, but an elf woman beside her shook her head and gestured for her to sit down again. The woman patted her stomach, then mimed holding a baby in her arms.
Larajin nodded, understanding. The cry was that of a woman in labor. Seating herself again, she wondered if she, too, had been born during a gathering like this, surrounded by enormous trees in a leaf-shadowed tent smelling of the moss that lined its floor, while outside, elves drummed and danced. It was a far cry from the formal halls of Stormweather Towers, where births took place in rooms with scrubbed stone floors, clean beds, and trained midwives.
Taking another sip of ale, Larajin basked in the warm glow it left her with and nodded in time with the music. Despite having been there less than a day, she was already coming to understand the forest elves. In just one morning she had learned the polite way to eat, with just her first two fingers and thumb instead of the whole hand. The elves had also taught her the proper way to greet a friend, with one hand on her heart. Especially honored guests were greeted with both hands-in the manner that Doriantha had bowed to Rylith. They had even suggested, tapping a finger against her cheek, that she adopt their custom by getting a facial tattoo. Giddy with ale, she was actually considering it.
Larajin nodded and smiled at the elves around her, thanking them for each new bit of lore. Despite the fact that they were instructing her in matters of formal etiquette-something Erevis Cale had tried to drum into her ever since she was born, much to her dislike-she felt at home there, a lost daughter returned to her roots. The forest elves were a strange and wild folk, to be sure, but being among them somehow felt … comfortable. Like her, they didn’t worry about getting dirt on their knees or brambles in their hair.
Larajin shared their love of the forest and their delight at being surrounded by green and growing things. Having nothing but an open sky overhead made her feel free. She felt at home there-more than she ever had within the dusty confines of Stormweather Towers-and safe from Drakkar’s threats. The forest elves had accepted her, would protect her.
Some of their customs were strange, but they fit her more comfortably than did a servant’s quiet obedience. These people had a way of holding themselves, of walking and sitting, that mirrored her own. For the first time, her own mannerisms seemed natural. She missed Tal, and her friend Kremlar, and dear old Habrith, but in the Tangled Trees, she was among her own people. Here, at last, was a place she could call home.
As the sun climbed still higher in the sky, a patch of bright sunlight found her. Filtered through the branches though it was, the sunlight was hot on her shoulders and the crown of her head. Larajin rose to her knees, intending to shift to a patch of shade, when, as one, all of the drums stopped. She looked up, and saw Rylith standing rigidly at the center of the clearing, one hand extended overhead, face upturned and fingers splayed as she reached toward the sun. Around her, all of the dancers had sagged to the ground. They sat, panting, eyes locked on the druid.
As Rylith stood, stiff asa statue, a haze of heat formed in the air above her outstretched hand. Small as a clenched fist, confusing to the eye, the shimmer flickered rapidly back and forth between flame-white and shadow-black. At the same time, a beam of sunlight lanced straight down onto the pole while an ink-dark shadow seeped out from its base and began to creep upward in a slow spiral. Light and shadow met at the acorn atop the pole and crackled there with magical energy. Even though she sat a good distance away, Larajin’s nose tickled, and the hair rose on the back of her neck. She felt as if a thunderstorm was crackling overhead, about to break over her.
A gasp whispered through the crowd when Rylith clenched her hand shut around the flickering heat haze. She lowered her hand to her chest, as if clutching something precious, then lifted it to her lips and whispered to it. Her gaze ranged over the assembled crowd, and as it lingered, then passed over each elf, he or she gasped expectantly, then gave a disappointed sigh.
Then the druid seemed to find what she had been searching for. She stared in Larajin’s direction, and Larajin, still half sitting and half kneeling, twisted around to glance behind her. Several of the elves seated behind her were leaning forward expectantly, eyes locked on the druid. Their faces fell. Turning around again, Larajin saw that Rylith had moved away from the pole and had stepped to within a few paces of her. The druid gestured with her free hand for Larajin to rise.
Uncertain why she had been singled out, Larajin obeyed and found she was unsteady on her feet. With an effort, she regained her equilibrium. She didn’t want to embarrass herself by falling over, not with the elves all around her looking up at her with expectant faces. Rylith stepped closer, and Larajin could hear the whirring of the magical energy the druid cupped in her hand. It was a high-pitched, fluttering noise, like the sound of a hummingbird’s wings.