by Roger Taylor
Bildar emerged from a steamy doorway and gestured the two arrivals forward. He gripped Farnor's arms very gently. ‘You must be extremely hungry by now,’ he said, without any preamble. ‘That's if I'm any judge of the average young man's stomach. And you, Edrien, I know, will eat anything, any time.'
'We were once a starving people,’ Edrien said immediately.
'Not within our known history,’ Bildar replied.
'But ...’ Edrien began.
'... we must preserve the trait against harsher times in the future.’ Bildar concluded the exchange as if by rote.
'Something like that,’ Edrien conceded.
Bildar cuffed her gently. ‘That tongue of yours was always too glib, young Edrien,’ he said, motioning both of them towards a table. ‘I don't suppose it's ever occurred to you that you might be just plain greedy, has it?’ he went on, as they sat down.
Edrien shook her head wisely. ‘Not for a moment,’ she said, pursing her lips earnestly.
Bildar grunted.
Farnor watched this apparently regular ritual in silence. Again, he felt unfamiliar whirls of anger rising in response to the love and friendship permeating it. There was a bitter taste in his mouth. He shuffled on his chair unhappily.
Then, almost as if he had read Farnor's mind, Bildar said, ‘Last night, you told us that your parents had been murdered, Farnor.'
Farnor looked up at him, uncertain what was about to happen following this unexpected bluntness. Bildar's dark brown eyes held him fast.
'There's nothing I've ever found that can ease the pain you must be suffering, except time. But I've known others thus hurt, and you can speak to me about anything, at any time, as the mood takes you. Do you understand what I mean?'
Edrien looked pained and disconcerted by the abrupt mention of this dark topic which she had been assiduously trying to avoid since she collected Farnor, and she glanced nervously from Bildar to Farnor several times as the old man was speaking.
Farnor returned Bildar's gaze. There was neither offensive intrusion nor simpering pity in it and, under the impact of Bildar's directness, he felt the small knots of anger within him dissolving into confusion and regret and many other lesser feelings that he could not name. ‘Thank you,’ he said inadequately, after a moment.
Bildar held his gaze for a little longer, then, rubbing his hands together slowly, he said, ‘I'll get your food.'
As Bildar fussed out of the room, Farnor caught Edrien's eye. She gave an embarrassed smile and looked awkwardly away from him without speaking. Bildar's gentle but stark reference to Farnor's tragedy seemed to have left her exposed and vulnerable in some way. She was uncertain how to behave.
Equally uncertain himself, Farnor gazed around the room. It was obviously much lived in, and was full of splendid disorder. Shelves, stacked untidily with all manner of books, lined much of the walls, and where spaces were available they were filled with boxes, jars, ragged heaps of papers, various ornaments and many small wooden carvings. Farnor noticed several carved wooden inkstands, and it occurred to him that they were very similar to the one that Gryss owned and used so meticulously. He did not dwell on this strange coincidence, however, for his attention was drawn by the cutlery with which he was absently toying. Even they were made out of wood. Spoons, forks, knives. He picked up one of the knives and examined the delicate patterns carved into both blade and handle. Then he tested its fine, toothed edge gently against his thumb. It was surprisingly sharp. How did they make such articles? he wondered. And how could they sharpen them?
Bildar ended any further speculation however, by returning with a large tray on which stood two steaming dishes. ‘Here we are,’ he said. ‘This'll get you started.'
Edrien bowed slightly as the dish was placed in front of her. ‘Thank you, Woodfar,’ she said. But hunger had swept away Farnor's usual politeness and he began eating the thick soup ravenously and without comment. Edrien gave Bildar a slightly shamefaced look as Farnor plunged on with his meal, oblivious to all around him. The old man raised his finger a little for silence. ‘Eat,’ he mouthed to her.
Only as he demolished the last of the soup did Farnor's awareness of his surroundings begin to return. He looked at his host and his guide guiltily. ‘I didn't realize I was so hungry,’ he said again.
Bildar smiled, and Edrien laughed outright. ‘No,’ they both said, simultaneously.
