It was no small thing to head into Harnwood, and something much larger to venture into Wyrdwood. The people of Harn, despite living within Woodedge, would never venture so far. The people of Crua only entered Wyrdwood en-masse when there was treefall, and greed for the precious hardwoods of the great trees outweighed their fear of the creatures that awaited the unwary in the gloom.
From his farm Cahan took a gourd and filled it with water from the wetvines that fed the crownheads’ drinking pool. Sometimes forest water did strange things to the minds of those who drank it, so he would take as much safe water as he could with him. He found his pack and put in it dried meat and some root vegetables from the store behind the house. Then he strapped a knife on; most would also take an axe to cut their way through the undergrowth, but not him. The deeper you went then the less you disturbed it the better. If he could not get through the undergrowth without an axe he would go around. For the same reason he left his fire-making kit behind. He took rope, some hardwood spikes for climbing and a change of clothes in case he got wet. That done, he was ready. He grabbed his staff, left the farm and whistled for Segur who bounded over, climbed up to nestle around his neck. Then they set off for Harn.
The gate guards at the Tiltgate waited in armour which provided more comfort than protection. The Leoric was right about her people, they would not be much use for fighting. Her story of lost family was familiar, the wars in the south had stolen all those with the strength to use a spear. Those left in Harn were too young, too old, too ill, or too maimed to fight. They offered little more protection to the village than the old armour gave to these guards. Still, they crossed their spears and barred him entry as he approached.
“Why are you here, Clanless?” said the woman on the right. She was missing an eye and a scar ran from the socket all the way down on her face. Cahan did not know her but she looked like she had been a fighter once. The man on the right stared at him, he was old and more decoration than use.
“The Leoric asked for me.”
“You will go into the deepings of the wood, then?” said the one-eyed guard. “To find the Leoric’s child?”
“I will,” he said. She stepped forward, smelling of woodsmoke and vost, the soupy alcohol that was as much a meal as a drink.
“I am no coward. That our Leoric should trust clanless like you instead of us shames us in the eyes of our firstmothers…”
“Aislinn!” the voice was hard, harsh. Walking towards the gate was Dyon, the Leoric’s second.
The guard stepped back. Then looked over her shoulder at Dyon as they approached. He wore a long robe of faded yellow wool that looked like it had once been expensive. His head shaved and face painted white, like the Leoric’s. His lineage freshly painted on, in larger signs than usual. He must have been proud of it to go to such effort when most could not read more than their own clan sign.
“We waste our time with this one, Dyon,” said Aislinn, stepping away from him.
“Do we?” said Dyon, stepping between Cahan and the guard. “Maybe Tarl-an-Gig has sent him.”
“So they are your god now, Dyon?” Cahan asked. “Star knows this place has had enough of them. I remember when you stood in as monk and told all Chyi watched over them, and also tended shrines in Woodedge to a handful of others.”
Dyon smiled. “You should be careful how you speak, Forester,” he said, taking Cahan’s arm and guiding him past the guards. He had never cared much for the forester, but he had always been loyal to Harn and what he considered best for it. “The new ways forgive past mistakes, but punish those who refuse the true god. Bow your head for Tarl-an-Gig and keep your mouth shut.” It was good advice, though Cahan did not agree. The smaller someone’s world was the surer they became their way was the right way, and the world of most of those in Harn was very small.
“They are not the usual guards,” he said, thinking it better to change the subject.
“No,” said Dyon, “we were attacked by orits.”
“Orits?” He could not keep surprise from his voice, they were Harnwood and Wyrdwood creatures. Not often seen in Woodedge.
“Aye, they had made a nest north of us.” He did not look at the forester as they walked through the village. It was far quieter than the last time he had been here. “We had to burn it out. Furden and Duhan led the group that did it.”
“They were hurt?” Dyon shook his head.
