The wind was high. Literally: when she suddenly awoke from another dream of falling, Yaret could feel the wind’s force running down the tree – the tremors as the tree-top swayed and leaned, and then rebounded. Yet when she crawled out of the shelter of the hollow there was scarcely a breeze down on the forest floor. A fine small rain was falling as it did through every night and often into early morning. At the moment it was just enough to dampen her clothes but it was never cold.
She sat up and tried to shake off the dream. It was always the same one – the cliff hurtling past her, the fall far more terrifying than it had actually been when it had happened. She woke before she landed, feeling dizzy and appalled.
“But I’m here,” she said. “I’m safe.” And she performed her Haedath, touching earth, heart, lips, forehead, thinking of the riders who had saved her. She missed them. She missed that vividness, that sense of urgency – even the danger, because with it came the sense that her decisions mattered; and she missed the companionship. Although she had never felt lonely in her life before, she found that she did now.
In the days since they had left, it had at times occurred to her that if she stayed here in Farwithiel with Eled, perhaps when the Riders came back for him she could rejoin their fellowship. Then she could ride out of Farwithiel alongside them, to embark on some extraordinary, unknown life….
Except that they would not know what to do with her. And she would not know what to do in that existence. And her grandparents needed her back at the farm.
So enough, she told herself again. That’s past. Think of the future: think of home, of Gramma. Washing day today; her grandmother would be bending over the tub, her sleeves rolled up, the mangle ready. Good morning, Gramma. The old lady waved a soapy hand but did not look up nor pause in her diligent scrubbing. Good morning, grandfather. She did not bother to imagine him.
Breakfast was waiting for her: in fact, the whole day’s food was waiting, in covered dishes just outside the entrance to the tree. She lifted a lid. The usual coarse damp bread, and the orange and yellow fruit, the same as yesterday. She did not know the name for it. She wondered if it was safe to pick and eat any of the small bright red fruits she had seen hanging in the trees around.
If it is not safe, I will stop you.
“Thank you,” said Yaret aloud. However, most of the fruit was too high in the branches for her to reach until she was able to climb. One day.
Meanwhile, another day. She crawled back into the hollow tree and marked it on the corner of the scroll: that made twelve marks. Eled was still fast asleep. He would sleep for another hour and the Wardens would not arrive until mid-day.
Yaret sighed, and read the scroll again. She could understand those Vonnish words of encouragement now. She felt that she had learnt a fair amount of Vonnish in the last twelve days, even though Eled could teach her only a little at a time.
The scroll held exhortations to Eled to get well, to stay cheerful, to remember that he was not forgotten. It told him that the Riders had to return to Thield (how far away was Thield? she wondered, not for the first time) but he would join them soon, when he was well. They would hear word from Farwithiel and send for him. He was beloved.
Eled would read the scroll several times a day. At first it had sometimes seemed new to him but now he nodded as if it was familiar. Progress. Perhaps.
She seized her crutches and hobbled out of the tree again, this time to go and wash and walk before she ate. She did her standard circuit of the pools, swinging on the crutches, and looking up into the trees to see the birds’ indignant jostling.
These great grey trees were growing familiar now; she was learning them too, from their deeply scored trunks to their most delicate stems and leaves, which were starting to turn gold around their scalloped edges although none had yet fallen. She wondered when they would – or if they would: did winter come here? The more she studied them the more she realised that every tree’s life was a vast mystery to her. Each one was a world unto itself, on which the birds and insects – and darting lizards, and small fleet-footed furry things – built their own mysterious worlds which she could not hope to fully comprehend. No reason not to try, apart from time. She had plenty of that.
So she stood awhile and gazed at trees without understanding anything more, until her left leg began to hurt from taking all her weight. Then she hobbled on around the small, clear pools. They changed shape and moved from day to day, but she walked around them just the same. Her routine was fairly set now. It was important both for her and Eled. She had an idea that if you stayed here for long, your sense of time could easily unravel.
Time works differently for the Farwth.
Why sometimes I, and sometimes the Farwth? she mused.
It is the same.
That was something else it was important to get used to. Otherwise you might think you were paranoid, or mad. Inspired by spirits, or by heavenly voices. Although the Farwth never told her what to do: it only told her how things were.
“How are things today,” she said, “with you?”
That amused it. Which parts?
“Roots,” said Yaret.
They feed. They drink. They reach. They touch. They exchange. They send. They do that every day. And your roots?
She looked down. “Getting better, I think.” Her stump was still tingling but not so badly as before. It could no longer be called pain. Walen had stopped giving her the drugs some days ago, and it had not mattered too much. When the bandage had been changed yesterday the skin had no longer looked so red and ugly. The wound seemed to be turning in on itself somehow, its curved seams slowly neatening.
