Cempa and the troop spent two, uneventful days picking over the remnants of the logging camp. On the third day, they left the logging camp behind and ventured into the forest.

Sir Wulfslæd and Leth led the horses through the undergrowth, crushing rotten wood and snapping saplings as they forced a path through the dense undergrowth.

A thin branch swished back, slapping Cempa’s helmet. He still hurt if he moved too quickly, but he’d stopped drinking Leth’s dubious brew.

Milde was less conservative, drinking enough mixture to remain tipsy for five days straight. Her cuts had gone much deeper than his, although he suspected her frequent sipping had more to do with bad dreams than physical injuries.

Cempa scratched an arrow on a tree, pointing back to the camp, “Sixty-three”.

“You say something?” said Milde, atop Anggret.

“What? Oh, nothing.”

Vaulting branches of oak, ash, and beech towered above him, weaving an elegant patchwork of light motes that trickled down to the musty earth.

“What are you thinking about Cempa?” said Milde.

“Stinking Bishop.”

“Never liked that cheese much.”

“A man’s courage is measured by the strongest cheese he can consume,” said Cempa.

“Do I look like a man?”

Not even the unflattering nature of her thick armour could hide Milde’s figure entirely. Cempa raised a single eyebrow.

“You shouldn’t stare at a lady,” said Milde. “You don’t have the charm,”

“Likewise, you brazen bumpkin.”

“Apologising to trees is weird too,” said Milde.

“Bollocks, you’re hallucinating. Too much ghastly concoction.”

“I heard you too,” said Clæfre. “Either way, you’re barking up the wrong tree, Milde only has eyes for the medicine man.”

“I’m not barking anything,” said Cempa.

“Yeah, it shows,” said Milde. She hiccuped and swayed.

Cempa glared. Dammit, when will they stop teasing me about Ellen? He retreated to the rearguard.

“Enjoying the view?” said Leth.

“Bloody miserable place,” said Cempa, dodging spiteful sapling.

“I like it. The forest is stunning. Normally, I can’t see magic unless I try. Now, it’s an effort to see enough of reality to walk straight.”

“What’s it like?” said Cempa.

“Before I came here, magic was a coloured heat haze or light that’s passed through stained glass, but in the Wúduwésten it’s a fog surging through the air, like breathing mist on a cold day.”

“Is it safe?” said Cempa.

“I’m not all knowing,” Leth grinned, “At least, not yet.”

Cempa marked another tree. Seventy eight.

“You’ve apologised seven times in the last two minutes.”

“I’m counting, not apologising.”

“If you say so. Maybe the ambient magic is messing with your head.”

Cempa shuddered, “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.

Leth laughed, then frowned, “Do you think we’ll encounter any more beasts?”

Kicking his feet through the leaves, Cempa said, “Bloody well hope not. I’d rather hide than fight another.”

“What about Mésia’s children?” said Leth.

“Hold that thought,” said Cempa. He pointed left at a straight space between the trees, “What’s that?”

“Let’s check it out.”

Cempa hacked at the undergrowth, “Damn bushes.”

They stumbled onto an ancient, paved road. It carved through the forest, never curving along its visible length. The stone slabs were huge, cracked, and flaking. Plants and saplings grew between the cracks and lush grass patches littered the road. A grime-choked ditch ran down either side.

Leth scratched away the detritus with a stick, “Check this out.”

Cempa crouched beside Leth. A thin line of yellow stone, covered in symbols, was embedded in the road. “Are they the same symbols as your staff?”

“They are Drýlic symbols, but I only recognise three of them.”

Cempa dislodged more weeds with the back of his boot, “The yellow stone appears to run the entire length of the road.”

“I wonder who built it,” said Leth.

“I’m more interested in why,” said Cempa. “Let’s fetch the others.”

Five minutes later, Cempa returned to the road with the troop following him.

“Quite the find, Cempa,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Which way shall we go?” said Clæfre.