“Not badly, but the Leoric thought it best they rest.” From his tone Cahan did not think he agreed, but Dyon was a hard one to read. “First orits, now the Leoric’s child.” He drew Cahan to a stop. “There are those that think the forest has turned against us, they blame the Leoric for letting in Tussnig, and him forbidding worship of the old gods. Tussnig in turn blames her as she will not stamp down on those who hark back to older ways.” Dyon glanced around, then spoke quietly. “The monk found a shrine to the boughry an eightday past and I thought he would soil his robes. If our people are quiet about it Furin still lets them worship who they wish.” He stared at Cahan, then leaned in to whisper even more softly, “If you cannot bring her child back, Tussnig will tell the people it is a bad omen. That Tarl-an-Gig does not want her here. They will not trust her as leader any more.” He gave Cahan a hard look. “Without her in charge, outsiders will no longer be welcome.” He left that thought in the air where it hung like the stink of the tanning pits. Cahan tried not to hear it cynically, as Dyon telling him how he would rule, but had always been one to think the worst of people.
“I will bring the child back,” he said.
Dyon sniffed, then coughed and spat something onto the cold ground.
“Good,” he said, taking a step back. “Good, may Tarl-an-Gig bless you for it.” He bowed his head. “Now, the Leoric awaits you and she is impatient, worried for her child. Come.” Dyon led him through the roundhouses of Woolside and to the market square. It was a sad place now, no stalls on this day, only the shrine with the poorly made star and balancing man.
It was so quiet, so empty, Cahan began to wonder if he had been brought here on false pretences. Had the Leoric set up an ambush? Sold him out to the Rai? He wished he had brought an axe, not that it would have done much good.
“Wait,” Dyon told him, “she will be here soon. Furin is making offerings in the privacy of her longhouse.” He nodded at the building. Cahan could not help notice he did not name what god she made her offerings to. “It is not good for the people to see their Leoric bleed.”
“Where are you going?” Cahan said.
“To keep Tussnig distracted. He is no lover of you, Forester.”
“The Leoric wastes her time if she bleeds for Tarl-an-Gig.” He turned to find the monk he had given a coin to when he was here last. “That fraud cares nothing for children. Only for themselves.”
“And you know more of gods than she does? Yours seems to have left you a beggar and I know few monks who are forced to beg.”
She raised herself to her full height, which was not very great despite her spiked hair. Somehow she managed to sound quite haughty, despite that her robe was filthy and caked in mud, the ends of it tattered and soaked. “I am a monk,” she said, “I told you so before. I know much of gods.” She nodded as though words were enough to prove her point. There was a scar on the side of her nose where it had been slit; punishment for a thief. She saw him staring at the cut and lifted a hand to touch the scar. “A reminder from a previous life,” she said. “Before I found my true calling.”
“And who calls to you, monk?” Travelling monks used to be common, wandering in hope of followers and the riches such things brought. Now she would be either brave or foolhardy to let any name but Tarl-an-Gig fall from her lips.
Her answer was not what he expected, and it hit him like a hammer blow to the temple.
“Ranya.”
For a count, Cahan could not speak. He was a child again, leafing through books in the smoky hut of an old gardener. Hearing tales of a god like no other, of ways of learning that did not involve switches and beatings, or standing for hours on end on one leg, or pain and rules and endless repetition. The filthy little monk was staring at him, a quizzical look on her face.
“What did you say?” It was all he could do to get the words out of his mouth. The monk smiled at him, an odd expression creeping across her face, the way the light creeps across the sky
“You have heard of her.” He nodded, and could do little else. Struck with a sense of unreality, of the world bending and twisting around him, of events being out of control. It was not a feeling he liked. “Few have heard of Ranya,” said the monk quietly. “I had not, well,” she grinned, “not until she spoke to me.” She tipped her head to one side, examining him like he was some odd creature she had found in the mud. “Most prefer to put their trust in gods they can see working, and the new Cowl-Rai is sweeping the land in the name of Tarl-an-Gig, truly it seems to be a god-in-rising.” She stepped closer to him. Up close she smelled of meadows, a welcome thing in the stink of Harn. “But you have heard of my Lady of the Lost,” she sounded puzzled, contemplative. “Maybe my path was more guided than I thought.” She laughed to herself, and though he thought her laugh a little touched with madness, there was something infectious about it. He was so used to the people he met being solemn, scared, or disapproving of him. It was strange to have someone be amused.
