CHAPTER ELEVEN

Taken from:

Travels in the Unmapped Lands of Einarinn

BY

Marris Dohalle

The Number Song of the Forest Folk

That the Forest Folk are an ancient race is clear from this song. It is used to teach children the words once used for counting; marmol, edril and so on, now meaningless in themselves as the language has changed over the generations.

One is the Sun, soaring in the height,

Marmol, the hearth-circle me all share.

Two are the moons in their dance of might,

Edril, their web woven in the air.

Three races share mountain, plain and wood,

Semil, on all is the sun's face warm.

Four are the winds, bring they ill or good,

Dexil, the life-breath of calm or storm.

Five are the fingers for harp and bow,

Wrem are the days of a minstrel's wake.

Six are the rivers that foil the foe,

Tedren, when hoofbeats the greenwood shake.

Seven, the Wise Ones the windrose spin,

Fathen, the empty, the seat of fears.

Eight are the seasons, each one begin,

Adren, new wood on the Tree of Years.

Nine are the Holy, the Three of Three,

Parlen, the fate-sticks the foolish mock.

Ten are the fingers of weapons free,

Vrek, double handclasp of friendship's lock.

Much of the original meaning of this ancient rhyme has been lost as the Forest Folk have only an oral tradition of history, and that varies from clan to clan, each concentrating primarily on its own members. Concepts once familiar become blurred with repetition and changing circumstance. Forest Folk are not troubled by this, seeing history as an ever-changing, ever-spreading framework for life, rooted in creation and expanding with each new season — the Tree of Years, in fact.

Spreading and dividing is seen as healthy and natural; family groups travel the vast reaches of the Great Forest, joining together at some seasons, separating at others. Bonds are rarely permanent and it is entirely acceptable for family members to leave their own kin for a season or more, travelling with another group or leaving the Forest altogether. It is this tradition that keeps Forest Folk minstrels a familiar sight on so many roads, combining their incorrigible wanderlust with the race's love of music, which stems from their reliance on song and epic poetry in place of a written history.

Given the abundance of the Great Forest, the Folk are able to supply all their needs easily, sharing without conflict between themselves. Accordingly, this results in a lack of understanding of more formal boundaries and concepts of ownership. For similar reasons, Forest Folk are rarely proficient in physical combat, concentrating on those skills of eye and hand needed for hunting in a wildwood rather than for direct confrontation over land or resources. However, the incautious traveller leaving the highroads through the Great Forest risks inadvertently stopping an arrow tipped with deadly venom if he blunders into a chase.

The Forest Folk are largely a tolerant people, living close to nature. Harmony — between races, between individuals and of

course, in music — is highly prized. When they need to decide any question of dominance or authority among themselves, this is usually done in a contest of poetry or song. It is considered far more damaging to humiliate an opponent than to actually kill him. However, when faced with dire peril, the Forest Folk display a doughty determination few races, ancient or modern, can equal.

Shanklane Cottage, Middle Reckin,

40th of For-Winter

It wasn't a long walk and it did me good after spending the best part of six days in carrier's coaches. The tapster at the Green Frog had no trouble remembering Halice and her broken leg and gave me clear directions to the little cottage she'd been renting since the turn of the season. I thanked him and took the road through the broad open-fields with a spring in my step. The weather had turned crisp and dry, there was snow underfoot and, once night fell, the frost would be iron-hard. But, for the moment, there was no wind and the afternoon sun was warm on my face.

Every league of my journey was enabling me to put more distance between myself and my experiences, but I was still suffering odd pangs of guilt and wondering how things were working themselves out. I caught myself hoping Ryshad had been sympathetically received by that patron of his. I didn't want to think about what reception he might get from Aiten's family. Should I have offered to go with him? Only that would have meant going over the whole horrible experience time and again; it had been bad enough the first time and it wasn't going to improve with retelling. No, Aiten had crossed over to the Otherworld and nothing was going to bring him back. His family could grieve for him well enough without my help. People live, people die; Misaen makes them, Poldrion ferries them, that's the way life is.

I wondered how Ryshad was faring. Did he find himself thinking about me? Were sudden rushes of desire warming his blood in the same way as mine? Something had turned that warm kiss of friendship into a scorching blaze of lust that had left us both trembling like eager virgins. Privacy is in fairly short supply on an ocean boat crowded with nosy wizards, but we'd managed to find enough seclusion to gratify the unexpected passion that had seized us. Still, good as the sex had been, even in those cramped and uncomfortable conditions, I'd waited at the stern rail and watched Ryshad disembark at Zyoutessela. Had I made a dreadful mistake or saved us both from something we'd have lived to regret, like my parents? That was something else I didn't want to dwell on too much. I slipped and stumbled where a patch of shade had kept a puddle frozen solid through the brief noon warmth and smiled ruefully at myself. A man hadn't affected me like this any time in the last ten years.

It was proving difficult to shake off the dust of this unexpected adventure though. There were all the various questions about the Elietimm, that lost colony, the dreams and all the other parts of Planir's puzzle. I couldn't help being curious but as my mother always said, 'Curiosity got Amit hanged.' Forget it, I told myself firmly; Tormalin princes and all the wizards of Hadrumal can sort it out between themselves, without your help. This isn't your fight, it nearly got you killed. Yes, it would be nice to pay a little something back for Geris but revenge is for fools; that's what started all this and look where it got you! Walk away from it, Livak, I ordered myself sternly; walk away and don't look back.

I turned off down a shaded, muddy track, the edges of the ruts rock-hard in the frost. A straggle of snug cottages nestled under their wheatstraw thatches and I looked for a green door. If Halice was looking after herself, her leg couldn't be that bad, could it? I began rehearsing all the arguments I'd been preparing to explain why I'd gone off the way I had. The only problem was that they all sounded a bit thin, apart from the muffled chink of the hefty pouch of coin that was plumping out my jerkin. I patted it affectionately, the way some women do with a season's child-belly on them. I'd got a wax-sealed flagon of irreproachable wine in my backpack as well; that should help, whatever Halice thought of me.

I knocked on the door and lifted the latch; my cheerful words of welcome died on my lips as I saw Halice in a chair with two short, blond men standing over her, arms raised.

'And then I said, “Look, how much damage do you think I could do?”'