20

He woke in the darkness. But there was strange familiarity to it. A sense of knowing the darkness. The smell, the sound.

He hurt.

Cahan tried to move, expecting to find himself bound, but he was not. Moving increased the hurt.

“It wounded you, Cahan Du-Nahere.” The voice. He knew it and yet he did not. He opened his eyes. A roof, full of trinkets hanging from the rafters.

Home?

He was home?

“How?” He tried to move. A searing pain in his shoulder.

“Stay still. It cut you. But you are healing quickly.”

“How?” Forced his eyes open. The reborn, standing over him. Tall. He must be lying on the floor.

“The Hetton.”

“You saved me?” She nodded. “I did not call you…”

“No,” she said. “You did not.” She crouched, coming nearer to him, looking into his face. “You should have.” He thought about that, he had been about to call her but had been given a way out by the trion. A coward’s way out and a coward had no place ordering anyone to save them.

“I am not what you think.” She stared down at him.

“We killed the Hetton. Brought you back here. Heal, Cahan Du-Nahere. Death is coming,” she stood again. “You cannot avoid it.” She turned and walked to the door of his farmhouse. When she opened it the light hurt his eyes.

“I did not call,” he shouted. “I made no agreement with you!”

She stopped, turned. “My sister,” she said, “has no hope left. She would have let you die in the forest but I would not allow it, so you live. If you do not call next time,” a shrug, “my sister will be the one who decides your fate.”

A pause.

“I am not what you think,” he said again.

“No, Cahan Du-Nahere, you are not.” She walked out into the light, letting the door shut behind her. Leaving him in darkness.

He healed. Slowly at first but when he was strong enough to stand and to eat his body and the cowl within gained strength more quickly.

He went back to farming. He knew the Rai might come for him. The missing Hetton would be noted.

Cahan could not find it in himself to care.

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes, he heard the terrible quietness after the soldiers had been in his farm, after the killing was done. If it was not that then he saw the trion, Venn, walking out of the undergrowth in an attempt to save him.

One child dead.

One imprisoned or maybe worse.

And him to blame.

He moved through a fog.

There was a rhythm to this life on the farm, even if there was no pleasure in it. He rounded up crownheads which had strayed too far, the pink dyes he used to mark them as from his farm had almost run out of their wool. Segur helped him herd them and corral them for re-marking. He had been guilty of the same thing as the man who had taken his farm, letting the crownheads loose without care. He had lost another half of his flock and now only had three. He suspected there would be a crownhead farmer nearby whose flock had grown by three when the traders had returned and Cahan had not.

Days and weeks passed. He ate, but did not taste. He worked, but barely lived.

Cahan cut back where Woodedge was encroaching on his fields, his body continued to heal and grow. He found a place where bluevein was attacking his crops and it was hard work to dig it out. Blood and blisters on his hands. He tried to forget Venn’s sacrifice. He tried to forget the feeling of power as he had used the cowl. He tried to forget the soldiers who had come looking for him and killed an innocent family.

Each day he expected to hear the buzz of a marant, the march and call of soldiers as branch commanders sent them forward to take him. The foul stink of Hetton. The numbing embrace of dullers.

He visited the grove in the wood where he had buried the child’s toy, visited it often. Sat before the shrine of Ranya and wished he thought it would do any good if he offered sacrifice. He had tried to believe but Cahan had never seen any sign of gods that came when people needed them. This was Crua. The gods took, and they watched as the strongest walked over the weakest knowing that meant more for them.

Every day expecting trouble. Always faintly disappointed when it didn’t arrive. Never quite able to admit to himself that he had given up. That he was simply existing and waiting for something to happen to him. It felt inevitable.

When it finally did, it was not from the sky, and it was not the Rai that brought it. It was Furin, the Leoric of Harn. She appeared at the edge of the wood as he was clearing the ground of unwanted plants and putting them into his rot pile, barely even checking for bluevein. Too worn out for effort.

“Iftal’s blessing to you, Forester,” she shouted. He paused with his hoe above the ground.

“And to you, Leoric,” he said, leaning on the hoe. “Have you come once more to tell me to give up my land?” He felt like he said the words by rote, rather than because he cared. She shook her head.

“I have come to ask for your help.” He laughed, unable to help himself. What a fine jest. He was no help to anyone.

“Helping you cost me three of my crownheads. And before that you sent a man to steal my farm. I have little appetite for helping you, Leoric, it costs me dear.” She wrapped her blue woollen cloak around herself. She wore her black-dyed hair in elaborate braids, her face painted white and her eyes lined with deep blue.

“I sent the man, aye,” she said. “I will not apologise for that, you know my reasons.”

“For sending him, aye, but you did not explain why you sent the soldiers for me after.” A flash in her dark eyes, anger.

“I did not send the soldiers, and I told you that. I do not lie.” She walked towards him. “That family were out of their depth and I was about to have them hand the farm back when those soldiers came. They had nothing to do with me.”

He turned from her. Made a dismissive noise and began to dig at the unyielding soil. “But I am not here to plough up old ground, Forester.” Only now did he see the way worry marred her features, hear how her voice wavered. “I am here because I need your help, not for Harn, but for me. And there is no other who can help.” He dug his hoe into the ground again, worrying at a root.

