the poultice did its work, bleeding stanched. The keen forest air carried different smells, a pungency of cedar and perfumes of cilidur, vesnomen and elgerath. The last abounded in vines the size of houses or barns, spilling down from the trees in vast lattices. We took no time to study anything, Sivisal being in a rush and me dumbstruck. Everything was strange, green and beautiful, vaulted and awesome, and we rode forward through high leafy caverns whose size made our progress seem miniscule.
Wonder struck me when I saw my first duraelaryn, a high broad tree, the shade of which might have dwarfed Mykinoos. Duraelaryn grow only in Arthen Forest. We rode beneath their spreading branches for a long time, till we came to a grassy road marked with stone obelisks. We headed along the road toward the interior where the storm behind us hardly moved breezes. The horses frisked in the crisp air, the eerie forest light filtering down around us, almost hazy. Under the high canopy of the duraelaryn the forest floor is open except for grass and light brush, since little else can thrive in the shade. Here and there a long bright beam of sunlight slanted to the forest floor, illuminating shaggy falls of elgerath. It was the fourth sun, the amber light. Once we paused for rest beside a clear stream and I changed the dressing on Sivisal’s shoulder, washing off the old poultice with brandy and crushing a new one from fresh leaves. The wound had puffed and swollen purple, but a clot had begun to form despite the jolting from the ride. I packed the wound tight again, poor Uncle Sivisal grimacing and biting his lips. I bound the bandage tight, as before. He thanked me for my trouble with a face the color of new milk.
The stream was remarkable, I had never tasted water so fresh. Sivisal explained with some pride that the water fell straight from the mountains round Drii. This amazed me, because I had sometimes suspected Grandmother made up Drii. “Oh no,” Sivisal said, “It’s there. And the people who live there really do have silver skin.”
I finished tending his shoulder and we mounted the horses again, riding through the long afternoon. The unfamiliar posture was making me sore but I tried to endure it since I had no choice. Near dusk we came to a place where this road merged with another. Above the trees, a large shadow loomed, split and became two shadows, two carven seated figures, a man and woman, grand in demeanor. These statues were ancient wardens of the road, one a male and one a female priest, my uncle said. We stopped at the base of these monuments to wait, letting the horses graze in the cleared ground at the base of the massive statues. We made a fire for ourselves and had our supper as if we were expecting nobody, and I laid out my uncle’s bedroll, checked the dressing on his wound. I also fetched more brandy from his pouch. He watched me do all this with a kind of amusement.
I made his bed among menumen trees, their soft leaves hanging white and silken round his dark hair and swarthy complexion. Menumen is not a hardy type of tree and does not grow many places outside of people’s gardens. These were fine big ones that had recently bloomed, white petals strewn along the ground. Uncle Sivisal said he had not smelled that fragrance in years.
Evening chill set in and I wrapped myself in the plain blanket Mother had given me. I sat near the horses at the edge of the grove of trees. From that vantage I could see the priest statues and the road running off in three directions. Last light was on us and we waited to see what stars we would have. The red moon rose but the white one did not. In the south this is called “blood-time”, and people are said to commit strange crimes during it. Grandmother had explained to me we northerners are skeptical of this power of the red moon. Though one never knows what the skies will bring, as the saying goes.
Uncle Sivisal directed me to build a fire by the