Parthenal was performing his sword drill for the first time in many mornings. Although he aimed to do it every day, circumstances had been against him lately. So now he stood beneath the mighty branches and went through the whole array of exercises, progressing from the guards onwards through the strikes and feints to the upper swings. As he whirled the sword two-handed round his head, slowly gathering speed but never losing accuracy, the movements had a paradoxically calming effect. It was like a complex dance with a lethal partner that was just waiting for a chance to stab you if you didn’t concentrate.
So he concentrated, until he realised that Rothir had come to watch him. He was holding a basket of food which the wardens had left the previous evening.
“You should be doing this too,” Parthenal told him as he lowered his sword and paused to rest.
“Later on. I’m too stiff now. After breakfast.” Rothir regarded sword drill as a duty rather than a pleasure. For Parthenal it was both: a ritual of skill and beauty rather than a mere rehearsal for the battle. But then he knew that Rothir had never anticipated combat with the same enthusiasm that he did himself.
Laying the sword aside he cast a sardonic eye on Tiburé. Another one whom he guessed disliked battle, although she was ruthless enough. But practical; no sense of glory.
His leader was currently emerging from the hollow tree to sit down next to Maeneb, who tried to shuffle away. He had heard Tiburé return to their wooden cavern in the early hours of the morning. Despite the darkness she had required no lantern; for some sort of phosphorescence made the forest visible in an eerie, faintly-glowing way, even when there was no moonlight visible through the lofty canopy.
Tiburé had been accompanied by a man – Habend, he assumed – whom he had seen through half-closed eyes kiss her at the doorway before departing.
“I hope you learnt something useful last night,” he said to her now.
“Habend is not a naturally talkative man. None the less I learnt several things,” Tiburé answered calmly, “perhaps not immediately useful, but they may be in the future.” She took a bite of the Wardens’ coarse flatbread and looked at it doubtfully. It was made not of wheat, but in Parthenal’s opinion of something more like spearweed: food for horses. Although he was not a fussy eater he found this right at the boundaries of edibility. However, the fruit supplied by the Wardens was plentiful and good.
“What sort of useful things?” he asked.
“For one, what they gave Eled to help him sleep. It is not ethlon but a herb called belvane, less effective as a painkiller and stimulant but also less addictive. I aim to take some back with us for Huldarion.”
Parthenal thought about those scars: the daily, unforgettable suffering that Huldarion endured. He said nothing of that, feeling that he had no right to. Instead he commented drily,
“Eled needs no help sleeping. It’s staying awake that’s the difficulty.”
“Yaret was awake for much of the night,” Rothir informed Tiburé.
“Everyone in the tree got woken up by her,” said Parthenal. “Even Eled.”
“She was mumbling in her own language for a long time,” said Rothir. “I think she might have been trying to sing.”
“Like a frog with bronchitis,” added Parthenal. “So what else did you learn from your wise but taciturn Warden, Tiburé?”
“That there have been numbers of stonemen encroaching on the southern edge of Farwithiel, even in the short time since we last were here.”
“By numbers, what do you mean? Dozens, or hundreds?”
“Not hundreds. Certainly dozens. Habend was not sure of the exact number. The Farwth deals with them in its own fashion. None that came in went out again.” This sobered them all.
“What about darkburns?” Rothir asked. “Have they had any of those?”
“Habend didn’t know. He has never seen a darkburn and did not fully understand my description of them. But he has come across no burnt areas that might be ascribed to them.”
“The Farwth is aware of darkburns,” said Maeneb, speaking now for the first time, “but none have come here yet.”
“I expect the Farwth could deal with them too,” muttered Parthenal. “In its own way. I need a shave.” He stood up.
“Of course you do,” said Rothir. “What could be more important right now?”
“Your having a wash, dwarf. That river water did nothing for you.”
“Ah. Probably true,” said Rothir ruefully.
“We’ll be able to wash and rest today at our leisure,” said Tiburé, “but tomorrow we must leave.”
Rothir looked at her sharply. He seemed a little shocked. “That soon?”
“We have already been away too long.”
“And what about Eled and Yaret?”
“They will stay here as long as is needful.”
“That could be a long time,” said Parthenal.
“Habend assured me that they may remain here and will be tended until they can be moved elsewhere, or are able to ride away.”
“Ride away? Where to?” demanded Rothir. “Eled can’t ride anywhere on his own.”
“His condition may improve.”
“Then why don’t we wait a few days and see? We might be able to take him back to Thield with us.”
“It will not improve that quickly,” said Tiburé firmly. “The Warden yesterday, Golen, thought Eled would recover – eventually. But it will take some time for both his mind and leg to heal. The Wardens will take care of him meanwhile.”
