Fear trembled in a question from the opposite corner, “Was it her that woke the river-drake?”
“Hush,” scolded an older voice, one of the eleven women. Then, “The stone.” And after a silence in which, Tungel supposed the woman inspected it, “It’s not Falme’s boat. If this were a mast, the staff would be in the middle. Lof’s radiance?” Movement, the swishing of a homespun dress, the creaking of a chair.
Tungel remembered hoping that Lof would choose her.
After a long pause, an awed voice answered, “It’s not a Lof-stone, either. Whose is it?”
Vague disappointment niggled at the back of her mind, but it was quickly smothered by the scent of her babe cozied against her chest.
“It might be Heyra’s ear, but not with this long piece.” Mother did not whisper. “Paragon?”
A wave of murmurs answ
