34

The child fell asleep in Udinny’s arms and they camped before the taffistone, where the boughry had kept court. The forester and the monk felt no fear or worry and neither could explain it, except to say that it felt as though the boughry had accepted Udinny in some way as “theirs”. They laid their heads down amid the riot of light in Wyrdwood and slept as deeply and peacefully as the child, as if they had not a care in the world.

Cahan awoke to the daylight gloom, movement in the corner of his eye. He felt no need to jump from inaction to action. He let himself move slowly from sleep to wakefulness. Only then realising how the days of venturing through the forest, always having to stay alert, had weighed on him. When he woke fully he found that nuts and berries had been scattered around him, so thick he only had to reach out and his hand was full. He sat eating the berries, letting their juice quench his thirst.

Udinny, had woken before him, a rare thing in itself, and she stood by the taffistone, running her hands over the egg-shaped rock. It was taller than her, taller than him, and she could not reach the top, though she was trying – her thin body stretching, showing her scrawny ankles as her robe lifted. Then she stood back, inspecting the monument. Segur watched her intently, head cocked to one side.

“There are many of them dotted around Crua,” said Cahan, “surely you have seen them before in Tilt?”

“I have been at sacrifice, like everyone, Cahan. Given of myself and felt the malaise that follows, but I have never really looked at them.” She put her hands on the smooth grey surface. “It is warm to the touch, did you know that?”

“Aye,” he stood and went over to join her, “some of them are in the north. When the snows fall it never settles on the taffistones.”

“And there are handprints on it,” said Udinny. She pointed at one and he leant in to look.

“I have seen things on the others that I thought may be handprints,” he said, “but never so clear as that.” Udinny put her own hand on the rock handprint, splaying her fingers.

“How does someone leave a handprint in rock, Cahan? Were the ancients so strong they could press their hands into stone?” He shook his head.

“The cowl, Udinny, for those few who are blessed, or cursed, depending on how you see it. That is how it is done.”

“And you, Cahan Du-Nahere. Was I right? Are you so blessed?” She was looking at him, thin face, wide eyes, hair spiked once more. No judgement, only an honest question.

“I am cursed so, yes.” She smiled at him.

“Do you know the story of the Leoric whose fields were constantly eaten by virin?” He shook his head, he had not been raised in a place where folktales were told. “Every day, Cahan, the Leoric came out and cursed their luck, that the crops of their people should be so blighted by virin. They did everything they could to destroy the virin, sent children out to scour the plants and squash them on the leaves, burned their nests whenever they were found. But the virin were like water, and they flowed around their efforts, blighted the crops until the villagers eventually left. But the Leoric remained, full of hate for the virin and vowing to fight them. They died alone, cursing the virin, who ate their corpse never understanding they were hated. Then a new Leoric came, bringing people from far beyond Tilt. These people had been raised a different way with different customs. At first they were scared, looking at this tumbledown village that had been abandoned apart from one old corpse, chewed on by virin. They worried that some terrible fate may have befallen this place, and might await them here if they stayed. But their Leoric was different, and recognised the signs of what had chewed on the corpse. Where this Leoric and their people came from they regarded virin differently. They knew virin could be eaten, mashed up into meal, or fried as they were and they were considered a great delicacy.” Udinny grinned at him. “The new Leoric looked upon the blighted fields and said to their people, look at this bounty that has been provided for us, and the Leoric and their people thrived.” She sat down among the berries and nuts. Leaning on one hand.

“Are you saying I should eat my cowl, monk?”

“Sarcasm, Cahan, is not clever.” Udinny popped a nut into her mouth. “I only mean that, curse or blessing, sometimes it is in how you look at a thing.” He nodded. She smiled but it fell away, one of her hands on the forest floor. She was staring at it, as if she had never seen a hand before.

“Maybe,” he said, though he did not believe her. She did not know how a cowl weighed upon you, demanded you feed it. Still, he did not want to argue with her and he remained strangely relaxed.

“There is so much life here, above and below us, Cahan,” she said.

“And we must move on,” he replied, “return the child.”

