Chương 57: Chapter 36: Into the Wild - Part I

Morning arrives long before the sun does. By the time the first hint of light begins creeping over Fallowspire's eastern walls, I am already tightening the final strap across my satchel. The grove remains quiet around me. Dew clings to the grass beneath the Heartwoods while the Silverwood towers silently overhead, its pale leaves barely stirring in the morning breeze. Even after weeks beneath its canopy, the sight still carries a quiet sort of comfort. Last evening had been considerably less peaceful.

The grove family, as others have begun calling it, had gathered beneath the Silverwood as it usually did whenever the day's work came to an end. There had been no grand announcement or carefully planned discussion. One conversation had simply led to another until, before long, everyone found themselves sharing how the day had unfolded. Aibell spoke first. The bakery had offered her a position almost immediately.

She tried very hard to sound composed while explaining the work, though the smile she wore betrayed her long before the words did. Ciara looked genuinely pleased for her. Merrow merely nodded once, as though she had expected nothing less. Then Ciara shared her own news. Merrow had offered to take her on as an assistant while she learned the craft properly. Five copper a day to begin with, increasing once she would manage the work independently.

The evenings would remain her own, allowing her to teach the district's children if enough families proved interested. Aibell declared that someone in the grove had finally developed common sense. Ciara responded by informing her that bakers were notoriously poor judges of intelligence. The discussion somehow deteriorated from there. Even Merrow smiled. Eventually, Garrick cleared his throat. The conversation quietened almost immediately.

He admitted that, while standing watch upon the city walls that afternoon, he thought he had sensed mana. Only for a moment. Barely enough to notice before the feeling disappeared again. Everyone understood what it meant immediately. Progress, small; patient and earned, just like it should be. No loud celebration or cheers followed the announcement, only quiet acknowledgment, just as Garrick likes it. Naturally, they eventually asked about my own day. I told them about the contract.

The smiles disappeared somewhat faster than I would have preferred. Aibell frowned almost immediately.

"Several days?"

"Probably." She folded her arms.

"You say that as though it explains everything."

"It explains most of it."

"It explains absolutely nothing." Across the clearing, Ciara sighed with the weary patience of someone who had already anticipated exactly how the conversation would unfold.

"How many days?"

"Five or six, assuming the reports are accurate."

"And if they aren't?" she asked. I considered the question honestly.

"Longer." Neither answer appeared particularly reassuring. Merrow, fortunately, approached the matter rather differently.

"If the forest north of the farms contains marshland, collect whatever herbs you don't recognize." I looked toward her.

"You assume I'll have spare room."

"I assume you'll make room if they're interesting enough." That sounded suspiciously like confidence. Fortunately, nobody attempted to stop me. Now, standing beneath the Silverwood, I find the grove exactly as I hoped it would become. Quiet; peaceful and alive. I rest one hand briefly against the smooth bark before turning toward the eastern gate. The contract would wait for no one. Neither, unfortunately, would whatever have been killing livestock north of Fallowspire.

The eastern gate has only just begun admitting travelers by the time I reach it. A pair of guards stand beside the half-raised portcullis, stopping the occasional merchant wagon long enough to glance through its cargo before waving it onward. Most of the morning traffic consists of farmers returning to their fields outside the walls and traders hoping to reach the next village before midday.

One of the guards recognizes me almost immediately, offering a respectful nod that I return before continuing through without interruption. The air feels noticeably cooler beyond the walls. Fallowspire's stone ramparts disappear behind me as the road stretches northwest between broad fields of barley and oats waiting for harvest. Morning dew still clings stubbornly to the crops, giving the countryside a pale sheen beneath the rising sun.

Wagons have already carved deep ruts into the packed earth over the years, leaving two familiar tracks that wind steadily toward the distant hills. The road bends gently around a small orchard while another wagon creaks steadily toward the next village. Ahead, another wagon creaks steadily toward the next village while a flock of birds lifts suddenly from the fields at the sound of approaching wheels. I settle the satchel more comfortably across my shoulder without breaking stride. The weight feels balanced.

Rations, waterskins, rope, medicines and the contract all remain exactly where I packed them yesterday. There is a certain comfort in knowing everything has its place. The same could be said of the grove. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. The thought lingers only briefly before habit quietly takes over. Years spent wandering have taught me that roads reward attention far more generously than reflection.

The countryside beyond Fallowspire is familiar enough for the first several miles. Farmers have already begun their work despite the early hour, their voices carrying faintly across the fields whenever the wind happens to shift in my direction. Every so often another traveler passes, exchanging the sort of brief nod reserved for strangers sharing the same road. The morning passes at an easy pace. I have never found much value in hurrying during the first hours of a journey.

The body settles into its rhythm gradually, much like a campfire finding its strength after the first spark. A pace that feels effortless in the morning often proves considerably wiser by evening than one driven by unnecessary enthusiasm. Vael insisted upon teaching me that lesson repeatedly until I finally stopped trying to prove him wrong. He was, irritatingly, correct. The road begins climbing shortly before midday.

