Heirs of Prophecy - Lisa Smedman [48]
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 pohte 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 as a 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