The unicorn tossed her head and then lowered it in grave welcome. The companions, feeling awkward and clumsy and confused, bowed in return. The unicorn suddenly whirled and left the rock ledge, cantering down the rocks toward them.
Tanis, feeling a spell lifted from him, looked around. The bright silver moonlight lit a sylvan glade. Tall trees surrounded them like giant, beneficent guardians. The half-elf was aware of a deep abiding sense of peace here. But there was also a waiting sadness.
“Rest yourselves,” the Forestmaster said as she came among them. “You are tired and hungry. Food will be brought and fresh water for cleansing. You may put aside your watchfulness and fears for this evening. Safety exists here, if it exists anywhere in this land tonight.”
Caramon, his eyes lighting up at the mention of food, eased his brother to the ground. Raistlin sank into the grass against the trunk of a tree. His face was deathly pale in the silver moonlight, but his breathing was easy. He did not seem ill so much as just terribly exhausted. Caramon sat next to him, looking around for food. Then he heaved a sigh.
“Probably more berries anyway,” the warrior said unhappily to Tanis. “I crave meat- roasted deer haunch, a nice sizzling bit of rabbit-”
“Hush,” Sturm remonstrated softly, glancing at the Forestmaster. “She’d probably consider roasting you first!”
Centaurs came out of the forest bearing a clean, white cloth, which they spread on the grass. Others placed clear crystal globe lights on the cloth, illuminating the forest.
Tasslehoff stared at the lights curiously. “They’re bug lights!”
The crystal globes held thousands of tiny bugs, each one having two brightly glowing spots on its back. They crawled around inside the globes, apparently content to explore their surroundings.
Next, the centaurs brought bowls of cool water and clean white cloths to bathe their faces and hands. The water refreshed their bodies and minds as it washed away the stains of battle. Other centaurs placed chairs, which Caramon stared at dubiously. They were crafted of one piece of wood that curved around the body. They appeared comfortable, except that each chair had only one leg!
“Please be seated,” said the Forestmaster graciously.
“I can’t sit in that!” the warrior protested. “I’ll tip over.” He stood at the edge of the tablecloth. “Besides, the tablecloth is spread on the grass. I’ll sit on the grass with it.”
“Close to the food,” muttered Flint into his beard. The others glanced uneasily at the chairs, the strange crystal bug lamps, and the centaurs. The Chieftain’s Daughter, however, knew what was expected of guests. Although the outside world might have considered her people barbarians, Goldmoon’s tribe had strict rules of politeness that must be religiously observed. Goldmoon knew that to keep your host waiting was an insult to both the host and his bounty. She sat down with regal grace. The one-legged chair rocked slightly, adjusting to her height, crafting itself for her alone.
“Sit at my right hand, warrior,” she said formally, conscious, of the many eyes upon them. Riverwind’s face showed no emotion, though he was a ludicrous sight trying to bend his tall body to sit in the seemingly fragile chair. But-once seated-he leaned back comfortably, almost smiling in disbelieving approval.
“Thank you all for waiting until I was seated,” Goldmoon said hastily, to cover the others’ hesitation. “You may all sit now.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” began Caramon, folding his arms across his chest. “I wasn’t waiting. I’m not going to sit in these weird chair-” Sturm’s elbow dug sharply into the warrior’s ribs.
“Gracious lady,” Sturm bowed and sat down with knightly dignity.
“Well, if he can do it, so can I,” muttered Caramon, his decision hastened by the fact that the centaurs were bringing in food. He helped his brother to a seat and then sat down gingerly, making certain the chair bore his weight.
Four centaurs positioned themselves at each of the four corners of the huge white cloth spread out upon the ground. They lifted the cloth to the height of a table, then released it. The cloth remained floating in place, its delicately embroidered surface as hard and sturdy as one of the solid tables in the Inn of the Last Home.