Teri McLaren
vaulted ceiling, columns carved from whiter wood than Cheyne had seen outside braced forty or fifty intricate, curving ribs that met high overhead in an elaborate filial of stylized leaves and acoms. Pale light filtered down from a few high windows, and as his eyes adjusted, Cheyne realized that the columns were carved to look like tall, thin trees themselves. Cheyne could find no break in their grain, no beginning or end to them, and with a shock, he realized that he was standing in the hollowed interior of the biggest tree in the fortress.
In calm efficiency, the Treefather rose from his prayers and stood to greet them, going immediately to javin. "Hello to all of you, and be welcome here in the sanctuary of our forest home. I am Luquin."
He smiled as he worked over Javin, checking his pulse and his pupils, his breathing, the several new gashes the canistas had given him, and finally the site of the scorpion's sting. After they had passed through the curtain, Javin had begun to stir in his fever, to thrash and jerk and mutter. He seemed worse than ever now, but Cheyne held his tongue, watching the Treefather carefully.
Luquin was taller than most of the elves they had seen in and around the fortress. His face shone with an inner light, and his gray eyes crinkled at the edges only a little when he smiled, which seemed to be often. Luquin, seen anywhere other than his home, would cause almost anyone to stop and stare, to wonder about his every feature, to become mesmerized by his movements and the sound of his voice. Here, Cheyne thought, he seemed to be just another part of the transcendent beauty, the towering majesty of the forest and the fortress. Here, it was his hands that pulled Cheyne's eyes to them as though they had a power of their own. They were not the hands of a person who spent his time in soft work. Luquin's hands were rugged and knotted, their many white scars testament to far more than a life of contemplation.