“Why?” said Rothir, frowning. “Why would they bother looking after Eled or Yaret? The Wardens don’t need all the disturbance. And they owe us nothing.” Parthenal glanced at his friend. Rothir was not usually so argumentative. He was upset.
Well, we are all upset, he reflected wryly. We are all in the wrong place. None of this should have happened.
At Rothir’s words, Maeneb stirred. “You think the Wardens slow and self-absorbed,” she said, with more vigorous self-assertion than Parthenal had heard in her voice for some while. “But the Wardens serve the Farwth diligently. To determine and carry out the will of the Farwth is no light thing. It takes all their attention. They are born to it, and it is the core and meaning of their lives. If the Farwth wills it, Eled will be safe here.”
“And Yaret?”
“The same. And do not think they owe us nothing. Our enemy is their enemy, and they and the Farwth look to us to keep the stonemen from ravaging the land. Not just Farwithiel, but the land it speaks to, all the lands beyond.”
To Parthenal’s surprise, Rothir stood up and bowed to Maeneb.
“Forgive me,” he said. “I meant no disrespect to the Wardens nor to the Farwth. I am just anxious.”
“I know. And also foolish. Yesterday, you thought of using fire.”
“I did,” said Rothir. “But I only thought of it. I would not have used it.”
“I know that too.”
“Shave,” said Parthenal. “Come on, dwarf.” He tugged Rothir away to take a path that twined between the trees and past a number of small pools. “What are you thinking of?” he muttered at him once they were well away from the others. “Admitting that you threatened the Farwth with fire?”
“I didn’t threaten. I did consider it. I knew that it was pointless.”
“Not just pointless,” countered Parthenal. “It was extremely dangerous.”
“I know. That’s why I would have not used it. In any case, the Farwth knows what I thought.”
“Yes, it knows more of your mind than you do, apparently,” said Parthenal. “But, Rothir, never admit anything aloud that might compromise you – whether you think it is already known or not.”
He thought Rothir gave him a look of pity and understanding. But then his friend turned away, saying merely, “There must be somewhere we can wash, with all this water hereabouts.”
“It’s all in tiny pools,” said Parthenal. “Perfect for a mouse to bathe in. Or a smaller dwarf than you are.”
They walked further in amongst the trees. He thought that Rothir truly was a dwarf amongst them: their size and silence were both humbling. The men’s feet made practically no sound, for although the forest floor was covered with all types of leaf, they were softly pliant underfoot. There was not a crunch nor a rustle. Butterflies and long, iridescent whirring insects wavered or shot beneath the branches, finding and losing themselves amidst the shadows.
Parthenal felt himself swallowed up by the monumental vastness of the forest. But no stone monument could equal this palace of great pillars, he thought; for they are the work of nature, not of man, and accordingly so much the more to be revered.
A hundred yards from their home tree, he spotted a much larger pool, which looked the perfect size and depth for a man to wash in. He was fairly sure it had not been there yesterday. When he stripped and sunk himself into the water, it was pleasantly cool without being cold.
“This water’s so clean I could drink it,” he remarked after a while, floating and feeling himself relax. “That is, if you hadn’t just been washing in it.”
“Ah! That’s better. It’s been a hard two weeks.” Rothir pulled himself on to the bank and stretched out his wet limbs.
Parthenal studied him. There was no desire in his gaze; he had long since decided not to think of Rothir in that way. Too hairy in any case. So Parthenal merely noted that his friend’s arms and chest were marked not just with old scars but with a number of new gashes and bloody scrapes.
“You ought to put something on those,” he said severely.
“I’ll filch some of the ointment that the Wardens gave to Yaret.”
“Don’t filch. Just ask them for more. That Warden – Habend. Do you think it’s wise of Tiburé?”
“I expect she gets far more information out of him than he could ever get from her,” said Rothir.
“That’s not really what I meant. I was thinking more of the emotional ties created there. They could clash with her other loyalties.” Parthenal reflected on Tiburé’s husband Solon; sometimes a difficult companion, for he could be cuttingly scornful; but a clever man too, and one who stood at Huldarion’s right hand.
“I don’t think Tiburé has any emotional ties,” said Rothir, “except maybe to her daughters. She and Solon haven’t been a couple for a while as far as I can gather. And as for Habend, he’s surely old enough to know what he’s doing.”
“They all are, all those Wardens,” remarked Parthenal. “They ought to have acquired enough wisdom by now, surely. Not that I feel any wiser the older I get. And soon I will be middle-aged.” He did not really believe that, however.
“Never mind – you’ll always be a mere youth to me,” said Rothir, who was the elder by a full five months.
After dressing they strolled back languorously to the hollow tree. They found it changed since they had left it. Roots had burst up through the ground inside the space to make two low benches of smooth if strangely twisted wood.
Propped up against one of these, Eled and Yaret sat together. They were both fully awake, to Parthenal’s surprise; and talking. They seemed to be playing some sort of game. Yaret was listing animals, and Eled was hesitantly repeating them.
