The Great Forest,

13th of Aft-Spring

My thanks for a superb meal.” Sorgrad bowed to Almiar with consummate grace, the sweep of his velvet-clad arm defying the mud staining the amber fabric. The doublet glowed richly as the setting sun filtered through the trees.

“You are entirely welcome,” she replied, a little bemused.

“It takes no more than a good cook to satisfy hunger, but to delight the palate, that is the work of an artist.” He sounded like one of the Tormalin lordlings Ryshad must be trailing after and I stifled a grin. I’d known ’Gren and Sorgrad in the days when they owned three pairs of breeches, three shirts, two jerkins and a threadbare cloak between them.

“Yes, thank you.” I looked at the applewood bowl I was holding. “Can I help you clear away?”

“No,” Almiar took the bowl from me. “If I invite you to eat at my hearth, I do not expect you to work for the meal.”

I smiled at her; that was a civilized custom as far as I was concerned. “I want to check on Zenela. I’ll see you two back at the—”

“Roundhouse,” Almiar supplied, “sura, in the blood tongue.” She stacked the bowls inside a larger one that had held a mix of green leaves, some familiar to me, others strange but all palatable enough. An earthenware pot had proved to contain the shredded meat of an old hare, well flavored with herbs and cooked slow and solid, covered with a succulent layer of fat. My mother at her most censorious couldn’t have criticized the cook for sending that up to table. I didn’t think they ate that richly all the time, though; all these Folk looked as if they went a few meals short of a full belly as a rule.

We walked toward our own sura, other circles of Folk eating by the doorways to their homes. I wondered what the plural of the word might be. Would that signify the settlement as a whole? I knew precious little of these Folk whose blood I supposedly shared, didn’t I?

’Gren was still chewing on a piece of flatbread. “I don’t reckon to eat leaves, not as a rule.”

I grinned at him. “You’d better get used to it hereabouts.”

Sorgrad was studying the sura closest to our own. “How long do you suppose they’ve been settled here? That hare had been hung properly for one thing.”

I looked at the beaten earth between the houses and the lack of fallen wood beneath the nearest trees. “Long enough to be foraging farther afield for fuel.”

Sorgrad shrugged. “So, what now? Do you want to pursue this business with the songs some more?” I’d told them both of my earlier experiences.

“Frue’s still got the book and I think we owe him the time to get all he wants from it. We wouldn’t be getting this kind of hospitality without him.” I rubbed a hand over my hair, feeling mud still in it. “I reckon we need to find the nearest inn, don’t you? Get ourselves a game going and work out who’s going to be most usefully indiscreet in their cups?”

“And that inn would be, what, a couple of handful days’ walk back that way?” Sorgrad and I shared a rueful smile.

“Everyone’s friendly enough. Given a few more days, I’d say we could start asking a few more pointed questions.” I looked around at the little dwellings, doors open to any who might care to enter. The Folk seemed mighty trusting, I mused. Or was it just that they had nothing worth stealing? Their jewelry was valuable enough but they looked to keep that secure around hands and necks. “Everything the wizards have learned says aetheric magic came from the ancient races.”

“Who are you trying to convince?” asked ’Gren lightly.

As we passed Orial’s threshold, Frue emerged followed by a drift of steam redolent of thyme.

“How’s Zenela?” ’Gren asked a breath ahead of me.

“Orial thinks she will do well enough,” Frue said cheerfully. He fell in beside us and pulled up the deerskin that covered our doorway. “Did anyone rescue Zenela’s bag?”

We all shook our heads. “The river claimed that.” I ducked inside and poked at the little fire, laying on more sticks to give us both warmth and light. At least the Folk had been building these shelters long enough to master ventilation for their fires; I’d half expected we’d be smoked like eels on a stick.

“What does the lass want?” asked Sorgrad.

“Jewelry,” said Frue with some reluctance.

“Jewelry?” I echoed incredulous. “The girl gets half drowned, she’s all wrapped up in Drianon only knows what stinking poultice, and she wants to look her best in case anyone comes calling?”

“There’s a lot more to it than that,” Frue said with some harshness. “As you would know if you had any knowledge of the Folk to go with your blood.”

“There’s no call for that,” said Sorgrad sharply.

“No, it’s fair comment.” I hid an unexpected pang at the minstrel’s words. “What does she need jewelry for?”

The firelight cast harsh shadows from Frue’s face. “Zenela has a fancy to live among the Folk awhile.”

“But she’s not Forest blood,” said Sorgrad doubtfully.

“That’s no bar.” Frue’s eyes were hidden in the gloom but he sounded a little shame-faced. “She’s taken a fancy to the ballads and tales, especially the more romantic ones.”

The more fool her. I kept my face noncommittal. Another silly girl looking for love in all the wrong places was no concern of mine. “And the jewelry?”

“It’s customary among the Folk for men to give the women they, ah, favor, some token of gold or silver.” Frue’s delicacy was belied by his grin, teeth bright in the firelight. “For a woman to wear her jewelry signifies she is open to offers, and it’s generally reckoned that the more experience a woman has, the better a wife she’ll make.”

’Gren grinned lasciviously. “So what’s the going rate for a good favoring?”

“You outdwellers don’t understand, do you?” Frue shook his head. “Never mind.”

I wondered what the women were making of the fact that I wasn’t wearing any visible jewelry. “I think we might be able to come up with something.” I shot a meaningful glance at ’Gren.

Frue nodded without expectation. “Where’s Usara?”

“He was invited to supper with Ravin,” I explained. “Have you eaten?”

Frue nodded. “With Orial. You know you have to repay these courtesies at your own hearth?”

So that was the catch in all this cheerful open-handedness. “You’d better give it some thought,” I said to Sorgrad.

“What makes you think I’ll be cooking?” he retorted.

“You’re the one tells me I can’t boil water without putting out the fire,” I pointed out.

Frue stood up. “I want to see Ravin myself.” He left, picking up his lute from the pile of cheerful blankets we’d been given from various neighbors.

“See you later.” I turned to ’Gren. “Right, what did we get off those pony-boys that might get Zenela noticed by some handsome young buck out to try his horns?”

’Gren opened his shirt, untied a length of linen from around his waist and unrolled it. “I don’t know where they’d been hunting but the pickings had been rich enough.”

I held a small brooch set with amethyst closer to the firelight. “Wrede work, do you think?” I passed it to Sorgrad, who’s always had the edge on me over jewelry.

“Almost certainly. I’d say they’d been working the Lake Road.” Sorgrad was studying a necklace. “Coming down from Bytarne maybe. This is Lakeland-made, and so’s that leaf-pattern ring.”

I picked up the silver ring. ‘This would be about Zenela’s size. Since we had no real work to come by this, why not let her have a couple of pieces?”

“Give me one good reason, beyond the obvious,” challenged ’Gren.

“Sorgren! The girl’s ailing and stinking of garlic. Anyway, you said you weren’t interested,” I reminded him.

“That was when she was preening herself silly,” countered ’Gren, bright-eyed. “The boot’s on the other foot now.”

“We want to be on good terms with these people,” I pointed out. “If we’re to learn anything to turn to coin and advantage.”