The men kept their blankets but Persephone and Suri put the others back. Raithe also took the metal shield that had fallen during Grin’s attack. Remarkably light, it was decorated with the same fancy circles and designs as those on the walls of the rol. Raithe offered to draw straws with Malcolm for it, but the ex-slave declined. He preferred the spear and needed both hands to wield it.
A morning mist filled the forest. In the days he and Malcolm had spent in the Crescent, Raithe had seen it many times, but the haze was still unnerving. There were no forests in Dureya, and the few trees that managed to grow were stunted, emaciated things. He’d grown up in open, rocky highlands of grass and lichen-covered stone, and it felt unnatural to be surrounded by trees and wrapped in fog. The haze further supported Raithe’s belief that they were walking in a perilous world of guarded secrets and murky mysteries. Trees appeared and faded in the mist as if by choice—silent watchers, sentinels of spirits and gods. Caught early enough, the waking forest had no time to disguise itself into something mundane. This was a place of enchantments, a place where anything could happen.
Suri led them back through the falls and up to the ridge, taking time to explain where they had gone wrong. The mystic pointed at trees as if one could be distinguished from another. When she was done all three nodded, even though Raithe remained clueless. By the time they returned to the cascade, the mist was in full retreat and lingered only in isolated low-lying areas.
The men’s bodies were gone. Persephone scanned the rocks with apprehensive eyes. Raithe created a mental list of who or what might have taken the men: spirits, more wolves, Grin the Brown, Wogan, or perhaps the inhabitants of the dahl. That last one troubled him, but his empty stomach concerned him more. He wanted to ask Persephone if she intended to make good on the promise of a meal, but he refrained. They hadn’t spoken much that morning. The quiet of the wood demanded silence.
When at long last they cleared the tree line and returned to the open field, all of them except Suri gained a spring in their step. Once more the blue of a peerless sky stretched above, and the unhindered face of the sun shone down. The great wooden wall of Dahl Rhen crowned the hill of spring flowers. Wet grass soaked their legs as they climbed the slope where already Raithe could smell food. As they neared the top, a horn announced their approach.
“That’s an all clear, right?” Raithe asked Persephone.
She nodded, holding the hem of her dress up and exposing sodden sandals speckled with bits of grass. “It would be two blasts for an alert and three for a call-to-arms threat.”
“Same as in Dureya,” he said.
Persephone nodded, smiling.
“I’m just so glad to be back. I don’t think I’ve ever missed this place so much. It feels like I’ve been away for a year rather than only a day. A long and incredibly frightening year. I’m going to sleep well tonight.”
Suri stopped. “I expect you can find your way from here, ma’am?”
“Yes, Suri.” Persephone rolled her eyes. “I don’t think I can get lost within sight of my home. But won’t you please come in with us? The least I can do is get you a meal. You saved my life. You have to let me do that much.”
The girl hesitated, then glanced at Minna. “What do you think? Their food was pretty good.”
“Come. Eat. Spend the night,” Persephone told her. “You can leave fresh in the morning.”
The girl whispered to the wolf, “One more night won’t make us touched, Minna. But if you see me wearing shoes, bite me.”
Raithe discovered that Dahl Rhen was nothing like Dahl Dureya. Inside, the village was huge and packed with roundhouses built with the luxury of logs sealed with daub. The thickly thatched roofs formed tall, cone-shaped peaks. Torches lined gravel paths that snaked between the homes, and a broad gravel avenue ran up the center of the village to the lodge and the common well. Filling gaps between dark-soil gardens were fire pits and woodpiles.
Woodpiles!
In Dureya, wood was more precious than metal. Here, the villagers burned it even though it wasn’t night or winter. The series of vertical logs surrounding the village were crucial for protection, and even inside, wooden fences bordered gardens. Probably the only way to keep the goats and pigs out. Along with chickens, the animals wandered freely underfoot. Raithe checked Minna, but the wolf paid no attention to any of the livestock and stayed at the mystic’s side.
Dominating everything was the lodge. The huge building sat in the middle of the dahl at the opposite end of the gravel pathway. Perched on a foundation of stone, the big wooden house was four times the size of Dureya’s lodge. Squared beams braced the peaks and framed great doors. Pillars formed by binding together the trunks of six giant pine trees stood on either side of the porch.
On the left side of the path leading to the lodge, two braziers flanked a stone statue of a god. The sculpture stood only three feet tall and had vaguely human features dominated by large breasts and wide hips. Dureyans had their own gods, the Mynogan, who were actually three gods—the gods of war. Dahl Rhen’s god looked friendlier.
There were more people there than Raithe had ever seen gathered in one place. As many as a hundred walked the pathways, worked the well, or tended gardens. Most were women and children. One of the few men he saw was a potter, a cripple who sat huddled over an odd spinning table, shaping wet clay.
A cripple? Raithe pondered this. How wealthy is this place that it can afford to feed a cripple?
His answer was visible in the healthy faces of those around him. In Dureya, those who survived the winter looked like skeletons. These men and women were downright pudgy. Well dressed, too. Done up in neatly tailored tunics, thick woolen leigh mors, and breckon mors large enough for double folds. Most of the clothes were dyed or patterned in one fashion or another, and Raithe felt embarrassed for his crude leather and thin checkered cloth. His shame was compounded by all the stares greeting them.
Raithe had expected looks. Everywhere he and Malcolm went there had been stares, but these were more pronounced. The people of Dahl Rhen dropped gourds filled with water and bundles of wood. One stared so hard that he walked into a fence post and nearly fell. Those working on roofs climbed down, and those swinging mattocks in the garden stopped. Everyone watched in shock as if the members of his group each had three heads and a tail. What surprised Raithe was that they weren’t restricting their attention to Malcolm and himself. As Persephone led them up the gravel path toward the lodge, people stared at her most of all. And there were whispers, lots of whispers, her name muttered more than once.
They were nearly to the lodge’s steps when a woman called from a roundhouse’s doorway. “Seph!” She frantically motioned them closer. “Where have you been?”
Persephone gestured toward the woman. “Raithe, Malcolm, Suri, this is Sarah. The one I told you about. She’s one of Rhen’s best weavers. Her husband, Delwin, is—”
Sarah grabbed hold of Persephone’s wrist and pulled her inside. The men and Suri followed. The roundhouse’s wall was covered in paintings, and the room was filled with rich wool. A spinning wheel and a large loom dominated the space. Inside were two more people: a young woman working a spinning wheel and a girl beside her, carding wool. Both stopped their work the moment the group entered.