“Thanking you.” The goodwife nodded a farewell, a good start to the day’s coin in her purse. “Come on, Tila.”
’Gren swept Tila a bow and blew her a kiss that won him a giggle. I caught Zenela’s bafflement. Why were none of these men giving her the adoration she was accustomed to?
I moved to walk next to Frue. “The Serpent’s Tale was a fine inn, a good recommendation. Do you pass through Medeshale often?”
“From time to time.” Frue’s face hardened a touch. “A handful of years since, it was just a hamlet hacking at the edge of the wildwood. A generation ago, all the cattle marts were back down the road at Brakeswell.” He gestured at spring flowers dotting the grass, mostly yellow, here and there a soft blue or vibrant pink. The air was none too warm but the climbing sun dried the dew and warmed the flowers to lift their scents to the breeze. Spinneys here and there broke up the pasture, birds rustling and darting and their trills lightening the air. “When I was a boy this was all cob trees and red hazels. The nut harvest was quite something.” He gave me a sly glance. “Many a maiden went home with a full apron.”
Zenela hurried up to stake her claim on Frue’s arm again. “Will we be safe, traveling the road alone?”
“I’ll protect you, sweetheart.” I heard a hint of mockery in his tone.
I didn’t reckon we had much to worry about; any cover for would-be footpads was hacked down for a plow length either side of the highway. “There aren’t the lordless or landless men in these reaches of Ensaimin that make places like Dalasor or Gidesta so chancy.” Let Zenela chew on the fact I’d traveled five times the leagues she had.
“The Forest Folk take care of bandits using the wildwood as cover to prey on the road,” Frue added. “And we have common blood. Any Folk out to settle scores with the cattlemen won’t trouble us.”
“But what if—” Zenela tried to break in.
“Who takes it up if there’s a fight or a killing?” I rode over her words. “Lord Whatsisname at Brakeswell or the Solurans?”
“Things settle themselves.” Frue shrugged. “Cattlemen don’t welcome officialdom this side of the wildwood and the Solurans’ only concern is keeping the road open. Castle Pastamar sends out men once a season or so; they cut back the growth and mend the worst holes.”
Losing interest in the not very challenging game of ruffling Zenela’s feathers, I looked ahead as the road wound slowly toward the dense green line thickening the horizon of the undulating plain. Through an uneventful morning of steady walking, waving at the occasional farm cart or standing aside to let some urgent carriage rattle past, I gradually realized why the Great Forest is called simply that in Soluran, in Tormalin, in the tongue of the Folk and probably every other language. There are no other words for it. I’ve been in other wildernesses; they’ve had gullies, hills and rivers. If trees hem you in, you know they will give way soon enough. This forest hid any such hope beneath an impenetrable cloak of leaves. Ahead it blocked the view, an unsmiling barrier. Unbroken green marched away to the south, fading to a distant blur that promised unbroken verdant leagues beyond. North and west it ran up to distant mountains still capped with snows. Shading my eyes with my hand, I saw the brighter green of broad-leafed woods darken to somber shades of fir and pine, broad swathes of drab rock and ice stark contrast beyond.
“That’s the mountains,” Sorgrad stood at my side, face somber.
“They’re very big.” I couldn’t think what else to say. “How far do they go?”
“All the way from the eastern ocean to the wildlands west beyond Solura.” Sorgrad smiled but his eyes were unreadable. “And these are the low ranges. A few hundred leagues farther north there are the high peaks.”
“These look high enough and cold enough for me.” I shivered. “You’re right. It’s still winter up there.”
“Maewelin made the land and Misaen made us fit for it, that’s what they say,” Sorgrad murmured thoughtfully.
“All the world is made up of the same elements: air, earth, fire and water,” said Usara, his voice startling me. “It’s just that the arrangement differs.”
I imagine he was trying to be reassuring. Unfortunately he just sounded dismissive and Sorgrad scowled with unexpected affront.
’Gren came up behind us. “Are we stopping for lunch?”
We ate looking at the tiny trees holding the grasslands at bay. The road wound inexorably on through the afternoon, the one highway that cut through the secrets of the wild-wood.
I told myself not to be fanciful. My Forest blood was mere accident of birth. I knew my father’s name, that he was a minstrel and if Drianon had been paying attention the goddess would never have let Halcarion’s fancy tie such an unsuited couple together. I had left concerns over birth or parentage behind me in Vanam. A chill blew down from the hills toward evening as we entered the Forest proper. Tender leaves showed Maewelin’s black touch and the shadows under the trees were damp and chill with the memory of the Winter Hag’s slow step.