The farmland grows less frequent as cultivated fields give way to broad meadows where sheep and cattle graze beneath the watchful eyes of their shepherds. Beyond them, clusters of oak slowly replace the neatly planted orchards surrounding Fallowspire. The trees remain sparse for now, scattered widely enough that sunlight still reaches the ground between them, but the landscape has already begun announcing the forest long before its edge comes into view. I stop only once.

A narrow stream crosses beneath the road, clear enough that the rounded stones lining its bed remain perfectly visible beneath the water. I fill both waterskins before kneeling beside the bank to rinse the dust from my hands. The water tastes clean. Cold enough to suggest its source lies somewhere higher among the northern hills. If the streams remain this healthy farther north, Liora's warning will prove overly cautious.

Experience, however, has taught me that streams have an unfortunate habit of changing their minds. I remain there only a few minutes before continuing. The road itself offers little reason for concern. Horse droppings have not yet dried beneath the morning sun. A broken wagon wheel leaves its distinctive pattern through a stretch of softer ground before disappearing once the road hardens again. None of it requires particular attention. Even so, I find myself noticing each detail almost without thinking.

Vael once told me that surviving the wilderness rarely depended upon seeing extraordinary things. It depended upon noticing ordinary things before they became extraordinary. At the time, I thought he was being deliberately cryptic. Several years later, I realized he had simply been right again. By the time the sun reaches its highest point, the road has grown noticeably quieter.

The last merchant wagon disappeared behind me in the direction towards the nearby village, nearly an hour ago while the occasional farmstead now sits much farther apart than before. The breeze carries different sounds here. Less of conversation and more birdsong. Somewhere deeper within the trees, a woodpecker strikes steadily against hollow bark while insects hum lazily among the tall grasses lining the roadside. Civilization has not disappeared. It has merely begun loosening its grip.

By midafternoon, the road narrows noticeably. The deep wagon ruts that had accompanied me since leaving Fallowspire gradually become shallower until, eventually, they disappear altogether beneath a surface of packed earth and scattered stone. The road itself remains well maintained, though only because enough people still travel it to keep nature from reclaiming it entirely. Grass grows along the edges.

Wildflowers sway gently wherever the wheels no longer reach and low shrubs have begun creeping closer with each passing season. The farms become equally scarce. The broad fields surrounding Fallowspire give way to smaller homesteads separated by stretches of woodland that grow steadily larger the farther north I travel. Stone walls replace wooden fences while livestock remain noticeably closer to their homes than before. One farmer pauses in the middle of repairing a gate to watch me pass.

Another stands upon the roof of a barn replacing weathered shingles before lifting a hand in greeting. I return the gesture. Neither of us slows. Travelers are common enough along this road that conversation is unnecessary. The sun continues climbing overhead until the warmth finally persuades me to stop beneath the shade of an old oak standing a short distance from the roadside. The tree must have been centuries old.

Its trunk is so broad that three grown men would struggle to encircle it while its branches stretch wide enough to cast a welcome patch of shade across the surrounding grass. I remove the satchel and lean it carefully against one of the exposed roots before sitting beside it. Lunch has never been a particularly complicated affair on the road; hard bread; smoked venison; a handful of dried apples. Enough to satisfy hunger without encouraging laziness afterward. I eat quickly.

Years of uncertain travel had taught me to eat when the opportunity presented itself rather than waiting until hunger became difficult to ignore. The wilderness possessed remarkably little sympathy for poor timing. A pair of crows lands several paces away almost as soon as I finish. They watch me with open curiosity, heads tilting first one way and then the other as though hoping I might have overlooked something edible.

"I've already checked." One of them caws indignantly.

"I believe you." Neither appears convinced. I brush the remaining crumbs from my hands before standing once more. The crows wait until I shoulder the satchel before immediately claiming the patch of ground I had just abandoned. Their persistence earns the faintest shake of my head. Scavengers rarely waste opportunities. Neither should travelers. The afternoon passes quietly after that. Clouds drift lazily across an otherwise clear sky while the road begins climbing almost imperceptibly toward the northern hills.

The forest grows denser with every mile. Oaks give way to towering pines whose straight trunks rise high overhead before disappearing into a canopy that muffles both wind and birdsong. The air itself feels different here. Cooler and richer with the scent of damp earth, pine resin and fallen needles slowly returning to the soil. By the time the sun begins its gradual descent toward the western horizon, I have seen only two other travelers since leaving the old oak.

Both were heading south and neither looked eager to return north again. I make a quiet note of that. On its own, it means very little. Taken together with the increasingly empty road, however, it is another small detail worth remembering. The wilderness rarely announces danger all at once. More often, it whispers through a hundred ordinary things until someone finally stops to listen.