They constructed a travois for the child from their staffs, and then harvested floatvine to go beneath it. Cahan lifted the boy onto the travois and laid him gently on a bed of the soft, dark leaves that grew on the bushes. “Should the child not be awake by now?” he said, staring down at him.

“He will sleep until we leave Woodedge,” said Udinny.

“How do you know that?” She shrugged.

“I only know that I know it.” She scratched at the base of one of her hair spikes, spoke in a softer than usual voice. “Maybe it is something to do with the boughry.”

“Doesn’t it worry you?” He put the straps of the travois around his shoulders. “That they may take their price from you?”

“It should,” she said, “maybe it will later but it does not now. I will not borrow trouble.” She looked up. “I heard so much about the forest before I entered it, Cahan. But it is a place of wonders as well as danger. Maybe the boughry are not what we think either?”

“I have seen their victims,” he said. “If they call you, ask and I will do what I can to protect you.” She put her hand on his arm and smiled.

“Cahan, despite your size, and what lives beneath your skin, I am not sure you could help me against them.” She looked back at the stone. “Besides, I walk Ranya’s rambling path, I must go where it leads, it often surprises.”

“Why, Udinny?” he asked as they began to walk away from the stone, Segur dashing about around them, “why follow a god most have forgotten? What do you expect from it? Followers? A temple? Is there some prophecy that guides you?” Even to talk of such things as prophecy left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“I want nothing, Cahan,” said the monk, “I have already told you, I simply heard her voice and I answered her call.” He paused and she walked ahead, whistling softly. He wondered if he should tell her of his past. If she was someone he could really trust. Ranya had once intruded into his life, and if she had not then he would not be the man he was. He would either be dead or something terrible. For many years he not been sure whether he thanked the intervention of Ranya or, rather, her acolyte, for the way her teachings made him feel. But something of Udinny reminded him of the man who had taken time from his duties to speak to a small and frightened boy and, like Udinny, that old man had done it selflessly, knowing what the cost might be.

What it would be.

He felt he should tell her, and resolved to do so when they camped. If not everything of him then some of it. It would be good to share and Udinny had proven herself trustworthy.

“How do we get out of Wyrdwood, Cahan?” asked the monk. He glanced up, looking for the glow of light far above but the mist that gathered around the lowest branches of the cloudtrees hid everything. He scanned the floor, looking for the disturbances they had made on their way but he found nothing. The forest floor was as pristine as if they had never passed by.

“Truthfully, Udinny, I have never been this far into Wyrdwood before.” He looked across and did his best to smile. “I had hoped to follow our tracks back but they have vanished.”

“What do you suggest then?”

“We walk until we find a cloudtree,” he said, “moss always grows on the northern side, so we head in the opposite direction to the moss. Then we should, eventually, find ourselves in Harnwood. Once there I can get us back easily enough.” Udinny nodded, pleased with his answer, and they headed towards what looked like a tree trunk in the distance, but proved to be only a bank of the dark-green-leaved bushes. They continued walking; the bushes were easy enough to push through if you were careful to mind the thorns.

As they left the bushes an arrow halted their progress.

He heard it first, not the whistle of its passage through the air. That was lost in the constant sound of Wyrdwood; whistles, whoops and howls. He heard the “thud” of it landing in the earth, digging in. An unmistakeable noise to anyone who had ever shot an arrow. He must still have been in the strange fugue brought on by the boughry as he did not run, or tell Udinny to do so. If the archer was good there would have been little point anyway. Instead, he simply stopped, staring at the arrow buried in the earth as if it was a new thing to him; a strange creature he had never seen before. The fletching was of high quality. Whoever had made this arrow was skilled in an art that would get you killed in most of Crua.

“Come no further!” came the shout.

“We mean no harm!” Udinny shouted back. Cahan felt a hard dig in his ribs as the monk used an elbow to shock him from his torpor. “Armed people, Cahan,” she hissed, “maybe the bigger one of us should deal with them, eh?” He nodded. Stepped forward. Another arrow. This time he heard it cut through the air. It landed no more than a handsbreadth from his feet.

