When traveling along the Old Forest Road, caution is of the utmost importance. No beggar is just a beggar, and robbers, murderers, and rapists lurk in the shadows of the forest, as it is not under the jurisdiction of any civilized kingdom. If you are wealthy enough, hire some mercenaries to guard you. And if you are not, pool your coin for a reliable guide.
Setch Selvin, A Traveler's Guide to the Known World
As Gwanor's horse traversed the narrow path, he looked around in frustration. It had already been three days, and they had still barely covered the path to Faerie Caverns. The road was winding and difficult to follow, in some places, a narrow plank of wood stretched over a stream or chasm, in others, a broad gravel path wide enough for the two of them to walk astride. But according to Rosebud, they were making good time, and so he supposed he ought not to complain.
The thick canopy of trees hung over the road, blocking out most of the light. Although it was dark, Gwanor was grateful for the absence of the midday sun beating down on them.
Now they were on a cobblestone path that looked to be part of a farm house. The trees parted here, letting a little more light in, allowing Gwanor to discern the foot of the Liliweth Crags. At least, that was the name according to the maps he had looked at.
"Are you sure we have to go up there?" Gwanor asked. Already, his thighs were chafed and sore from the long ride.
"Unless you want to add a week to the trip by going around," answered Rosebud, steering her pony elegantly towards the sheer cliff.
Gwanor studied her face, wondering at the change. The forest had caused a peculiar shift in her personality. She seemed more comfortable, more alive here. Any discrepancy in the path seemed not to dismay her, but to excite her. Her careful manner of speech and expression had vanished, replaced with a hardiness he had never seen in a woman. But they always did say Noor women were almost as fierce as their men.
Still, he was fairly certain they did not remove their headscarves in the presence of men they were not married or related to. And her long black hair was flying free of the green silk headdress.
He shook his head to clear it of these thoughts, then led Saberdè up the rickety path that led to the crags. Saberdè was a light tan color, a small southern breed. Saberdè meant "sharp blade" in Sylhalla, which Gwanor thought was a pretty stupid name for a horse. Still, he was hardy, and what he lacked in speed he made up for in endurance, keeping up when Rosebud's elegant white stallion lagged behind.
As they rose above the trees, the high winds beat at their faces, sending gusts of cold wind into the valley below. The crags were sharp and harshly beautiful-if Gwanor had ink and paper he would have sketched their wind-battered silver rocks.
When they reached a ledge, Rosebud drew her white to a stop. Gwanor did the same, then hurriedly mounted Saberdè again to follow her across a very narrow stone bridge. This high up, the air was thin, and mist hung around the bridge, obscuring the other crag from view. He made the mistake of looking down, then gulped. Even the tallest of the trees were far, far below them. Only cold air and the bridge, which seemed very, very small, were preventing him from falling to his death.
I can't do this. He considered calling back to her, demanding they find another way. He was the prince, after all; she would have to obey. But she would think him soft and cowardly if he could not even cross a bridge. A very narrow bridge that looked as if the smallest gust of wind could collapse it.
You have to do it. There really was nothing for it. Nervously, he edged Saberdè onto the bridge. He snorted, skittishly tramping the stone. Cursing, Gwanor yanked the reins hard, then, careful not to look down, he cantered Saberdè across. By the time he got to the end, his heart was pumping like he'd just run a race and his hands were slick with sweat on Saberdè's reins. But he had not fallen to his death, and that was a comfort in itself.
Rosebud was waiting for him there. "What took you so long?"
He adopted a tone he hoped sounded relaxed and hastily changed the subject. "Where are we going?"
She shot him a curious, piercing look, and then gestured at the other side. Gwanor saw it for the first time-a large hunting lodge, similar to the one his father owned in the Eastern Reaches. Only this one seemed to be built into the side of the cliff, and in the style of a lord's castle, with battlements and tall spires. As they got closer, however, he saw that it was made of wood, not stone, and poor-quality wood at that, soft oak that would have not looked out of shape on a farmer's hut.
"What is this place?" he asked apprehensively.
She ignored his question, leading her horse off the bridge towards the house. Shaking his head with exasperation, he followed her through the ornate archway that signified the end of the bridge, then stopped when he saw the men, dressed in drab peasants' garb, waiting in front of the building. They carried guardsmen's spears and upon seeing the two of them, hefted them threateningly. Yet Gwanor was not much impressed; the "spears" looked to be sharpened pitchforks, hardly great weapons, and the nervous way the men looked around made them betrayed their lack of experience.
Robbers, then? Is this a thieves' den? Some of the more fearsome bandits had hideouts in the forest, and it would certainly explain the style of house; many of the bandits regarded themselves as lords. But the "lodge" looked a little too large to be a petty thieves' hold. What if they're slavers? Or mercenaries? And why the hell is Rosebud so comfortable with this place? For she was speaking with the guards in familiar fashion, and gradually they lowered their weapons. He was too far away to make out what they were saying, though, but she was pointing at him as if to say, He's with me.
The vast oaken door of the house opened, and a tall man walked out. Unlike the others, he wore a long sword on his hip, and something in the muscular grace of his motions told Gwanor he knew how to use it. He wore his brown hair long, and despite his rough brown tunic and peasant's trousers, he carried himself like a prince. He had high aristocratic cheekbones set in a long, handsome face, and as he got closer to where Gwanor stood, he could see the brilliant blue of his eyes. Who's this fellow?
That's when he loosed his sword from his scabbard. Oh, shit. Rosebud said something to the man, grabbing his arm, but the man continued to march all too purposefully towards Gwanor.
Gwanor hastily mounted Saberdè, ignoring Rosebud's shouts to come back. Fear of being impaled made him bold, despite the horse's insistent whinnying, he urged him back across the bridge, first into a canter, then into a dead run.
I'm almost there-Oh, no...On the other side, men emerged from behind rocks, armed with bows and arrows. Furiously, he whirled Saberdè around, but then the swordsman-Where did he come from?- was there and his head met the pommel of the sword. A blinding pain shot through him, his grip on the reins slipped, and the stone of the bridge rushed up to swallow him.
