Inheritance (29 page)

On their third night, however, when Lynan was taking his turn on watch, he did hear a sound from somewhere in the night. At first he thought it was nothing more than a settling branch, the sound of wood moving, but the second time he was sure it was closer, and its quality was different somehow from a tree’s random swaying, as if caused by a definite movement.

He held his breath and peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing. He stood up and drew his sword silently from its sheath. He wondered if he should wake the others, but told himself it was his own fears and wild imaginings that were disturbing him.

And then the sound came again, from a different angle but closer still. He twisted around, staring into the dark forest, trying to make out some hint of movement, some sign of life. But, again, there was nothing to be seen.

He finally convinced himself he was overreacting, sheathed his sword, and was squatting to sit down by the fire when he saw two eyes—green slits that burned unnaturally—staring back into his own. He cried out involuntarily and leaped to his feet. The vision disappeared.

Kumul jumped up and grabbed his sword. He scanned the area slowly, then settled his gaze on the prince. “What the hell are you bellowing for?”

“I… I thought I saw something.”

“What?”

“Eyes. A pair of eyes. Green eyes. Before that, I heard movement.”

“Movement,” Kumul said dully. Ager was now sitting up as well. Both men stared out around them. “I hear no movement and I see no eyes.”

Lynan blushed. “Sorry to wake you,” he said stiffly.

Kumul and Ager exchanged weary glances. “You’re doing fine, lad,” Kumul muttered halfheartedly. “Such alertness commends you.” The soldier dropped back to the ground, and both he and Ager returned to sleep almost immediately.

Lynan angrily poked the fire until the flames were much higher. He walked to the limits of the light it cast and studied the ground as best he could. There were no tracks, nothing unusual.

Oh, you are a mighty warrior
, he told himself.
Shadows and creaks and fear make enemies for you, as if you didn’t have enough real ones already
.

He sat down by the fire and tried to relax, but when he was relieved from the watch by Jenrosa not long afterward, he was still so tense it took him another hour to find sleep. When he woke the next morning, he was tired and irritable and could not shake from his mind the memory of those two green eyes.

The companions carefully rationed the dried fish and berries they had brought with them, but their food was gone entirely by the end of their fourth day in the forest. They managed to find a few handfuls of wild blackberries and nuts, but it wasn’t enough to keep away the increasingly urgent hunger pangs that disturbed their sleep. At least, they came across enough streams to quench their thirst.

On the morning of the fifth day they discovered a wide and apparently recently used trail. Fresh human footprints patterned the dirt, and they found a dropped nail and close to it a brooch, still shiny with recent use. After a few hours they heard sounds up ahead: human voices and the grunting of a pig or two. The travelers’ spirits lightened, but they proceeded cautiously, not sure of what they might find.

Soon after they came upon a hamlet comprising a dozen or so huts gathered around a level area, at the center of which was a well. The place was teeming with small children, all dressed similarly in plain smocks gathered at the waist by rough cords. Moving to and fro between huts and the well were women, wearing long woolen dresses and wide leather belts, and carrying heavy baskets of washing or wooden buckets of water. They carefully lifted their loads above the heads of the children who swerved and careened around them with carefree abandon.

As soon as they saw the companions, everyone in the hamlet stopped what they were doing. The happy faces of the children changed to expressions of uncertainty and fear, and the women dropped their baskets and buckets and retrieved long curved knives from the back of their belts. The blades shimmered in the soft light filtering through the canopy.

“Friendly lot,” Jenrosa murmured.

“Have you noticed how many there are?” Kumul asked Ager.

The crookback nodded absently, and Lynan realized that indeed there seemed to be a large number of people for the small number of huts. Then he noticed the frames of several new huts lining the trail as it left the hamlet on the other side.

Kumul motioned his companions to stay where they were, and cautiously moved forward ten paces, his arms spread out and his palms held upward.

“We mean you no harm,” he said.

“We’ll determine that,” a woman near the well said. She was shorter than most of the other women, but something about her voice bespoke authority. She came forward to within a few paces of Kumul. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“They’re hounds, Belara!” another woman said, her voice full of alarm. “They’re Silona’s hounds!”