“We mean no harm,” he shouted, “and if you intend to rob us we have little but you are welcome to it, we request only passage.” He waited, expecting another arrow. Maybe this time in his chest.

“Who are you? To enter Wyrdwood?” The voice that came back was soft, though it had something of heartwood in it, strong and unbending. Familiar also, he was sure he had heard it before.

“My name is Cahan, I am a forester. This is my friend Udinny, a monk of Ranya.”

“And why are you here, Cahan the Forester, and Udinny, monk of Ranya? Disturbing my forest?” Cahan undid the straps of the travois and pulled it round to bob in the air before him.

“I only wish to go, and leave your forest undisturbed,” he shouted back. “This boy was foreststruck. His mother asked me to come here and bring him back.”

“Brave, to venture so deep,” came the reply.

“We did not expect to, or want to. The forest brought us here.”

“And what damage did you do, Cahan the Forester, and Udinny, the monk of Ranya, forcing your way through this green realm where you are wholly unwanted?” By now, Cahan was sure he knew which of the green bushes hid the speaker. If he had wanted to he was also sure he could get to them. A jagged run would spoil their aim. He considered it, then decided against. This must be Forestals, and they never hunted alone.

He remained still.

Waiting. Thinking.

The forest paused around him.

“We caused no damage,” he shouted back. Voice echoing between vast trees. “Harm not, and remain unharmed, is that not the rule here?” He felt there was an edge of desperation to his voice.

A long gap, no response.

“We did no harm!” He shouted again. “We ask safe passage, Tall Sera.” As he shouted that name, of the man he was sure he spoke to, the forest woke once more. Gasmaws moved far above, and a thousand different creatures trilled and called in the gloom. He wondered if he had made a mistake, if the voice he heard was not the man that he had met in Woodedge on his way to Harn-Larger.

A figure left the bush, and more appeared from the foliage around them. Men and women dressed in clothing that was the same greens and browns as the forest, twigs and leaves woven into the material. Skin beneath painted with the same colours and their camouflage was so perfect Cahan realised they could have been following them for days and they might not have seen them. But now he knew they were there he could feel them in his cowl; they were part of the forest but not. Like he was, like Udinny had become.

“Forestals,” said Udinny quietly. Cahan nodded. The other creatures of the forest, the orits, gasmaws, rootlings and even the swarden, they were understandable in their way. They acted the way they did because it was their nature, they were dangerous, yes. But that was simply the way they were, and even with the worst of them, the swarden and the skinfetches, if you kept out of their way and did not disturb them about their business they were unlikely to act against you.

But Forestals were a different matter, they were people and there were few things as dangerous and unpredictable as people.

The leader pulled back their hood. His eyes were bright and he held a bow taller than himself in one hand. His followers also had bows, though unlike him they held theirs at half-draw, ready to act should they need to.

“You are a long way from where last I saw you, Forester,” he said.

“I could say the same of you.” Tall Sera stared at him as he spoke. His eyes shone with amusement.

“We are of the forest, we are its protectors. This is our place.”

“We have caused no harm.”

“Take off your packs,” he said, “and throw them over here. Do it slowly or we will loose our arrows, and not at the ground this time.” Cahan nodded and began to slide off his pack, Udinny followed his lead. They tossed the packs towards the Forestals. Tall Sera sent two of his people, looking like shambling two-legged bushes, forward to root through their belongings.

“You will not find much of use.”

“Take it all,” said Tall Sera.

“At least leave us our water gourds,” Cahan pointed at the gourds tied to the packs, “wetvines are spare in Wyrdwood.”

“You speak like you think I will let you live,” he said with a laugh. “What on earth gives you that impression?”

“You let me live before.” Tall Sera nodded.

“Ania had given her word,” he said, and took an arrow from the quiver on his back. “No such thing protects you now, Forester. You should know what happens to those who stray into the territory of the Forestals.” He nocked the arrow. “And that child, if it was foreststruck it is not yours to take. It belongs here now.” He lifted the bow, drew the cord back.