“West, deeper into the forest,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

By early evening, the troop had made good progress, travelling almost ten miles along the decaying road, the occasional yellow milestone counting down towards a mystery destination.

“Are we there yet?” said Milde.

“The last marker had a three on it,” said Leth.

“Péton, why are your arms filled with plants?” said Clæfre.

“It’s wild garlic,” said Péton. “And a few other bits I found. Dandelions, nettles, sorrel. Doesn’t the smell give it away?”

“My nose is too full of horse,” said Clæfre.

“Those plants are huge,” said Leth.

“Everything here is big,” said Péton. “Besides, I nibbled on a few earlier and I’m not dead.”

“There’s the next stone,” said Mésia.

“I think that’s enough for one day,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “We can set up on the road. I don’t think we’ll obstruct anyone.”

The troop created their camp and settled around the fire.

Péton propped a large cast iron pot by the fire, “Where did you learn to fight, sir?”

“My family estate, Hramsacrop manor. My father taught me.”

“That’s unusual, I thought you’d been a page, then squire,” said Péton.

“While most noble families send their children to be educated at other households, my father didn’t trust others with my education.”

“Where others would seek to spread their fame and influence through their child, he chose to keep you by his side. He sounds like a good man.”

Sir Wulfslæd laughed, “It came from his confidence in himself, or perhaps a disparaging attitude towards others, rather than affection.”

“You have a story or two though, right, Sir?” said Clæfre. “Supper’s going to take a while with Péton chatting.”

Péton huffed, “I’m not that bad.”

“Tell us a story unfit for polite company,” said Milde.

Sir Wulfslæd’s lips lifted in a half smile, “You shouldn’t think so little of yourself, Miss Misthliþ.”

“Didn’t you have adventurous days?” said Clæfre.

“Like the ones we’re having now?” said Sir Wulfslæd. “I’m not that old.”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Clæfre.

“I would like to preserve a little of my dignity. Youthful escapades are best experienced, and told, when you are young, otherwise it sounds like little more than vanity.”

“I’d like to know how my mother and you met,” said Leth.

“Is now the best time for personal tales?” said Sir Wulfslæd.

Leth shuffled his feet.

“I want to know,” said Milde.

Sir Wulfslæd lay back against a huge tree and removed his gauntlets. He rubbed his hands and held them towards the fire. The troop followed his example and settled down. Péton passed various vegetables around the circle to be peeled and chopped.

The troop offered their food to the pot one at a time.

Sir Wulfslæd stared at the fire, “I’ve never been an arrogant man, but I used to feel a modicum of entitlement. When you can have almost anything, it’s easy to lose sight of what matters, or understand the value of hard work.”

Leth and Milde shuffled a little closer.

“Although my father’s instruction was a challenge,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “It was less arduous than surviving from one meal to the next. I was aware of my privilege, yet oblivious to its significance. I was a typical minor noble.

“I often accompanied our steward into town, ostensibly to learn the art of trade, but often ran off to meet Edern, who’s now the Earl of Éabrig. We’d chat and stuff as much good food into our mouths as we could manage.

“The Éabrycg market was a close community and my family were major customers. I knew all the traders and they knew me. If I wasn’t eating iced buns with Edern, I’d talk to the stall owners instead. Everyone was friendly, but I was old enough to know who was genuine, and who was hoping for patronage.

“Like many stories, this one starts with encountering a beautiful woman. While you may want to jump to the noble conclusion that, in the end, she taught me the reality of the world, we never knew each other long enough for that to happen.”

Péton banged his spoon on the pot and stirred the venison stew. The evening birdsong began in earnest.

“Her name was Quenyeve Hewse and she was a dyer. She had her own stand at the market and lived by herself above a small workshop along the riverbank. Quenyeve was nineteen when we first met.

“She had straight black hair, all the way to her waist. Quenyeve was slight, about five-three. Her skin was pale and always covered in splashes of vibrant colour. She often resembled a gaudy princess, or a badly-painted doll. Even with her ambivalent attitude to her own appearance, Quenyeve was enchanting, ælfscíene even.