“Shrew, rat, mole, rabbit, fangol,” Yaret recited. “Now you say them back, and then add one to the list that’s bigger than a fangol.”
“Shrew, rat…”
Yaret made digging motions with her fore-arms.
“Oh! Mole, badger…”
She put her hands up to her forehead.
“Ears,” said Eled. “Rabbit. What was after that? I’ve forgotten.”
“Polecat,” said Parthenal. Yaret turned to them with a smile in which there was also some dismay.
“You’re both looking a lot better this morning,” said Rothir. “How do you feel, Eled?”
“Better,” said Eled. The former lines of trouble on his face had been smoothed away. His leg was held in a proper wooden splint with clean, neat bandages; two pairs of wooden crutches lay nearby.
“The wardens have been here while you were out,” said Yaret, “and have given us some medicine.”
“Belvane?”
“I don’t know what. They didn’t say.”
“They should have told you,” said Parthenal sternly. It must have been powerful stuff, he thought.
“They said they’d come back in a while to see how we go on,” said Yaret. She was not as pale as she had been before; her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were wide and black – as were Eled’s, although hers seemed to focus more easily than his.
“Hm.” He did not approve of the Wardens dosing Eled with unknown drugs and then disappearing. “It seems to have woken you both up, at least.”
“I feel – reborn, almost,” she admitted. “Well. That’s overstating it. But certainly surprised to be alive. I believe I owe my life to you and Rothir. For that I have to thank you both.”
She reached for a crutch and began to pull herself to her feet – no doubt to bow her thanks; but Parthenal, amused, motioned her to sit down again.
“No thanks are due to me,” he said. “It was Rothir who insisted that we go back down the riverbank to try and find you. I have never seen anyone so relieved as he was.”
Rothir in his turn made a brief gesture of dismissal. “We all were. How does that game go, Eled?”
“You have to say them in order of size,” said Eled. “Shrew, mouse, rabbit, polecat.” He seemed happy, with glimpses of the old Eled as he asked them what they’d had for breakfast and what the weather was like outside the tree. When two of the Wardens entered, he greeted them as old friends. Yet he could not remember their names.
“That’s Golen; and I’m Walen. I’ve come to change the dressing on your friend’s leg,” the female Warden told him.
“Let me just check your eyes,” said Golen kindly, laying a hand on Eled’s head. Parthenal found himself annoyed at the Warden’s patronising tone. He recognised that his irritation had its origin in worry, but that did not diminish it.
Meanwhile Walen sat down next to Yaret and began to carefully unwind her bandages. As she drew away the dressings she seemed to be positioning herself to try to hide the stump from Yaret’s view.
“Stop,” said Yaret. “I’ll do that. I need to see what it’s like.” Her voice was firm. Reluctantly Walen sat back.
Her face set in determined composure, Yaret carefully peeled away the final dressing. Then she examined the stump without any change in her expression.
“All right,” she said eventually, and leaned back against the bench again. “How long before I can wear a wooden leg?”
Parthenal wanted to laugh. But nobody else seemed inclined to. Rothir’s face was grim.
“Perhaps we could try to fit one in two to three weeks’ time,” said Walen, looking a little startled. “That’s if it continues to heal cleanly. But you mustn’t expect to be able to walk around much. That will take longer.”
“How much longer?”
“A few more weeks, perhaps. It is not something I have experience of. But you are younger than my usual patients, and should both adapt and heal quite quickly.”
Yaret nodded, licking her lips. Despite her apparent equanimity, she looked suddenly extremely tired and Parthenal felt an unexpected wave of pity for her. She was hardly delicate, and yet compared to him she was a fragile thing; a donkey to his horse. He became conscious that she might not want an audience for the tending of that ugly stump.
“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, and went back outside to wander amongst the great pillars of the trees.
Maeneb was standing fifty yards away. She was staring into the intricacy of trunks and stems and clustered foliage that was the Farwth. It created a pattern that he could not read: its complexity and density nonplussed him, giving him a sensation of faint dizziness.
But it absorbed Maeneb. He stopped and watched her, and then began to feel that this was something else that he ought not to be watching. Maeneb was almost in a trance, evidently in some sort of private communion with the Farwth. Her lips moved yet no words came out.
He became aware of the faintest whisper of leaves, like the softest sigh. But he heard nothing inside his own head. The Farwth’s meaning was for Maeneb only.
Parthenal stepped away, intending to leave her alone; but just then she let her head fall in an exhausted salute, and turned around. When she looked at him her face was alight with exhilaration – a sort of dazzlement. But her voice was urgent with anxiety.
“Where’s Tiburé?” she asked.
“She went to check the horses.”
“I need to talk to her,” said Maeneb. “Everything has changed.”