The Swans' War 3 - The Shadow Roads (41 page)

ing, no doubt baseless, that I need to stay there to protect my peo-ple. Only Fynnol and I have fought in a war and understand how cruel outsiders can be."Cynddl eyed him, weighing his words. "I think the Vale is safe, Tarn. A'brgail's Knights have secured the roads of the old kingdom, and north of Willowwand we saw only two families traveling north, probably in search of gold and silver.""Two families we can find room for," Tarn said.

Cynddl seemed to be leading them somewhere, and finally he stopped by a small mound with an angled rock set into the earth at one end.

"Do you see this place,Tarn?" Cynddl said. "It is where your fa-ther was buried.""How do you know?""I'm a story finder, Tarn. His story is here."Tarn felt a strange wash of emotion, as though he stood on the beach and was struck by the surf.

"I can tell you the story of how he died," Cynddl said, "if you wish."Tarn felt his head shake, and he closed his eyes. "I know how he died. He was murdered by brigands.""There is another story to be found here, Tarn; how this man had a wife and son he loved more than life."Tarn felt his eyes grow moist and warm. "Thank you Cynddl, but that story is known to me."Cynddl nodded, gazing down at the sun-dappled grave, the scent of spring in the air. "Then there is one last thing to be done. I will sit here and tell the father his son's story. How he journeyed down the river and became a man among men of renown. How he gained the friendship of wanderers and noblemen, and traveled hidden roads to battle the servants of a sorcerer." Cynddl sat down on a bit of rock that broke through the soft forest floor.

Tarn turned aside and made his way through the birch trees. Once, he glanced back to see the story finder seated among the snow drops and fallen leaves, speaking softly in the sunlight.

As Tam walked, the forest began to blur—a world viewed through rain-streaked glass. The murmur of Cynddl's ancient voice followed him, as though it issued up from the ground like a spring, whispering. Trees murmured their secret tales, and as he drew near Telanon Bridge, these voices flowed into the story of the river where they swirled away, spinning endlessly south toward the speaking sea.