A Dream of the Heaven

Chapter 17 (Part 2 of 2)

The travellers fairly flew the next morning.  Every mile at the canter felt like recompense for the few hours of sleep Isendrin had snatched, a price demanded by the god of the high road.  There probably was such a god worshipped somewhere on the continent, he thought, though not in Haruyen.  The gods of the forest, flitting through the branches on the breath of the wind, vine-wreathed bows in hand, would hardly accept such an interloper.

He could almost see them, despite the growing dark, as the three of them at last left the high road and turned north for Tentruar.  Isendrin had walked in forests of birch trees in Emmares, up in the hills splitting Roethenna from Northshore, but none so close as the Birchwood.  Every white trunk around them fought silently for each inch of space, weaving their branches amongst those of their neighbours to throttle them, never realising that they were doing the same.  Then the wind would rise and the birches would cling together, remembering again that they were of one seed, and that the real enemy was below them, on the little stony road, slicing through their embrace.  Isendrin glanced up: the branches stretching towards one another on either side never quite met, but their shadows crawled over the road.

As the sun fell, smoke appeared ahead.

“This will be the real Haruyen.  A proper village, not like the high road,” he heard Imlon whisper to Temith.  Whenever they had raised their voices over the last few miles, the Birchwood had hissed back at them.

For a disturbing moment Isendrin thought he could smell the heavy burning odour of Monruath, but where in the city it was coarse and crude, here it was dark and rich, charcoal mixed with the earthy sweetness of the silver birches and the barest promise of roasted red meat.  The Haruyese did not whisper to the trees: the first notes of reeds, drums and voices, men and women, came mingled with the wind, and as if walking through a door the travellers found themselves amongst log houses and halls, each surrounded by rocky gardens filled with chrysanthemums and the last fading lavender of the year. The streets were empty, but the nearby inn, source of the music, was probably not.

Fifteen minutes later, their horses were stabled, their rooms were purchased, and supper had been ordered.

“What are they singing about?” asked Temith in raised voice, as Isendrin sipped at a glass of water.  The windows of the handsome inn could have burst at the volume of the musician’s rolling harmonies, mixed with the revelry of the many drinkers.

“I’m not sure,” said Imlon, “I only have a little Haruyese.  Let me listen a moment.”

Isendrin watched his brother staring intently through a crowd of dancing patrons at the singers.

“So?  Lovers under the leaves?” he said.  “Some bowman going out to claim his damsel?”

“No,” said Imlon.  “Something about a bear...oh, no, there’s a bowman.  Yes, the bowman’s shot the bear.”

Isendrin could have guessed himself: the dancing men had incorporated the movements of firing a bow into their reel.  One patron staggered over comically with an invisible arrow in his chest.

Their food, roasted partridge with chestnuts, arrived soon afterward.  Isendrin picked at it with his knife, watching the dancers as he chewed each morsel.  Young women, their coifs only hiding a little of their long hair, golden and brown, danced readily with any number of well-built, well-bearded men, before returning to their seats and happily continuing the evening.  Something similar might happen in south-of-the-wall taverns in Monruath, but he hadn’t seen them.  Even if he had, the innocence wouldn’t have been the same.

He finished his water, and returned to the host to fetch another.

“You’re an Emmaressian?” asked the host, leaning forward.