“The boughry gave the child to us,” shouted Udinny, putting her body between Cahan and the bowman, “and they let us walk away with this child unharmed.” The Forestal leader relaxed the tension on the bowstring, trying to pretend that what Udinny said was nothing strange to him. That he was not surprised, but he could not hide it.

“The boughry,” he said, “you met them?”

“They had the child, at a large taffistone,” she said. “We asked, and they let us take him.”

“Just like that?” a small smile and he raised the bow again, drawing and aiming over Udinny and at Cahan in one smooth motion. The rest of his people did the same.

“No,” said Udinny. “Not just like that. I offered myself in exchange.”

“And yet you stand before us,” he laughed, it died away slowly and then he spoke very seriously. “We do not like liars in the forest. And we like those even less who take the name of the Woodhewn Nobles in vain.” Cahan thought them dead at that moment, he thought them lost. Udinny shivered, as if a cold breeze had found her. She stilled, the forest fell out of focus, a faint light whorled and twisted around her and she spoke in a voice that he barely recognised as hers. Udinny’s posture changed, she had somehow become taller.

“I am Udinny Hac-Mereward of Tiltspire and I am given to the boughry of Wyrdwood.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement, barely there, but he was sure it was rootlings, peeking from the bushes all around them as if made curious by the sound of Udinny’s voice.

Tall Sera let out a gasp and fell to one knee, the rest of the Forestals did likewise.

“Forgive us and take your gaze from us, Noble,” he said, “we did not know.” Udinny shivered again, then looked about her in confusion.

“Why are they kneeling, Cahan?” the light gone, her size normal.

“The Forestals no longer consider us liars.” He wondered what the boughry had done to her. Tall Sera looked up, then stood once more, though the rest of his people remained kneeling. He walked over and retrieved their packs, taking Udinny’s to her first, putting it in her hand. Then he walked over to Cahan and dropped his on the floor. Up close Tall Sera smelled fresh and clean, like the needle-leaved trees that were good for burning and grew quickly in Woodedge. He glanced at the travois, a look of confusion passed over his face.

“All this way for a child. Are you brave or stupid, Forester?”

“A little of both, maybe,” he said. He turned to look at the boy, sleeping on his bed of leaves.

“You waste your time,” said Tall Sera. “Those chosen by the forest, they always come back, but I suppose you know that.” He walked away, stopping at the edge of the bushes. “You cannot continue along the route you are taking.” He took a breath and bowed his head. Let out the breath. Stood tall. “Truthfully, because your friend is chosen by the boughry I cannot stop you going where you will, and my people would not even if I asked.” Cahan nodded. “But I request a favour, Forester, and Udinny, monk of Ranya, and then in turn I will owe you the same one day.”

“I have no wish to trespass in places secret to you if you do not wish it,” Cahan said. “And would not, boughry or no, you need only have asked.” Tall Sera nodded at him. “We came in this direction because we are lost and know only that if we head generally southward then we will reach Harnwood.” The Forestal leader reached into a pocket of his clothing, amid much rustling of leaf and twig. He found what he was looking for, throwing it to Cahan. He caught it one hand. It was flat, smooth, and very dark brown. One end rounded, the other coming to a point.

“What is this?” he asked.

“A walknut. The moss on the cloudtrees this far in is not always like the moss in Harnwood, you are currently heading north-east, and deeper into Wyrdwood.”

“Oh,” he said.

“Toss the walknut into the air. It will always come down pointing north. Do not ask me why, none know. It just is.” Cahan nodded. “Go east from here,” said Tall Sera, “until you can go no further. Then turn and head south, that way you will come upon nothing we would rather you did not see.”

“Thank you,” Cahan said. Tall Sera nodded and, together with his fellow Forestals, vanished into the bushes. Had it not been for the walknut in Cahan’s hand, it would almost have been as if he had never existed.

“What do you think he meant by ‘until you can go no further’,” said Udinny. “Are there slowlands in the forest?”

“I do not know,” Cahan shrugged, “but I suppose we shall find out.” He tossed the walknut into the air and it came down pointing towards his feet. He picked it up and did it a few more times in case the Forestal was playing some trick on him. Each time it fell it pointed in the same direction.

“Onwards then,” said Udinny.