“I often spent more time talking to the stands hosted by women. Quenyeve was the one I talked to the most. Even though I never bought anything from her, she was polite and listened to my endless chatter, but rarely offered her own life for discussion.

“It wasn’t love at first sight, and neither did we immediately find ourselves talking for hours, engrossed in each other. Our acquaintance was a series of short exchanges over many months.

“When I was twenty-three, I left the estate to meet with Edern for the summer solstice celebration in Éabrig. Everyone wore animal masks, I can’t remember why. It was a magnificent party, with free food and drink on huge tables, laid out in the high street.

“I saw Quenyeve standing alone in an exquisite kestrel mask. I knew it was her because she’d painted her hands to mimic talons with tiny gold scales and deep black claws, but the mismatched green splotches on her bare arms gave her away.

“We ate and drank together and spoke late into the night. I offered to take her for a midnight ride through the countryside, yet even with the most herculean of flirtatious efforts, I couldn’t persuade her to accompany me, although there was a little smile on her lips the whole time. The best I managed was to escort her home, I couldn’t even steal a kiss on her doorstep. She was most apt at thwarting my advances.”

Péton passed the stew around the circle. Sir Wulfslæd paused his tale for a few thoughtful chews. Leth studied his finger nails with remarkable intensity.

“It wasn’t until that September I persuaded her to accompany me on a picnic. I won’t elaborate further, but three months later she was pregnant with Letholdus. My father was furious, not because I had made a girl pregnant, but because I wanted to marry her. I’d always been told to do the right thing, but apparently that didn’t apply to freemen or serfs.

“I insisted and she came to live with us. We had our wedding. Edern was the only person who made an effort to welcome her. The rest of my family pretended she wasn’t there. My father spent the whole day in his suite and refused to let Quenyeve’s family onto the estate.

“A week after Quenyeve gave birth, she disappeared. Whether she left because she was unhappy, never cared, or my father removed her, I’ll never know. I came back from supervising the estate and she was gone. A month later my father decided I was an insult to the family, gave me a horse, twenty sceattas, shoved Letholdus into my arms, and told me to get out of his sight.

“I spent most of the money trying to find out what happened to Quenyeve before I realized I needed to do something about my situation. I spent a year as a farm labourer before setting myself up as a tutor.

“It was a humbling experience, and helped me understand why Quenyeve had been so reluctant to become involved with me. I often wondered during that year what would have happened if she’d kept saying no. Perhaps she’d never have disappeared and I could have continued to speak to her. My life would have been very different.

“I returned home twelve years later for my father’s funeral, where a solemn clerk with a fistful of official documents said I wouldn’t be inheriting. I’d expected as much, but it is quite another to hear that your own father holds you in such little regard he is unable to pass on anything to his only son.” Sir Wulfslæd sighed, “Well Letholdus, that’s how I met your mother.”

“I don’t know what to say,” said Leth.

“Then save your words for when you do,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“That was a good story,” said Clæfre.

“Makes you more human,” Milde said. “Bringing a baby up on the road is impressive.”

“Thank you Misses Misthliþ and Misthliþ,” said Sir Wulfslæd. He glanced and Leth, “Although I feel my efforts may have imparted a lifelong hatred of goat’s milk on my son.”

“Did you ever find out what happened to Quenyeve?” said Mésia.

“No. It was as if she’d never existed.”

“How can someone disappear in the middle of the day, surrounded by scores of people without leaving a trace?” said Péton.

“Ask Weard,” said Cempa.

“I never said my wife was a scoundrel, Cempa.”

“Sorry Sir, that’s not what I intended. He always knows about the implausible, I’d be curious to hear his understanding.”

Milde said, “With a reception like that, I reckon she ran off. Love fills limited gaps.”

“She had a child,” said Clæfre, “and sounded fierce. I suspect foul play.”