“Will it freeze tonight?” I asked Sorgrad, who had spent the day unusually silent. He’s always had the best weather sense I know.
He looked up at the sky. “Probably not but it’ll be cursed cold all the same. Do you reckon her ladyship is much used to sleeping outside an inn?” He coaxed his donkey through an uneven stretch where frost had broken up the surface to catch at wheels and hooves. “The Solurans had better send out a few wagonloads of gravel before midsummer if they want to send their wool clip east,” he commented.
“How come your boots aren’t thick with mud?” demanded ’Gren suddenly, staring at Usara’s feet.
The wizard looked slightly taken aback. “I’ve been using a cantrip.”
The rest of us just stared at him, each several fingers taller than usual by virtue of gluey clods stuck to our feet and sapping our strength with every step.
“I can dry out a path a little, if you all walk in my footsteps,” he offered hastily.
“We’ll manage, thanks all the same,” Sorgrad said curtly. I wondered how to go about reminding the wizard that we were singing a round song here, not out for solo admiration like Zenela.
Even with the trees hacked back to let in wind and sun, the ground was still sodden with the winter rain. We picked past heavy vehicles, mud clinging ever thicker to their wheel rims. None were stuck, which was a relief. I know we all owe Trimon a duty to help out and you never know when you’ll be the one being hauled out of a ditch, but wherever possible I find it best to keep myself to myself on the road. People had been spreading out onto the cleared land on either side of the highway in an effort to find a dry path, cutting a tangle of new tracks. Zenela and the donkey picked their way daintily through the morass with identical expressions of distaste. My scowl equaled theirs when we reached the first bridge.
To be precise, we reached the bridgekeeper’s hut and the little shrine to Trimon beside it where a tattered flag with the waterwheel device of Brakeswell fluttered above a wooden shield bearing a boar’s head emblem. The river swirled dark and turbid around a wreckage of wood and twisted iron, wedging a storm-felled poplar tree against the doughty stone pillars. The tree must have hit the bridge with the force of a battering ram and done just as much damage. The bridgekeeper was sitting outside his thick walled hut, sulking under the mossy thatch while a group of Solurans stared helplessly into the roiling water or berated their hapless leader. With angry gestures he turned to the bridgekeeper, who responded with spirit.
“You go tell Lord Pastiss. You risk the ford and may the Master of the Road help you! Whine to his lordship all you want, and while you’re at it ask him how he spent all these tolls he’s so keen to claim. If he’d sent timber and nails along with his tally-reeve back end of last year, you’d be getting over dry shod!” A short man with reddish hair, he reached for a handy-looking quarterstaff lying beneath his bench. The Soluran prudently backed off.
“We’d better not try any ford till this river drops a little, not tonight, not tomorrow,” Sorgrad said firmly.
Usara joined us and peered up at the sky skeptically. “I don’t think there’ll be rain tonight.”
“If only we had horses,” I sighed.
Sorgrad shook his head. “I wouldn’t risk a horse in that.”
“I’ll gauge the force of the water in the morning,” offered Usara. “If it keeps dry we should be able to cross without too much trouble.”
“I doubt it very much. Rain’s not the issue at this time of year,” Sorgrad told the wizard firmly. “It’s snowmelt.”
Usara looked at him and then around at the dark, leaf-strewn ground. “Any snow hereabouts is long gone.” I stifled a sigh at his unconscious arrogance. One thing wizards never seem to learn in Hadrumal is tact.
“And what about the snow in the mountains?” Sorgrad said, combative. Whatever had been galling him during the day, he’d found a vent for his resentment now. “This warm spell is just right for a thaw.”
“A thaw will be a gradual process in this weather.” Usara shook his head. “I can feel it in the air.”
“I’ve lived in these mountains and I’ve seen a snowfield disappear overnight,” retorted Sorgrad.
“Let’s claim a dry spot for a fire before too many other people turn up.” I spoke up before either could take further umbrage. “We’re not going to be the only ones stuck here for the night.”
“We want to be well back from the water,” insisted Sorgrad. “This way.” He dragged his donkey over to an uncomfortably exposed knoll.
“The sky is clear and we’ve had a run of fine days. I really don’t think there’s any likelihood of a storm,” protested Usara.
