Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [47]
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.
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