Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [18]
On it stood the druids of the Circle of the Emerald Leaves: six elves, three male and three female, all elders with deeply lined faces and silver-white hair. Five were moon elves with lighter skin; the sixth was a forest elf with skin a healthier tree-bark color, her
cheeks tattooed in a pattern reminiscent of branches.
Leifander knew all of their names by rote, despite the fact that he had never met them face-to-face. Ruithlana was the youngest of the elders, with hair cascading from a gold clip and one eyebrow permanently arched, as if he were about to ask a question. Klanthir the Learned stood stroking his chin with a slender hand, eyebrows frowning beneath a high forehead. Horthlorin wore his hair loose about his shoulders and had eyes that were a rich, forest green.
The three women who balanced the sacred circle included Quinstrella, who had milk-white hair cut high above her ears; the much older looking Bhanilthra, who leaned on a walking stick made of gilded, sacred oak; and the forest elf Rylith.
The five moon elves wore leaf-green hose and boots, and soft shirts whose fabric rustled like leaves in a faintly stirring wind, but Rylith instead wore a serviceable pair of leather breeches and vest. All of the druids had a band of silver oak leaves twined in their hair, and wore cloaks woven from brilliant, fall-colored leaves that somehow had not dried and crumbled-magic must have been sustaining them.
The wand Leifander had taken from the wizard was nowhere to be seen.
As he climbed onto the platform, marveling at the springy bounce of the carpet of leaves underfoot, Leifander wondered which of the druids he should bow to first. Ranged in a circle around the platform as they were, if he bowed to one it would mean turning his back on at least one of the others.
Rylith solved the problem by walking forward and taking Leifander's hand. Shocked by so intimate a gesture from a powerful druid hundreds of years his elder, Leifander fumbled his way through a bow. As he rose, Rylith shifted her grip to his chin, turning his face for the others to see.
"His eyes," she said. "See their color? They are hazel- it will be as the legends foretold."
The others crowded close, solemn faces nodding. Leifander felt uncomfortable under their scrutiny. Yes, his eyes were a strange color, but hed thought it merely an oddity.
Rylith released his chin. Her dark eyes bored into his and she asked, "Have you ever wondered, child, who your father was?"
Leifander tried to speak but could find no words that seemed suitable. Instead he nodded. He had wondered- every day of his life.
"Your father was a great man," she continued. "He was a friend to the Harpers, a man who tried to bring humans to appreciate and value the Tangled Trees. Sadly, he did not succeed, but he left his legacy among us: you."
Leifander stood silent and trembling, like a bird startled by a sudden noise but uncertain which way to fly.
"Who…" He faltered, then tried again. "Who was he?"
He waited for the answer, afraid to breathe. To the best of his knowledge, his mother had never revealed the name of the man who had sired him, even to her closest kin. Indeed, she had left him little at all, aside from the ring that hung at his throat-a ring they said she had been wearing at the time of her death.
The family who had raised Leifander had always shrugged when he asked them who his father had been. Over the years, he'd gradually stopped asking. Now the questions rekindled inside him, burning brighter than ever before.
"There is someone who can tell you who your father is-even introduce you to him," Rylith said at last.
As he realized that Rylith had spoken of his father in the present tense, Leifander's heart leaped with joy. His father was still alive!
"That man is Thamalon Uskevren," Rylith said at last.
Leifander frowned, puzzled. The name meant nothing to him. It sounded foreign. He tried it on his tongue. "Tham-a-lon Usk-ev-ren. Is he a high elf-one of those