“You are being awfully free with my personal history,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“Speculating about your boss’s personal life is a time honoured tradition,” said Péton.

“Then do so out of earshot,” said Sir Wulfslæd.

“I wish I’d met her,” said Leth.

“So do I,” said Sir Wulfslæd. “Quenyeve would have been a wonderful mother.”

“I’m going to examine the milestone,” said Leth.

*

Leth squatted by a yellow stone, his staff across his knees. The stone was two and a half feet high and fabricated from the same smooth stone filling the centre line of the road.

Its most prominent marking was the symbol for two, but it was also covered by many Drýlic marks, similar to the ones carved into the road. The stone pumped out a steady yellow fog that spiralled out, swirling into a whole pallet of colours as it spread.

“Hey Cempa, can you come here?”

Cempa approached, mouth half-full of stew, “You alright?”

“I’m fine. I didn’t expect him to open up like that though, he’s never done that before.”

“Don’t give it too much thought.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“That’s what parents are for, to give us thick skins, so when the world shits on us, we don’t get bogged down.”

“Weard’s analogies are prettier than yours, but thanks for trying.”

“If you want an agony aunt, you can speak to Péton or Clæfre, although the latter might tell the whole troop.”

Leth chuckled.

“What do you need?” said Cempa.

“Can you see anything in the air above this stone?” said Leth.

“Not a thing.”

“The stone is spewing so much magic, I thought you might be able to see it. I was hoping you’d have an insight.”

Cempa pointed, “What about that central line down the road? Maybe it’s a pipe of some kind.”

“I hope not. I do not want to meet a society that can build a large, magic network, let alone design an entire new set of symbols to make it work.”

Cempa shrugged, “If it isn’t trying to kill me, I’m not interested. You’re the scholar.”

“Humour me,” said Leth. “If you were, what’s the first thing you’d do to investigate?”

“I’d prod it.”

Leth tapped the top of the stone with his staff. It chimed like a bell. The high pitched, clean sound, sent a shiver down his spine,“That was weird.”

“You tapped a magic stone with a magic stick and expected something normal?” said Cempa. “It made a pretty sound, what does that tell you?”

“Lots of resonance suggests high purity and unimaginable flawlessness. It’s almost certainly artificial. What next?”

“If you can work out how it was made, perhaps that will help with why,” said Cempa.

“I think it was poured into a mould.”

“How would you do that?”

“It feels like glass. I could heat it and see if melts.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Not a good idea. What happens if I damage it? Something bad could happen.”

Cempa levered a cracked paving stone with his belt knife, “I don’t think anyone is going to complain,” he said.

“Maybe something small then.”

Leth played out the pattern for heat on his staff and pointed it at the stone. Nothing happened. He checked his staff to see if he’d tapped the wrong symbols, there wasn’t anything wrong with his Drýcræft. The trees rustled as the wind picked up.

A huge inward rush of air staggered the horses and toppled the troop, sending bowls and buttocks spinning. Leth dropped his staff.

The forest ignited.

“I didn’t mean that hot,” said Cempa, skin aglow from the flames.

Leth lay face down in the leaves. He felt like he was bathing in a molten crucible. Smoke began to smother the troop.

Water, I need water. His staff glowed a dull red. I need to hurry.

Wishing he’d kept his gloves on, Leth licked his fingers and whisked his hands over the symbols, salt and soot crusting on his exposed hands and face. The air stilled and crackled. Leth’s breath frosted. The trees and flames turned to ice like upright icicles. The world went white. His staff hissed as it cooled.

“Now we can skate the rest of the way,” said Milde, coughing up black phlegm.

“Was that you?” said Mésia, her voice trembling. The troop picked themselves up. Péton tried to calm the skittish horses.

Leth snapped off an icicle and wrapped his burnt hands around it, “Cempa.”

“Aye.”

“No more experiments until we’re out of the forest.”

“An excellent idea.”