Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [46]
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 smelted, 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. Ill 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