'You can't ignore the needs of the body for long, whatever's happened to you,’ Bildar said, chuckling understandingly. ‘You fill your trunk, young man. Your need is honest. And it's not as if we're short of anything here.’ Then his eyes widened, and he lifted his head up and sniffed. ‘Oops,’ he said, suddenly flustered, and scuttled quickly out of the room, knocking a brightly coloured figurine on one of the shelves as he swung the tray around wildly in the process.
Involuntarily Farnor reached out to catch the tottering statuette even though it was on the other side of the room, but it lolled gently from one side to the other a few times, then finally settled back on its base. ‘I thought it was going to fall and break,’ he said, self-consciously dropping his hands into his lap.
'Break?’ Edrien queried.
Farnor leaned forward and stared across at the statuette with narrowed eyes. ‘Is it made of wood as well?’ he asked hesitantly.
'Of course,’ Edrien replied. ‘What else could it be?'
'Well, pot, perhaps,’ Farnor offered, feeling himself moving towards a strange conversation.
'What's pot?’ Edrien's question confirmed his concern.
He waved his hands vaguely. ‘Earthenware,’ he said, adding quickly as he saw her begin to frown, ‘Clay, baked hard. And painted.'
'I've heard of that.’ It was Bildar, returning with his tray, laden this time with plates filled with meats and a variety of vegetables. ‘The Koyden-ushav do it, I've heard. They say they can make the clay as hard as a good heartwood, and shape it into all manner of things.'
'You mean axes and knives and things?’ Edrien asked, eyes widening.
Bildar smiled and shook his head. ‘No, only plates and jugs and ornaments,’ he said. ‘It's hard, but it's brittle. Like glass, in a way, but not clear.'
Edrien nodded knowingly. ‘And you thought that was made out of ... pot?’ she said to Farnor, indicating the figurine.
'Yes,’ Farnor replied, reaching out to take the plate that Bildar was offering him. ‘It reminded me of an ornament we had at home. I remember my mother was very upset when ...’ He stopped abruptly, as a rush of memories took possession of him. He felt a tightening in his chest and throat. Bildar watched him carefully and Edrien's eyes flicked unhappily between the two of them again, searching for guidance. Breathing deeply, Farnor ruthlessly crushed the memories. That time had gone now. It had no place here, or anywhere, ever again. All that mattered now was to survive so that he could pursue his intention to destroy Rannick. ‘She was very upset when my father broke it,’ he said, coldly and dismissively.
Edrien looked relieved, but Bildar frowned slightly. ‘Eat, the pair of you,’ he said tersely, after a slight pause.
They ate their meal in comparative silence, while Bildar sat nearby and surreptitiously watched Farnor closely. ‘How do you feel now?’ he asked, when they had both finished.
Edrien belched loudly, making Farnor jump and calling a reproachful look from Bildar. She apologized insincerely, with a laugh.
'I feel much better,’ Farnor said, more restrainedly, and patting his stomach. He moved cautiously in his chair. ‘But I'm still full of aches and pains from ...’ He stopped.
'From the beating you told us about?’ Bildar said.
Farnor nodded.
'I'd like to look you over again, Farnor, if you don't mind,’ Bildar went on. ‘Just to make sure nothing serious has been done to you.'
Farnor did mind. Even Gryss was someone he used to avoid if he was unwell. He preferred to do as the animals did, namely, retreat to a quiet place and lie still until he was well again.
Now however, as in the past, he was trapped by circumstances. Previously subject to the will and cunning of his parents in such matters, he was now subject to the concern and hospitality of his new hosts; not to mention that hint of taunting that seemed to flicker occasionally into Edrien's eyes. ‘Whatever you say,’ he conceded, with as good a grace as he could manage.
Bildar shepherded him into another room, after asking Edrien if she would clear the table and wash the dishes. She hesitated for a moment, and gave him a dark, narrow-eyed look before she finally stood up and began gathering the dishes together.
It was against a distant background of irritably clunking dishes, rattling cutlery and splashing water, that Farnor submitted to Bildar's examination. His eyes were peered into. Muscles were poked and prodded and massaged. Limbs were moved up and down, then from side to side, and pushed and pulled, and twisted this way and that, all while Bildar whistled softly and tunelessly to himself. Occasionally he gave a click or a noncommittal but knowing grunt, or he asked a question: Did this hurt? Did that? Can you feel this? How many fingers am I holding up? Have you passed any blood?