He was not sure he liked it.
“You are laughing at me?” It came out as a growl.
“I laugh at the world, I laugh all the time.” She circled around him until she stood once more before him. “Though laughter seems a little alien to you,” she giggled, “you are quite the dour one.” Then she hopped from one foot to the other on the spot. Cahan flinched, though why he could not say, she was no threat. “And big,” she said. “So big.” She moved in closer, her voice falling to a low whisper. “But unhappy, and lost, so very lost.” She reached up a hand, as if to touch his cheek. Almost, he let her, then he remembered he had no time for monks.
“What I am is none of your business, monk. Life deals what it deals and we cope as we must.” She laughed again, she was a strange, sharp-featured and filthy thing. Not what he thought of as a monk at all. They were generally well dressed and strewn with expensive wooden beads.
“Well,” she said, laughing to herself again, “that is a rule to live by if ever there was one.” She turned. “The Leoric is coming,” she pointed at the longhouse.
Leoric Furin left the longhouse and turned towards the altar of Tarl-an-Gig at the end of the market square. As she backed away she bowed to the effigy of the balancing man and the eight-branched star of Iftal, to show respect. In one hand she held a rag and as she turned she used it to clean the blood of sacrifice from her skin, then held the rag in her palm to cover the wound she bled from. Furin paused and studied at her hand, taking the cloth on and off. When she was sure she was no longer bleeding she walked quickly over to where Cahan stood with the monk.
“Udinny,” she said, then she dismissed her from her mind and turned to him. “I was not sure you would come, Forester.”
“I said I would.”
She grunted, nodded her head. “You have always kept your word, I suppose.”
“Show me where the boy was last seen.” Furin pointed towards the Forestgate, then turned and walked up through Tanside. He followed, the monk dogging his steps as the Leoric led them out of the village and past the tanning pits, up towards the small fields that were between Harn and the gasmaw farm at the edge of the wood. Beyond the fields rose the great steps of the forest, increasing in darkness as they increased in size. The pale green of Woodedge, the darker green of Harnwood, where old trees reached up for the sky, and in the distance the very dark green, almost black, of Wyrdwood where the tops of the great cloudtrees vanished into the misty sky.
“He was in the field over there,” said the Leoric, her voice dull, as if all emotion had been burned from her. “With the rest of the children of Harn, clearing the land in readiness for planting when Least comes in. They were searching for bluevein in the weeds. It gets worse every season.” She stopped in the middle of the field. “The others were not called,” she stared at him, “why were they not called?”
“Who knows why someone becomes foreststruck?” Cahan shrugged. “I only know it happens.” He walked on through the field. “Where exactly was he standing?” She led him to the edge of the field, where stones had been laid to mark one tenant’s ground ending and another’s starting. Cahan knew the crops they would grow there were never enough. He thought they would be better feeding crownheads and trading the skins and meat for grain when the skycarts came in to Harn-Larger. That was if the Forestals let them, of course. He stepped over the rocky demarcation line and found where the children had been. The ground had been cleared of old crops and vines. The Leoric had moved forestward of him as he studied the soil and rocks.
“It was here,” she said. “Half through the first eight. The children carried on clearing, almost until lightfall so I did not know. They told me Issofur stopped working. He stared at the forest while they cleared, long enough for them to become angry with him. They threw mud at him for it, but he ignored them. Then he walked away.”
“He did not say anything?” She shook her head and wrapped her arms around her middle, ruffling up the bright blue wool of her clothes. Cahan used his staff to move the soil about, not that he expected to find any clue there, but her pain made him uncomfortable and he did not want to look at her. “They did not try and stop him leaving? Or come and tell you when he did?”
“No, they did not stop working.” She looked away, back at the walls of the village. “Those that do not clear their quota of ground do not eat.” She turned back to him. “Before you judge us, Forester, you should know that rule is for all in Harn, not just the children. We cannot all forage in Woodedge for food. The children must learn they live in a community, that we depend upon each other.”