There was a ripple of fearful moans from the people, but none of the women lowered knife or retreated.

“Don’t be foolish, Enasna,” said the one called Belara. “It is just past midday. No hound walks at this hour.”

Kumul shrugged, looked at the woman called Enasna. “As you can see, madam, I have two legs, not four. I am no hound, but a traveler.” He faced the first woman. “You are Belara, I assume. My friends and I are an embassy from our village to King Tomar in Sparro. We have been sent to ask for lower taxes; the past season has been cruel to us and our crops were poor.”

“There are easier routes to Sparro than through the Forest of Silona,” Belara said, her voice taking on a menacing edge. “And you don’t dress like any villagers I’ve ever seen. You’re soldiers, and the woman carries magical designs on her tunic.”

“Our village sits on the northern foothills of the Ebrius Ridge. This is the most
direct
route, and the sooner we reach Tomar’s court the sooner my village will have relief. As for our clothing, we live in a hard land and must defend ourselves. And it is true that the woman knows some magic, but she is only young and still learning.”

While Kumul spoke, Belara had been studying his companions. “What’s wrong with your bent friend?” she asked, pointing at Ager with the knife.

“My friend’s injury is an old one, inflicted when he fought for Queen Usharna during the Slaver War.”

“And why is your arm in a sling?”

“We were beset by bandits. I was stabbed in the arm, and the woman is recovering from a blow to the head.”

“Did the bandits get much?” she asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

“A shallow grave each,” Kumul said gruffly.

The woman laughed suddenly and lowered the point of her knife. At that, all the other women lowered their blades as well. The children came forward then, milling around the companions, but especially Ager, pointing at and touching his crookback. Many, too, were fascinated with Kumul; they had probably never seen anyone so large. Kumul introduced himself and his friends, using only first names.

“You look like you could do with some food and rest,” Belara said. “Take what water you need from the well, and then come to my home,” she pointed to a hut not twenty paces away, “and I’ll see what food I can scrounge up for you. We may even be able to do something for your arm.”

“We do not need much,” Kumul lied. “We have no wish to be a burden.”

“We never refuse hospitality to travelers.” She paused, losing her smile, then said, “We get so few. At least stay the night.”

Belara’s home was larger inside than any of the abandoned huts the companions had rested in so far on their journey through the forest. A bleached woolen rug separated sleeping quarters from space set aside for housework and cooking. Planks made from summer trees and sanded back to a fine finish made the floor, and rougher planks were used for the walls and caulked with dried mud. Two small children, neither older than three, were sleeping in a large wooden cradle near a slow-burning fire in the middle of the living area, the smoke rising to a hole in the branch and twining roof. Furniture was sparse but comfortable and practical, comprising a long table and an assortment of hand-made chairs and stools, all beautifully carved.

While Belara tended Kumul’s wound, she asked many questions about the outside world. Ager now did most of the talking, careful not to admit to any knowledge someone from a small village would not have.

“These are your children?” Lynan asked Belara during a lull in the conversation, pointing to the two in the cradle.

“The oldest, Mira, is mine. The other belongs to Seabe. She’s out gathering food with some of the other women.”

“Where are your men?” he asked. “Out farming?”

Belara looked at Lynan strangely. “You would have little success fanning in this forest. The men are out cutting timber. Every half year we hire oxen from those farmsteads surrounding the forest and use them to haul the timber to the Orym River, where merchants buy it and float it down to Sparro. We use the money to buy what we can’t supply ourselves. We get fish from the streams, and trap rabbits when we can, and the forest supplies all the berries and roots we need.”

“I’m surprised no one’s cleared parts of the forest for cultivation.”

“Some have tried,” Belara said fatalistically. “But clearings don’t stay cleared for long. The forest always grows back before any crop can be harvested.”

“I don’t know that I like the sound of trees growing faster than wheat,” Jenrosa said.

“This is an old part of the world,” Belara told her. “The forest was here long before the kingdom, or even Chandra, existed. It never seems to change. It doesn’t grow, it doesn’t shrink. But it provides well enough for those who take out of it only what they need. Most of the time, anyway.” She was now applying some lotion to Kumul’s wound, making him wince.

