seed in the wombs of our women. Val was certain that that thought, more than any other, was the topic of the arguments likely continuing even now at the hide tent Dusk and Rowan and the elders who had accompanied them to the Forest Altarshad set up.
Yet what more could he have done, ever, to prove himself one of them, a valuable member of his clan? He was stronger than any elf he knew; he could sling a good-sized deer over his shoulder and carry it alone, and he’d done it, too, on many occasions. Three summers ago a bear had charged their hunting party; Val alone had stood firm while the others escaped. He’d killed the bear alone, with only his spears and his dagger, although he’d spent the next moon cycle under Dusk’s care, recovering from his wounds. He’d driven himself relentlessly to master every skill any adult in the clan would teach him, bitterly resenting his own clumsy bulk, hating it that he had to struggle hard at some lessons, such as tracking by scent, where his friends in the child-pack succeeded so effortlessly. He could fling a spear farther than any hunter he knew and pull a bow heavier than any other in the clan, but that hardly lessened his humiliation when he realized the clumsiness of his own steps beside the easy grace of his kinfolk in the dance.
Sometimes it seemed that all he could do would never be enough. How could anything he did ever be enough, when it was what he was that was wrong?
For a few moments the dreaming potion had given Val’s thoughts a remarkable clarity, as sharp and cold as the icicles that formed at waterfalls in winter; then another wave of confusion came. What was he doing here, his thoughts running in helpless circles like hopeless prey driven mist-witted by fear? If his own clan feared him and set him apart, what hope that the Mother Forest would welcome him? Maybe the elders who doubted him were right. At the moment he felt very much still a child, albeit a child misplaced in a man’s body, lost and alone in a frightening place.
Help me, he thought desperately. / am so alone, so afraid. If he could weep in his thoughts, he might have been weeping. But who would there be to help him?
Abruptly another wave of clarity lit his mind, and he remembered Dusk’s vision. I felt your sister walking unseen in the woods. And you walked to meet her, holding out a precious gift in your hands.
His sister. His twin, cradled in the same womb, curled against him as they dreamed together to the beat of their mother’s heart, sent to horrible exile among the humans, yet bearing the birthright of visible elven blood Val himself lacked. She’d be small and slender and graceful like other elves of the clan, not oversized and lumpy, her skin smooth and soft, not overfurred like some shaggy beast. How he wanted to resent that, to envy his sister for merely being everything he was not. But more, he wanted—no, needed — to know her. Was she the part of his life, perhaps the part of his very self, that was missing? Would she resent and envy him, too, because she’d been torn away from her home, her people, and he’d remained? Might she even hate him, or would she understand his plight and help him if she could? Did she, too, feel herself a stranger in her world, alone and longing for another’s understanding? How had she fared in the years since their birth? Was she, perhaps, even at this moment, thinking of him?
He could almost picture her in his mind. Rowan had often described the tiny baby with her delicate features, her curling black hair and nut-brown skin, her eyes blue and green together as if spring leaves and clear sky had blended together there. She would be slender and unformed yet, small and agile, her blue-green eyes twinkling with the carefree joy of elven childhood, her black curls always tumbled, her face always smudged, her knees and elbows always scraped and bruised, her tiny fingers nimble and quick and always moving. If he spoke to her, she would turn
Yet what more could he have done, ever, to prove himself one of them, a valuable member of his clan? He was stronger than any elf he knew; he could sling a good-sized deer over his shoulder and carry it alone, and he’d done it, too, on many occasions. Three summers ago a bear had charged their hunting party; Val alone had stood firm while the others escaped. He’d killed the bear alone, with only his spears and his dagger, although he’d spent the next moon cycle under Dusk’s care, recovering from his wounds. He’d driven himself relentlessly to master every skill any adult in the clan would teach him, bitterly resenting his own clumsy bulk, hating it that he had to struggle hard at some lessons, such as tracking by scent, where his friends in the child-pack succeeded so effortlessly. He could fling a spear farther than any hunter he knew and pull a bow heavier than any other in the clan, but that hardly lessened his humiliation when he realized the clumsiness of his own steps beside the easy grace of his kinfolk in the dance.
Sometimes it seemed that all he could do would never be enough. How could anything he did ever be enough, when it was what he was that was wrong?
For a few moments the dreaming potion had given Val’s thoughts a remarkable clarity, as sharp and cold as the icicles that formed at waterfalls in winter; then another wave of confusion came. What was he doing here, his thoughts running in helpless circles like hopeless prey driven mist-witted by fear? If his own clan feared him and set him apart, what hope that the Mother Forest would welcome him? Maybe the elders who doubted him were right. At the moment he felt very much still a child, albeit a child misplaced in a man’s body, lost and alone in a frightening place.
Help me, he thought desperately. / am so alone, so afraid. If he could weep in his thoughts, he might have been weeping. But who would there be to help him?
Abruptly another wave of clarity lit his mind, and he remembered Dusk’s vision. I felt your sister walking unseen in the woods. And you walked to meet her, holding out a precious gift in your hands.
His sister. His twin, cradled in the same womb, curled against him as they dreamed together to the beat of their mother’s heart, sent to horrible exile among the humans, yet bearing the birthright of visible elven blood Val himself lacked. She’d be small and slender and graceful like other elves of the clan, not oversized and lumpy, her skin smooth and soft, not overfurred like some shaggy beast. How he wanted to resent that, to envy his sister for merely being everything he was not. But more, he wanted—no, needed — to know her. Was she the part of his life, perhaps the part of his very self, that was missing? Would she resent and envy him, too, because she’d been torn away from her home, her people, and he’d remained? Might she even hate him, or would she understand his plight and help him if she could? Did she, too, feel herself a stranger in her world, alone and longing for another’s understanding? How had she fared in the years since their birth? Was she, perhaps, even at this moment, thinking of him?
He could almost picture her in his mind. Rowan had often described the tiny baby with her delicate features, her curling black hair and nut-brown skin, her eyes blue and green together as if spring leaves and clear sky had blended together there. She would be slender and unformed yet, small and agile, her blue-green eyes twinkling with the carefree joy of elven childhood, her black curls always tumbled, her face always smudged, her knees and elbows always scraped and bruised, her tiny fingers nimble and quick and always moving. If he spoke to her, she would turn
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