But her arms were sore from the crutches, and her left leg was aching from doing all the work: tired from carrying double the normal weight. She thought of Narba, that strong stoical horse, labouring steadfastly under its load, not so different from its rider. Then she steered her thoughts away.
As for her right leg, that posed a different problem quite apart from the healing stump. She feared its muscles must be weakening. Walen had suggested exercises, and Yaret had added her own to try and keep the muscles strong, but none of them was as good as walking would be. She wondered if she would have to live her life on crutches.
It is a strange thing to do in any case. To be uprooted always.
“I like it,” said Yaret, “to go where I will, to not be tied down to the earth.”
If you are not tied to the earth how can you feel it? How can you know it?
She considered this. “By observation. And by digging.”
But you cannot dig deep.
“True enough.” If she could not comprehend a single tree, how could she understand the whole earth?
Even I cannot do that entirely.
“Can anyone?”
They may try. But they may find that it is dangerous to dig too deep.
“I am sure,” said Yaret, feeling that this was altogether too deep for her before breakfast. She swung and hobbled her way back to the hollow tree where Eled was just sitting up, stretching and yawning and rubbing his eyes like a bewildered child. Perhaps not quite so bewildered as he had been a week ago.
“Good morning, Eled. We’re in Farwithiel,” she began, “inside one of the trees–”
“Oh yes, I remember.”
Eled sat up and touched the sword that lay sheathed beside him, and then reached for the scroll, unfurling it.
“I remember this,” he said. He read it, nodding. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. How long ago did they leave?”
“Twelve days. Come, Eled, breakfast is outside.”
He shuffled out behind her. He used his crutches too, although he did not find them easy – his sense of balance seemed to be awry. Yaret made a mental note to try some more balancing exercises on him later, after she had led him out on his own morning walk.
Just round one pool was enough for him. The trees no longer overwhelmed him as they had – in fact, he hardly seemed to notice them – but any sustained activity was difficult. So after circling the largest pool he would bathe in its margin, careful of his splinted leg.
Yaret had told him several times that she was female, but because he frequently forgot, he was unembarrassed that she stayed near him to ensure his safety. She would watch his beautiful lean brown body and think of Parthenal. Wondering if Parthenal ever… But no; even if Eled were sideways, probably not. Eled would be too close. She had an idea – whence it came she did not know – that Parthenal would prefer his lovers more detached.
This is something else I do not understand.
“Not just now,” she said.
As she helped Eled climb out of the pool she wondered when – or whether – to tell him again that she was a woman. It distressed her a little that he did not remember, and she was not sure why. She knew that she did not have the feminine beauty of, say, Maeneb; and she had never hankered after it. Her looks were serviceable enough. The two lovers in her life had not complained. But perhaps her lack of beauty had been the chief attraction there: maybe they had assumed that she’d be grateful for their interest. It was a dampening thought.
However, Eled’s assumption of her maleness was useful now. Once she had helped him dress, it would be time for some exercises on his crutches. Then Eled would be tired for a while; so she would lead him back to the tree where she would sing to him – one old song to relax and cheer him, one new one that she was slowly teaching him. Very slowly.
Then she would practise her Vonnish. Eled enjoyed that: words were something he had not forgotten and he was an encouraging and patient teacher. She had learnt to spot the patterns of how Vonnish differed from Standard – how p slid to v, for instance, and a to e. Many of the words were familiar once you knew which way to turn them. The grammar too seemed like a peculiarly archaic version of that she was familiar with. The Wardens spoke an old-fashioned variety of Standard but Vonnish went still deeper into some mysterious and attractive past.
“You are quick to learn,” Eled had recently remarked. She was pleased that he was able to pay that much attention.
“I grew up speaking three languages,” she had explained; “well, two and half anyway, because my grandmother speaks Ioben, which is not so different to Bandiran, and we learnt Standard in school. And I’ve picked up some Kelvhan on my travels. But I prefer Vonnish.”
“So do I,” said Eled.
However, half an hour of Vonnish was plenty, possibly too much for Eled, so after that he took a nap. After the nap, there was another walk, this time along the Farwth. They would skirt its edge, looking into the dense tangle of stems and leaves and multitude of shades of green and brown – so many shades that her vocabulary in any tongue was totally inadequate. She asked Eled for words for one section but all that he could suggest was chestnut. She thought of russet, hazel, auburn, copper, earth and dun… And still a hundred more were needed.
“What colour do you call yourself?” she asked the Farwth – silently, so as not to confuse Eled.
I do not know colour. I know new growth and old: the tender and the tough. I know bud, leaf, blossom, twig, branch, root, stem.
She could not disentangle all those she saw before her. It seemed a tapestry woven out of trees: somewhere in the middle she guessed at some vast single entity, some huge heart of wood. However, she did not know this for sure and the Farwth did not enlighten her.