“Most of the time?” Kumul asked.

Belara stared at her guests, then shook her head. “There’s no need for you to know. It’s our problem.”

“Why is this the only inhabited hamlet we’ve come across so far?” Kumul persisted.

Belara was wrapping a clean bandage around Kumul’s wound. “There used to be a dozen or more. There are only three or four left now, though I would have to ask my husband, Roheth, to tell you for sure. He travels through the forest all the time, finding the right trees for us to take.”

“Is this problem you mentioned behind people leaving their hamlets?” Ager asked.

Belara’s hands stopped their work. “Perhaps,” she said in a subdued voice. “But that, too, is something better asked of Roheth.” She finished dressing the wound and moved over to the fire to place a gridiron over it, then packed the gridiron with round lumps of seed dough she quickly kneaded between her hands.

“There are many people in your hamlet,” Grapnel said innocently. “Far more than I would have guessed from the number of huts.”

“We are two hamlets,” Belara said in a small voice.

“Seabe and her child come from the other hamlet,” Ager guessed aloud.

“Yes. She is staying with us until a new hut can be built for her.” She turned to face them, her face suddenly light and smiling. “Do you think King Tomar will listen to your appeal for reducing your taxes?”

Caught off guard, Ager parried the question valiantly. Lynan could only admire his skill, and was relieved the question had not been directed toward him.

Having successfully deflected any more questions about the forest, Belara made sure the topic was not raised again. When Seabe, a large, quiet woman with sad eyes, came home carrying a wooden basket filled with hard nuts, Belara set her guests the task of breaking open their shells and cleaning the fruit.

An hour before nightfall, Roheth and Seabe’s husband, Wente, returned. Children in the village had told them of the arrival of the four strangers, so they were not surprised to see them when they entered the hut. They were tall, gangly men with long, wiry arms, and their hair and full beards were black and shaggy. Soft brown eyes stared out of long, angular faces, the contrast startling. After introductions, Roheth studied his guests carefully before saying: “You say you’re from Ebrius Ridge?” He didn’t sound convinced.

“A small village just north of the Ridge,” Ager replied. “Novalo, it’s called. About ten days from here.”

“How small a village?”

Ager shrugged, wishing Roheth would change the subject. Eventually, he knew, he would be caught out by such persistent questioning. “Around eighty or so.”

“You don’t know exactly?”

“There were three women pregnant and near their time when we left,” Jenrosa said quickly. “The village could have eighty-three souls by now.”

Roheth faced Lynan. “Where did you say you bumped into these bandits?”

“We didn’t,” Kumul replied for the prince. “But it was two days out from the edge of this forest.”

Roheth nodded knowingly. “Aye, well, you don’t get bandits
inside
of the forest. Except for us woodcutters and our families, you don’t get much of anyone here. You lot are a bit of a surprise. Haven’t had any strangers come this way for… now what would it be, Belara?… Three years, maybe four?… A long time, anyway. Certainly no one just passing through.” The companions said nothing, content to let Roheth enjoy his fishing. “Did you see anyone else in the forest on your way here?”

“Anyone else?” Jenrosa asked.

“A woman,” he said, and his throat tightened. Lynan immediately recalled the pair of green eyes he had seen staring at him from the darkness, but he said nothing. He was still ashamed of the reaction from Kumul and Ager when his cry of surprise had woken them.

“No, we saw no one else,” Jenrosa said.

Roheth shook his head, as if he was chasing away a persistent fly. “So, you’re off to see the king in his court about taxes? I wish you luck, then.”

“Are you taxed heavily here?” Kumul asked.

“Us? Taxed?” Roheth actually laughed. “No tax collector’s been here for nearly a century. They don’t like the forest. Lucky, that.”

Roheth and Wente had each returned with a brace of rabbits, and these were wrapped in leaves and baked for dinner, served with roasted nuts and a dark gravy made from some mushrooms Seabe had collected that afternoon. The gravy was mopped up with the fresh bread Belara had baked, and it was all washed down with a few flagons of forest mead.