A waft of cold seemed to pass over the dance, and NImrodel braced herself against it. She preferred the warmth of suimmer.
Perhaps it was the cloud that passed over the sun. Several of the menfolk missed a step, stutter-stepped to catch up, caught a hand on the second try. Indil frowned. The song of the birds seemed to falter for a moment. A tendril tangled around Ędegard's left foot. He yanked it loose.
Nimrodel met Indil's eyes, and they stepped into the center of the dance, letting it whirl around them. Erebemlin's brow furrowed, and he shook his golden head; his lips tightened. The cloud passed away, and the sun shone brightly; the birds sang again, the warmth returned, the rhythm of the dance once again grew in power.
From the center of the dance, Indil and Nimrodel turned, together, shoulder to shoulder, and faced the newcomer. Though they were surrounded with pulsing green, a frost was in their eyes. Nimrodel studied the newcomer silently for a long time, and then warily spoke.
"Stranger, do you know the song of that stream which I seek?"
|