They had never yet got even half way round the Farwth before Eled became tired. His physical strength was improving rapidly but his stamina – or maybe simply his ability to stay awake – was slower to recover. By the time they returned the sun would be streaming down through the distant tree-tops and it would be time for lunch. And after lunch the Wardens would arrive.
And then another walk, some exercises, talk, doze: wake and watch the birds that gathered during the long late afternoon, and try to think of names for them: eat, play memory games that she devised, sing, talk quietly until dusk fell.
It was then that Eled would talk about his home – or rather the lack of it. He spoke about the places he had ridden through, in small disjointed snippets. She glimpsed wide plains full of roaming herds, a mountain pass, a long strand by a pounding sea. He mentioned once or twice the place called Thield. She thought he did not realise that the word had passed his lips, so she did not draw attention to it. In any case he gave no clue as to where or what it was.
His home, it gradually became clear to her, lay in his people: both his own family and the extended family of the Vonn. He had two sisters who were also Riders, as was his father, although his father was perhaps a farmer too. It was not clear. He spoke of his riding partner Arguril, Rothir whom he evidently regarded as a mentor or perhaps an honorary older brother, and other names were mentioned besides the ones she knew: Sashel, Gordal, Alburé, Aretor.
And once Huldarion. As soon as he had said that name he looked suddenly afraid. It was something he thought he ought not to have said. So she pretended not to have heard it and turned the conversation to his horse, Poda, who was suffering from a sore fetlock. The last thing he would do before he slept was read the scroll again.
Every day a pattern of orderly variety. Every day the same.
But today was not quite the same. The Wardens arrived – all three of them this time. Golen, as always, came to talk to Eled, to check his eyes and speech, and memory and reactions. But Baird and Walen took Yaret aside, a little way round the huge home tree as if for privacy. There they sat her down on the root that seemed to have grown there for the purpose, and carefully unwrapped her dressings.
“How is Poda?” she asked. The horse was being kept near the Wardens’ residences, too far away for Yaret to walk there and see her.
“She is continuing to heal well,” said Baird. “As is your own leg.” He gently felt her stump, and Yaret tried not to mind. “Is it still tender?”
“Hardly at all,” she said, for it was not sensitivity that made the touch unwelcome, but simply the reminder that such a major part of her was missing.
“We have something for you,” Walen said with a faint smile: and she produced a foot.
An approximate foot, at least. It had no toes. It was slightly smaller than Yaret’s remaining foot and was bent at a walking angle. It was made of a strangely grained, pale wood. Above the ankle and lower shin was a mass of what looked like some fine clay.
“This is only a prototype,” said Baird, “a first fitting, if you like,” and he offered it up to Yaret’s stump and strapped it in place with wide leather straps. It felt cool and heavy although it was probably lighter than her original foot would have been.
“What sort of wood is that?” she asked.
“It is a piece of rootwood: very strong, slightly flexible, and almost unbreakable – certainly less breakable than bone. The clay is merely to take an impression. From that a more accurate fitting can be cut, with a leather pad and cup placed where the clay is now. No, don’t get up. You need to keep still for a while. The clay will take a good half-hour to set. The leg’s too long in any case; we’ve allowed for it to be whittled down into shape.”
Then Baird went to check on Eled’s splint, leaving Walen sitting near her with the leg stretched out between them like an unexpected guest.
“How soon can you adjust the foot to fit?” she asked the female Warden.
“By tomorrow,” Walen said. “But don’t expect to run around on it straight away. Or even to walk more than a few steps. It’ll take a while for you to adapt to it; and you have some healing still to do.”
“Yes. I know all that. But it’s wonderful news. Thank you.” She couldn’t stop smiling at the leg. “May I ask one other thing, Walen, while you’re here? My monthly bleed has started – the first for a while because I normally take Callaret. But I lost my supplies two weeks ago. Can you help?”
“With cloths or Callaret?”
“Both, if possible.”
Walen considered. “Well, I’ll see what I can do. Callaret’s not something we grow much, because we have so little need of it ourselves. Almost all the Wardens are too old to require it.”
“But you must have younger Wardens here as well?”
Walen shook her head. “Hardly any.”
“How will you renew your numbers, then?” asked Yaret curiously. “Surely you’ll need younger people to take over the wardenship in time?”
“Eventually, yes. But we are a very long-lived people.” Walen paused. “I myself am a hundred and sixty-nine years old.”
“What?” Yaret sat bolt upright. Some craven instinct was telling her to shuffle away – as if Walen would transform into a shrunken crone before her eyes. The other woman looked only seventy at the most. Luckily her leg prevented her from doing such an insulting thing.