This latter reminded Farnor of something else.
'No,’ he announced when he returned a few minutes later from yet another room, having learned something else intriguing about these tree dwelling people.
Throughout, Bildar made notes on various papers scattered about a small writing desk that he wheeled around the room as he moved back and forth. Seeing Farnor's curiosity he showed them to him. They were simple pictures of a human body, viewed from the front and the back and various other angles. Each view was peppered with dots, all of which seemed to be joined to one another by finely drawn lines, each bearing a legend of some kind in a neat but very tiny script. The whole effect was more than a little bewildering. Bildar made a half-hearted attempt at explaining the pictures, but abandoned it very quickly when Farnor's mouth started to drop open. Finally he sat down at a small desk and began slowly leafing through the papers, whistling tunelessly again.
Farnor, sitting on the edge of the couch where most of the prodding had been done, fastened his shirt and gazed around the room. Unlike the room in which he had eaten, this one was quite orderly. Such books as were to be seen were neatly arranged, and there were many pictures on the wall, though pictures was not the most appropriate word, he decided, as they seemed to be simply larger versions of the diagrams on which Bildar had made his notes. There were also one or two devices consisting of poles and pulleys and ropes that he chose not to examine too closely.
'Tell me what happened,’ Bildar said abruptly, laying down the papers.
Farnor looked at him suspiciously.
'What happened?’ Bildar repeated more insistently. ‘When you were beaten?'
Anger suddenly welled up inside Farnor. This was none of this man's business. He would find some way to repay him for his hospitality. But this prying was not acceptable.
Bildar was looking at him narrowly, then quite abruptly his authoritative manner vanished, and he began to flick through his papers again. ‘It's not that important, if you don't want to talk about it, Farnor,’ he said with a smile. ‘But you've been lucky. There's nothing seriously wrong with you. I thought so last night, but I wanted to make sure.’ He stood up and walked to a cupboard. ‘I've got some liniments and salves that will help to ease your stiffness and help mend some of the bruises and muscle damage.’ He retrieved a small bottle and a jar and handed them to Farnor.
Part of Farnor wanted to refuse them angrily, but he could not respond thus to such simple kindness. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered, taking the two items.
'That's for the bruising and that's for the stiffness,’ Bildar said, indicating which was which. He sat down again and leaned back, pivoting his chair on to two legs in a manner that, to Farnor's eyes, seemed quite perilous. Looking at Farnor shrewdly, he said, ‘It occurs to me too, that being a ... ground dweller ... you might find all the climbing you'll have to do round here quite a strain. You'll find the salve helps with that quite a lot.’ He nodded to himself, pleased with this small piece of cultural perceptiveness. Then he cocked his head to one side, and said conspiratorially, ‘Judging by the lack of noise, I think Edrien's finished the washing up. It should be safe to go out now.’ But he kept discreetly behind Farnor as they returned to the first room, as if anticipating some form of assault.
Edrien was standing looking out of the window, her shoulders hunched a little. Bildar smiled. ‘Ah, you've finished, I see,’ he said heartily. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't think I was going to be so long.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘But we had more to talk about than I'd thought.’ He turned to Farnor as if for support.
Finding himself in the middle of what was obviously a small private feud, Farnor gave an inconclusive movement of his head.
Bildar ploughed on. ‘Come back and see me if you have any problems with your injuries,’ he said to Farnor, adding with quiet significance, ‘Or anything else.’ He turned to Edrien. ‘You're going to show him round a little more, are you?’ he asked.
'Yes,’ she replied. ‘Then father wants to see him.'
Bildar nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘You've caused quite a stir, young man. I haven't heard the branches in such a twitter in many a year. Not since ...'
His reminiscence was interrupted by an angry hammering on the door.
* * *
Chapter 5
The door was pushed open roughly before Bildar could reach it. Silhouetted against the sunlit green background was a tall, hulking figure.