“I do not know what I can offer you that no other can, if it is to guide your traders again then the Forestals were quite plain.” He looked up. “They offered passage only once. I will not risk their arrows for your secrets.” For a moment he wondered whether he should. An arrow to the head was a quick death.

“It is not trade I come about,” she said, and stepped forward. “We will not send anyone to Harn-Larger for half a season yet. Maybe more given how deep the bluevein bites.” She put a hand on his arm, stopped him as he dug into the ground. “Please, Forester, if you have any pity in you, listen to me.” He looked at her, brown eyes on the point of overflowing with held back tears. “My child, Issofur,” the words came slowly, hesitantly, “he has been foreststruck.” Her voice almost broke and he looked away from her pain. “My firstwife and my first- and secondhusband, and our trion, all went to the war and did not come back. Issofur is all I have.”

“You just want me gone,” he said, leaning on his hoe and turning to her. “That is all.”

She shook her head and he hoped she would leave. He’d had his fill of children, of failing them. Of other’s pain.

“I do not care about your farm.” She stood straighter. “You know the forest, you go deeper in it than any other.” She licked her white-painted lips. He wanted to say no but he had seen her child playing, smiled at him. He told himself children who wandered into the wood seldom returned. He should send her away. Maybe, if he had not met Venn, if he had not watched them give themselves up to save him, if he had never found the crownhead toy, he would have done.

“The only certain failure is never to try.” Nasim’s voice, too many ghosts.

She took his hesitation for refusal. “I can trade you something worthwhile,” she said.

“What?”

“People came to me recently, asking about a man who sounds like you. Big, long hair, a beard,” she said. “There is a reward for whoever turns over the man that killed two Rai. I have kept it from the village as best I can, but secrets never stay secret. Someone will tell the soldiers in Harn-Larger it sounds like you, probably Tussnig. The monk is desperate to curry favour with the forces of the Rai. He thinks he is better than Harn.”

“Then,” he said, changing his grip on the hoe so it could be a weapon if it needs be, lowering his voice, “would it not be foolish of you to threaten a man who killed two Rai?” She shook her head, opened her arms as if to beg him.

“That is not what I am doing, or what I offer, Forester. Bring my child back from the forest and, should the soldiers come to Harn looking for you, I will make sure you are warned.”

“But you won’t stop them.” She was fighting back tears and he thought losing. But she held herself together until the battle was won, then spoke again.

“You have seen Harn, Forester. The Rai have bled our strength away for their wars, we are not soldiers, we barely have the strength to farm.” There was a desperation, but also a dignity in her words. “But I swear to warn you of any danger, swear it on the faraway graves of my family. If I lie may they come back as Osere and slay me in my bed.” Now a tear escaped from her eye, running a track through the make-up on her face and exposing the skin beneath. “Please, Forester. I will send no one to your farm. I will never ask you for a splinter in sacrifice or tribute. But bring my child back from the forest. I beg you.” He let the air out of his lungs in one long breath, pushed the hoe into the ground so that it stood upright. Closed his eyes.

The silence of death around his farm.

The trion standing, ready to be taken.

The feel of a child’s toy in his hand.

“How long is he gone?” said Cahan.

“Today, they say he went this morning as if drawn, like he heard something call him.” That was bad. If he had only wandered into the forest it was worrying enough, but to be called was worse. There were creatures in the forest that sang out a song to those who would listen, to bring out those they desired. Most often those who heard were lost forever, and if they came back they were changed. They were the ones chosen by old gods, dark ones cast out and worshipped by none. Only feared.

“A day is a long time in the forest, Leoric,” he said. “You know this.” She nodded.

“Even if all you can bring back is a corpse for me to bury,” she said, unable to look at him, “our deal will stand.” Something in her snapped and she let out a sob. Fighting to control her breathing. “He is barely five seasons, Forester, I will beg you if—” Guilt, sudden and strong as the fiercest circle wind. The most intense thing he had felt since he returned. He stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder.

Froze.

Had he overstepped the mark? It was not done for clanless to touch those above them, but she did not react. He towered above her but felt small and pathetic because he had not offered his help the moment he knew what had happened. He, who knew the forest, could help this woman who had lost the last thing she had in this world that she loved.

“You do not need to beg, Leoric,” he said. “I will do my best to find your child and bring him back.” Why he made such a promise he did not know. Even if the Leoric believed she would honour him for returning a corpse, it would be unlikely to do anything but fester and come back on him. But in her misery and tears, maybe he felt some kinship. Or maybe he acted only to assuage his own guilt. It did not matter, he had committed now and must gather himself for a trip that would likely lead him into Wyrdwood, somewhere fraught with danger and a place few ever went.

“Will you go now?” she asked. “He has been gone a whole day, almost.”

“I must gather myself and a few supplies first,” he said. “If the boy has been gone that long a few hours more will make little difference.” She nodded.

“Then I will see you in Harn, Forester.” He watched her walk away through the frost-rimed fields. He felt different, less numb.

But did not understand why.