“No matter the cost?” he said, and immediately felt small and cruel for it.
“Yes,” she replied quietly, bowed her head, “no matter the cost.”
“Issofur,” Cahan said softly to himself.
“Yes,” she looked up once more, “he is a good boy. Works hard for the village.” Cahan nodded.
“I will do all I can to bring him back.” He moved the pack on his back, making sure it was comfortable. He had padded the straps with crownhead wool but they could still rub. “Leoric,” he said.
“My name is Furin. You can call me that.”
“Very well, Furin,” he said, “I will do what I can for you.” He paused in the moment before he headed towards the forest. “You know, if I do bring your boy back, sometimes people are…” he searched for a softer word to use, but there was none, or at least his mouth was not used to softness. “They are often changed by Wyrdwood. Not always,” he added, “but often.” She nodded, more to herself than him.
“Bring back my Issofur, Forester,” she said, “and I will cope with whatever that means when I must.” She stepped nearer, so she could whisper. “What is your name? I would know the name of the man who would help me.” He stared at her, he guarded his name well. It was a danger, not only to him but to any who knew it. To give his name was to trust and he was not one to trust. The Leoric stared at him and he saw the pain in her eyes, the loss. Maybe it was foolish of him, but he felt a kinship with her through it.
“Cahan,” he said. “Cahan Du-Nahere. It is not a name I share with many.” Did the ground tremor? Did he feel one of those small earthquakes that constantly shook the land of Crua?
“Thank you for sharing it with me, Cahan Du-Nahere. I will hold it close.” She stepped back. “Old god’s watch you, and Osere stay below where you walk.” He nodded as he did not know what to say. It was many years since any had wished him well and meant it.
“I should go.” She nodded and he walked towards the forest. Stopping when he heard footsteps behind him, thinking the Leoric had decided to follow. He was ready to tell her she could not come, though a part of him would regret that. But it was not the Leoric; she stood way back in the field, staring at the ground where her son had last been seen. It was the monk with the spiked hair running after him, her robes flapping as she dragged her pack onto her back.
“It is dangerous in the forest,” he said to her as she stopped before him. She grinned.
“It is dangerous everywhere, Cahan Du-Nahere,” she laughed to herself again. “That is a good name, strong, it suits you.”
“I did not share it with you.” If she heard the threat in his voice she did not show it.
“But nonetheless I know it.” That strange smile again. “I wonder if my Lady of the Lost sent me here, to Harn, because of you.” She looked up at him. Her white make-up was only a smattering of powder, and the greasy mud that kept her hair in spikes had melted at her hairline and streaked her face. “It seems an odd coincidence that I should run into another who knows her name so far from anywhere civilised.” He thought to send her back, but could think of no reason why she would obey him. She did not strike him as the type who obeyed anyone.
“If you choose to come with me, monk, you must do as I say.” She nodded.
“Of course, those people in the village say you know the forest. I think that is why you frighten them.” She grinned at him, her eyes sparkled. “So I would be a fool not to listen to you, Cahan Du-Nahere.”
“The Leoric called you Udinny?”
“It is as good a name as any other.” She bit on her lip. “Not as good as yours though.”
“Well, Udinny,” he wondered if she could hear how little he wanted her company, “as long as you do as I say, and exactly as I say, then you may walk out of the forest alive if you insist on following.”
“You think our way will be fraught with danger?”
“I think,” he said, settling the straps of his pack once more, “that the forest took the child, so it may not want to give him back.” With that he turned and began to walk towards the forest, trying not to think about how, in only a few seasons, he had gone from a quiet life where few ever bothered him, to venturing into Wyrdwood with a monk for the village of Harn’s leader. He felt like he was being forced into the open and looked around, expecting to see the reborn, but they were nowhere to be seen.
He watched the monk as she skipped over the field by him. She served a god he had only ever known to be worshipped in secret, and by one man. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm him again, a feeling of events beyond his control spinning around him.
He turned away from the monk and back to the forest, took a deep breath. Among the trees lay his more immediate worries.
You need me.