“Oh, I’m by no means the oldest of us,” said Walen. She sounded matter-of-fact but seemed a little sad. “The few youngsters that we have are half-wardens like Maeneb – but they are very few indeed. The oldest warden is well over two hundred.”
“How can that be? Is it an effect of living in this place?” Yaret looked around at her surroundings in sudden new alarm. Living twice a normal life-span held no charms for her.
I do not think two hundred years is a particularly long life-span.
Walen evidently heard that too, for she dipped her head in acknowledgement.
“Not for a tree. It is for humans, however,” she said.
I am aware of that. But it is only custom that makes humanity think a century is long.
“It’s not custom, it’s experience. We live at a faster rate than trees do,” argued Yaret. Walen looked faintly alarmed at her casual contradiction of the Farwth. But was she supposed to simply agree with everything it said?
That is not necessary. Not for you.
“Ah… only for the Wardens, then?” said Yaret.
The Farwth does not ask that. But it happens.
“So perhaps compliance is a result of living here,” she said drily.
Walen looked put out. “Compliance? We make our own choices. Farwithiel is kind to us.”
Kindness is not a concept that I understand.
“It is hospitality,” said Yaret. “For instance, it was kind of you to take us in and send the Wardens here to care for us.”
It suited the Farwth to do so. That was not kindness.
Yaret considered this. “Kindness may have its basis in selfish motives as well as in compassion,” she observed. “We humans, for example, may be kind because we wish to think better of ourselves. Or because we want others to admire us. The result is kindness none the less.”
I have no need to think better of myself.
“I would like to know what you do think of yourself.”
“Yaret!” Walen addressed her with mild but definite reproof. Her remarks were obviously unsuitable.
“I beg your pardon,” she said to the Warden. “I asked you about your lifespan, but I did not allow you to answer.”
Walen looked down at her hands upon her lap. They were slightly gnarled and wrinkled. “It is true that long life is partly a result of living here,” she said. “But only for the Wardens, not for you. And it only works while we stay here. If we leave Farwithiel we will begin to age again at the normal rate.”
“So you can’t leave.” Yaret tried to imagine a century and a half spent enclosed amongst such huge, mysterious trees, in this enchanted world.
“We can’t leave if we want to live long, no. But why would we wish to leave in any case?” Walen gestured at the vine-clad trunk above her, massive and serene. “We have peace and a purpose. Farwithiel needs its wardens. To protect the Farwth is a vital and enriching task. And we in turn have everything we need.”
Compliance, thought Yaret, and heard the Farwth answer.
I do not ask them for such service.
This time she thought that Walen did not hear. The Farwth’s voice was for her alone. So she answered it silently, inside her head.
Then why are the Wardens here?
They arrived at a time of plague and pestilence. I gave them shelter and they in turn tended my trees and guarded my borders. It was not kindness. It was an exchange.
But the Wardens call it service. I’d say they worship you.
The Farwth does not ask for worship. That is another concept that is alien to me.
Possibly because you can imagine nothing greater than yourself, Yaret reflected.
On the contrary. The earth is greater than the Farwth. So is the sun.
She dipped her head. I beg your pardon. I spoke carelessly.
But I do not worship the earth or the sun.
Oh, I expect you do, in your own way, she thought. But it is human nature to worship age and power. Particularly power.
Madeo did not worship me. She argued with me. Politely. As do you. The Farwth seemed amused.
“I wish I’d met Madeo,” said Yaret aloud, before realising both that it was a singularly foolish statement and that Walen was looking at her with bewilderment.
“Madeo?” queried Walen. No doubt it seemed to her that Yaret had just been sitting and staring rudely into space.
Yaret pulled her attention back to the Warden. “I beg your pardon, once again. My thoughts were roaming. May I ask if your long life is given you by the Farwth?”
Not I.
And Walen shook her head. “The Farwth has many powers, but that sort of spell-making is not one of them. No, it was the result of wizardry.”
Yaret frowned. “So you mean that two hundred years ago, some sorcerer or wizard–”
“Oh, it was much longer ago than that,” said Walen with an odd wistfulness. “I am the third generation and the last for whom the enchantment works. The spell was created four centuries ago to give long life to the original Wardens, and their children, and their children’s children. No further.”
“So you don’t have any children yourself?”
“I did,” said Walen. Her voice was almost steady. “Two. They are dead now. They died of old age.”
Yaret caught her breath; and this time she did instinctively draw back, not in horror at Walen but at what had been inflicted on her. To lose your children to old age, while you yourself stayed young… What parent could want that? Surely no human would cast that sort of spell. No human with any sense of foresight.
“Who devised this magic?” she asked, her voice hushed with pity. “If not the Farwth, then who was it?”
Walen looked away and up into the trees as if she did not want to say. But Yaret heard the answer resonating through her mind.
The Farwth said, It was the Wizard Liol.