I followed Sorgrad reluctantly, for all that he’s always had the best weather sense I know. “We’ll be right in the teeth of the wind coming down the road here. It’ll be cursed cold.”
Usara was clearing dead wood from a smooth patch of turf in the lee of the rise. “There’s shelter from the breeze down here.”
“Which means that’s where frost will fall,” Sorgrad retorted.
“Which means we’ll be able to keep a fire in without it being fanned so fast we spend half the night gathering firewood.” Usara straightened up. His commendable determination to get on with everyone was clearly not proof against being contradicted on matters of element.
Sorgrad looked at him with contempt and stuck his donkey’s picket spike in the stony earth of the knoll. I looked for a spot somewhere midway between the pair with the least ruts and stones to cripple me in my sleep. I didn’t want to fall out with either of them, but both were raising their hackles over nothing. Hopefully a good night’s sleep would put them both in a better humor.
By the time the sun finally sank over the shoulder of the high ground to the north, a double handful of little fires were bright in the gloaming between us and the riverbank. Knots of disgruntled travelers hunched in cloaks and blankets, sharing the shelter of their vehicles and the warmth of their fires. Ours was spitting sparks, damp wood cracking in the fierce, uneven heat. I jumped as a sudden gust scattered a flurry of hot ash.
“I cannot understand what is making this fire so erratic.” Usara poked at the embers with an impatient stick, as if at some personal affront.
“Leave it alone,” growled Sorgrad, scowling into the flames. “You’re just making it worse.”
“ Gren passed me a split and rather scorched half of wood-fowl. “Here you are, young enough to be tender unhung.”
“And lost its chance to grow old enough to learn caution.” I smiled at him as I ate the crunchy skin. ’Gren’s always had the knack of taking a roosting bird. I prefer to pluck a different breed of pigeon and looked over at the other travelers who’d fetched up here. A couple of families had been on their once-a-generation trip to Selerima. Packmen were traveling in twos and threes, heading for the scattered villages of Pastamar to sell on trinkets they had bought at the fair. A few more solid merchants guarded loaded carts with roped canvas covers. None looked eager for a hand or so of runes.
“So, do you think we’ll be crossing tomorrow?” I asked the world in general.
“Quite probably,” said Usara confidently.
“Most unlikely,” stated Sorgrad in the same breath.
I exchanged a resigned look with ’Gren, who snorted around a mouthful of leg meat. He chewed and swallowed. “Water’s an element, isn’t it, Sandy? Can’t you make us a path across it or something?”
“Sorry,” Usara sighed. “Were I a Stone-Master with a nexus to support me, perhaps. The momentum—”
“You’re a mage?” interrupted Zenela, eyes wide. At least she spoke over Sorgrad’s mutter of contempt.
“Indeed,” Usara replied with mild amusement. “Of Hadrumal.”
Frue glanced briefly at me. “I thought you were a scholar.”
“That as well, an historian primarily,” nodded Usara. “Hence my interest in Livak’s song book.”
Frue seemed well enough satisfied with this explanation, Halcarion be thanked for the habitual tolerance of the Forest Folk.
The conversation flagged after that. Sorgrad was brooding and Usara’s air of injured dignity was getting wearing. I didn’t fancy being stuck here with the pair of them for too long. Where was the bridgekeeper? I looked toward the little shrine to Trimon. Someone had lit an offering fire in front of the weather-darkened statue of the god. The Master of the Roads hereabouts had a definite Forest cast to his wooden features, his harp a small affair tucked under one arm. A sudden flare of flame silhouetted two heads close in conversation.
“That pair have been looking our way a fair deal and I don’t think they’re just admiring the lass’s legs.” ’Gren moved to sit next to me.
“They’ve been taking the measure of everyone here.” I glanced idly around the camp. “Who are they traveling with?”
’Gren covered his nod by rubbing his hands over his face. “Those two over there, picketing their ponies.” Sturdy hill ponies, fast enough on the flat for short distances, small and nimble enough to dodge through trees and take rougher, steeper ground where lowland horses would balk and slip. Raiders’ beasts.
“Four lads, no goods to speak of but double-buckled saddlebags with shiny locks to them,” I commented speculatively. I saw one of them near the shrine glance at Sorgrad’s donkey, securely hobbled and dozing placidly with a mouthful of grain from its nosebag.