"You've got too much to be worrying about to be concerning yourself with a lame dwarf!" Flint would grumble, but the effect of the words seemed lost upon his caretakers. Solostaran visited once and seemed reassured by Flint's cantankerousness. Miral stopped by twice to check on the dwarf.
By noon of the second day, it was apparent that Flint was regaining his strength, and, judging from the reduction in the number of oaths when he moved about, the pain was lessening. Still, Eld Ailea was adamant that the dwarf not be left alone, and she remained with Flint while Tanis went back to the palace to pick up some clean clothes.
She did, however, allow Flint to work on Porthios's Kentommen medallion from his nest on the cot.
"After all, the ceremony starts tomorrow," she said nonchalantly, spreading a bandage on the table and folding it so it would best fit the stocky dwarf.
"Tomorrow?" boomed Flint, rocketing out of bed, then grasping his shoulder with a groan. "I thought I had three more days!"
Ailea intercepted the dwarf on his way to the door- though what he hoped to accomplish running shirtless through the streets of Qualinost was unclear-and shooed him back to bed, her greenish brown eyes merry. "Relax," she said. "You do have three days."
She explained the intricacies of the ceremony while she removed the old bandage from the dwarf's chest.
"The word 'Kentommen! or 'coming of age,' actually refers to the final portion of the four-part ceremony," she said as she eased the linen away from the wound. "That's the showiest part of the ceremony, the part most folks would like to witness. Most elves use 'Kentommen' to refer to the whole three-day extravaganza, however.
"The first part is the Kaltatha, or The Graying,' " the midwife explained, fingers gentle as she cleansed the healing wound. "That part starts tomorrow morning. In the Kaltatha, the youth-who can be male or female, as long as he or she is a member of the nobility-is led by his or her parents to the Grove," referring to the ancient forested area in the center of the elven capital.
Ailea rinsed the cleansing cotton in a basin of clear water. "When the youth undergoing the Kaltatha is of as high a rank as Porthios, most of the common elves use the occasion as an excuse to parade through the streets, wearing their most colorful finery or even costumes. They dance and sing songs as ancient as the ceremony itself," she said. "That's why the palace is overseeing the making of brightly colored banners-to mark the route from the palace to the Grove."
"I'd like to see that," Flint said.
Eld Ailea scrutinized the spot where the dagger entered Flint's shoulder. "You should be well enough to walk to the procession route tomorrow morning, I'd think."
She rinsed the wound one more time, then emptied the basin out the shop's back door.
"What will happen to Porthios in the Grove?" the dwarf asked.
'The Speaker will take Porthios to the center of the Grove, then ceremonially turn his back on him," the midwife said. "Porthios will remain in the Grove for three days, alone, eating nothing and drinking only from the spring in the Grove's center. No one can enter the Grove to disturb him, nor is he to attempt to leave."
"Sounds like they should post guards," the dwarf commented gruffly, trying not to appear as though he were enjoying the midwife's ministering touch.
"Oh, they do," Eld Ailea assured him. "Elven nobles take turns standing guard, carrying their ceremonial swords- like the one Tyresian brought here for repairs."
"Are those guards really necessary?" Flint asked.
"Probably not," the slender elf admitted. "To fail in the Kaltatha-or in any portion of the Kentommen- means that the elf will forever be regarded as a child, no matter how old he grows to be."
Flint looked impressed.
Ailea continued. "In the Grove, Porthios will purify himself, cast off all the layers of childhood life. On the last morning, he will bathe in the spring, emerging cleansed in body and soul.
"That third morning, a gray robe-symbolizing his unformed potential-will be brought to him, and he will be led from the Grove," she concluded. "This time, there will be no merrymaking in the streets. In fact, the common elves are always careful not to look at the Kentommen youth at all as he is led through the streets in his gray robe."
"Why not?" demanded the dwarf.
"Because the youth is neither child nor adult. Technically, he does not exist. The elves would be ridiculed for looking at someone who is not there."
Flint snorted, but it was not a contemptuous sound. "It's not at all like my Fullbeard Day celebration. That consisted mostly of giving me lots of gifts and large tankards of ale." He looked thoughtful. "Come to think of it, I'd prefer that to spending three days without food or ale."
With a light laugh, Ailea fastened the clean bandage in place. Then she brought him his supplies for completing the medallion.
Tanis returned from the palace early that evening, prepared to spend the night. He fixed a simple supper for himself, the midwife, and the dwarf: a loaf of brown bread, half a cheese, the last of the sweet apples that had been stored away last fall, and a pitcher of ale. Finally, the sun dipped behind the tops of the aspen trees, the last rays of light glimmered through the translucent green of the feathery leaves, and the shadows crept from the darkened groves to steal along the streets of the elven city. The half-elf persuaded Eld Ailea that it was safe for her to leave Flint for a while, and she conceded that she had plenty of tasks of her own to complete.
"But don't let anyone in but me or the Speaker," she warned Tanis.
"Why?"
Eld Ailea seemed to be on the verge of confiding something, but at the last minute she caught herself. "It's best to keep Flint quiet for a while. You know how visitors excite him." Then, telling Tanis she'd be back in the morning, she stepped quickly down the path, slipped between two treelike houses across the way, and disappeared.
"Flint? Excited by visitors?" the half-elf asked himself softly, then shook his head.
Flint opened his eyes the next morning to a cacophony. "Reorx at the forge! What's that racket?" he demanded. The sun was barely over the horizon, from the soft look of the shadows in the shop.
Tanis stirred from the pallet he'd fashioned on a thick rug next to Flint's table, and rose to unfasten the shutters. Flint raised himself on one elbow and looked out into a blur of colors. Dozens of elves streamed past his shop, their voices raised in a boisterous song in a different tongue; he recognized only a few elven words, and even those were pronounced oddly.
"The old language," Tanis explained, "from the time of Kith-Kanan, though some of the songs themselves are more recent. They celebrate elven victories since the Kinslayer Wars, and praise the different ages of life, from babyhood to old age. They also celebrate folk who have achieved great things in life." He stopped and listened, a faraway look on his face. Suddenly, an elf dressed in a dark pink robe paused before the shop and opened his mouth in a new song. "Why, Flint!" Tanis exclaimed, not meeting the dwarf's eye. "It's about you! Written in old elven, too."
"You don't say," Flint said. He struggled out of bed and gingerly slipped his arms into the sleeves of a pale green shirt, the latest product of Eld Ailea's needle. He straightened the shirt's front over his bandage. "Well, lad, what's he saying?"
"He says"-Tanis concentrated-"he says you are a prince of a dwarf." The half-elf concentrated more, keeping his face carefully averted.
"Go on, lad," Flint urged. "Tell me." He mistakenly put both feet in one leg of his breeches in his haste to get dressed, and had to wiggle to straighten things out.
Tanis squinted. "He says you are an inspired worker-no, a 'true artist'-of metal."