With a loud cry, Farnor leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over with a noisy clatter. ‘Nilsson!’ he shouted, half fearful, half challenging. His face was white and his eyes wide and staring, but in his right hand, glittering in the leaf-filtered sunlight, was the long-bladed knife that had killed his mother.
Edrien screamed and backed away hastily.
The figure in the doorway faltered, and immediately Bildar stepped forward to stand in front of him. Hesitantly, Edrien moved across to join him, though her eyes were fixed on Farnor, who was crouching, watching the intruder tensely, with the knife held unsteadily, but dangerously in front of him.
'EmRan, what the devil do you think you're playing at, crashing into my lodge like that?’ Bildar shouted angrily.
The new arrival ignored the complaint. ‘Where's this outsider, Bildar?’ he demanded, moving into the room, and forcing Bildar to step to one side.
Farnor looked at him balefully, and extended the knife further towards him menacingly. The man was tall and heavily built, not unlike Nilsson, and he was probably of a similar age, but though his face was angry and determined, his eyes lacked the chilling coldness that Nilsson's possessed. Farnor met his gaze unflinchingly.
'Nasty-looking piece of work,’ EmRan said after a moment, though without attempting to come any closer.
'You're no silver birch yourself,’ Bildar retorted acidly, taking hold of his arm. ‘Now perhaps you'd explain your disgraceful conduct.'
The big man seemed to swell with rage, but Bildar did not move except to straighten up in response. ‘You can explain to me now, or you can explain to the lodge Congress later,’ he added, as quietly resolute as EmRan was noisy. ‘But explain yourself you will.'
EmRan faltered, then snorted. ‘I needed to see—him!’ he said, levelling a finger at Farnor. ‘I needed to see what it was that had managed to sneak in and drive our Hearer away.'
'What you needed to do, EmRan, was rein in your temper and think,’ Bildar replied angrily. His tone became caustic. ‘Or should I perhaps stay silent in the light of your deep and profound wisdom; your ability to know their will in this matter; your apparent ability to see the future and know that Marken's gone for good?’ He began to shout. ‘I'd lay a fair wager that Marken's really gone off in search of a quiet place because he can't face listening to your ranting any more ...’ Edrien laid a hand on his arm, but he shook it off and continued his tirade. ‘Now, if you want to s
it and talk like a civilized person, then you're welcome to my lodge. I'll introduce you to our guest and you may sit and debate. Failing that, get out, or take the consequences!'
For a moment Farnor thought that EmRan was going to strike the old man but, as abruptly as he had entered, he spun on his heel and left, slamming the door behind him. The sword hanging behind the door swung from side to side, further deepening long-established scratches in the wood, as the sound of EmRan's heavy footsteps faded into the distance.
Farnor remained where he was, with the knife held out in front of him. Bildar looked at him intently. ‘Put that away,’ he said, eventually. ‘You're quite safe. Even EmRan's not that wild. And we don't point weapons at one another here unless we intend to use them.'
Farnor seemed unable to take his eyes away from the door. ‘I did,’ he said, after a moment. His voice was soft and unsteady, and not without some surprise. ‘I did,’ he repeated, as if to confirm his intention.
Bildar nodded. ‘I feared so, from the look of you,’ he said, quietly. ‘You looked terrified and terrifying. But he's gone now. Put it away. Unless you're going to use it on me or Edrien.'
Farnor's face twitched nervously at this rebuke and he made to put the knife back in his belt. It was no easy task as his hands were trembling violently. ‘Who was that?’ he asked, stammering a little as he forced his hands to be still.
Bildar made a dismissive noise, but Farnor noticed that he too was trembling and that Edrien was visibly shaken. ‘EmRan's a blustering loud-mouth who thinks he should be the lodge's Second,’ he replied, picking up the chair that Farnor had knocked over and returning it to him.
With an effort, Farnor forced his gaze away from the door. ‘I'm sorry, I don't understand,’ he said. ‘What's a Second? Why did he look at me like that? What was he talking about? What...?'
Bildar held up his hand to end the questions and then turned to Edrien. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
Edrien nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I think so. EmRan startled me, that's all, bursting in like that. I actually thought he was going to hit you when you shouted at him. Should I tell my father, do you think?'
