‘Steady, boy!’ A hand seized him and shook him vigorously. He looked round to see Edrien, her face shocked. ‘What in the Forest’s name is the matter with you?’ she said. ‘Haven’t you had enough falling for one day?’
Farnor did not answer, nor did he make any effort to free himself from her unexpectedly powerful grip.
Edrien shook her head in bewilderment. ‘You look awful,’ she said, again almost sympathetic. ‘Do you want to go back to the root room and rest some more?’
The vision of the return journey, across the platform and down the ladder, took away most of what was left of Farnor’s speech. ‘No,’ he whispered hoarsely, shaking his head violently. ‘I’m fine, really. I Just felt a little dizzy.’
‘In you go then, if you’re sure.’ Edrien opened the door by which they were standing and ushered him through.
The inside of Derwyn’s lodge proved initially to be even more disorientating than the outside. Not because its shape followed the eccentric contours of the exterior, but rather because it did not. In many ways, Farnor felt that he could have been stepping into nothing more unusual than the entrance porch of an ordinary cottage. A large and exceptionally well-appointed cottage, he had to concede, but an ordinary cottage nonetheless.
He had no time to debate however, as Edrien’s guid-ing hand shepherded him along a short passageway and thrust him through an open doorway. Two men were sitting by an open window. They both stood up as Farnor entered. He noticed immediately that the one who stepped forward to greet him was obviously Edrien’s kin. There was a look about the eyes and the jawline that was quite distinctive. The similarity ended there, however, as the man’s face was lined and weather-beaten, and, though oddly light on his feet, he was heavily built, in marked contrast to Edrien’s slight frame. Farnor looked at him uncertainly, his mind too full of questions to formulate any one of them clearly.
The man smiled. ‘My name’s Derwyn, young man,’ he said pleasantly, pulling round a chair and gently easing Farnor into it. He indicated his companion. ‘And this is Bildar, our Mender. He’s been looking after you since we brought you back.’
Farnor half rose to greet the other man, but a quiet gesture returned him to his seat. ‘Are you feeling a little better now you’ve had a chance to rest?’ Bildar asked.
‘He’s very wobbly,’ Edrien said, before Farnor could reply. ‘He seems to have quite lost his tree legs.’
Farnor scowled at this intervention, but Derwyn’s smile broadened. ‘I’ve a suspicion that perhaps he’s never had tree legs, Edrien,’ he said. ‘Strange though that might sound.’ He sat down again and turned his attention back to Farnor. ‘But first things first. Are you hungry, young man? And do you have a name?’
Farnor hesitated, almost expecting Edrien to answer for him again. ‘I’m a little thirsty, sir,’ he said eventually. ‘And my name is Farnor, Farnor Yarrance.’
‘Farnor Farnor Yarrance,’ Derwyn echoed. ‘Two names the same, that’s unusual. Is that always the way with your people?’
Farnor looked flustered. ‘No sir,’ he said, hastily. ‘It’s just Farnor Yarrance. Farnor is my given name, Yarrance is my family name.’
Derwyn nodded slowly and thoughtfully, as if he were having a little difficulty taking in this information. ‘Ah, a sirename,’ he decided. ‘And do you have a stock and branch name, or a tree dubbing?’ he went on, expectantly.
Farnor gaped.
‘Apparently not,’ Derwyn concluded, after a brief but awkward silence. He glanced up at his daughter. ‘Ask your mother to join us, would you, Edrien? And bring us something to drink.’ He glanced at his companions.
‘Just water for me – and for Farnor, I think,’ Bildar answered. Derwyn nodded, and Edrien left the room, a hint of indignation in her posture.
Derwyn and Bildar smiled at one another know-ingly.
Farnor glanced about the room. There was nothing about it to indicate that it was built in a tree, high above the ground. Except for the occasional mysterious bulge here and there, the walls were quite straight and plain. Strangely, to Farnor’s eyes, the ceiling was not lined with beams but was flat. It was also decorated with a complicated pattern of leaves and branches. In places, Farnor thought that he could see birds and tiny animals worked into the ornate pattern.
He recollected himself with a start. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, flustered. ‘I’ve never seen a room with a painted ceiling before.’
Derwyn nodded. ‘Where’ve you come from, Farnor?’ he asked abruptly.
Farnor lifted a hand as if to point, then after gazing round futilely for a moment, lowered it again. ‘From the village,’ he said, vaguely. ‘But I don’t know where it is from here. I’m afraid I don’t know where I am.’
‘How did you come here, then?’ Derwyn went on.
‘I… I… rode north,’ Farnor replied, stammering unexpectedly. As he spoke, he felt waves of alarm passing through him. He leaned forward and wrapped his arms about himself.
‘Are you all right?’ he heard Bildar asking.
He nodded. Then he shook his head. ‘No. Yes. I don’t know,’ he said uncertainly.
Bildar was by his side, a cool hand feeling his fore-head. Gradually the surge of panic receded into the depths from whence it had come. ‘Yes, I’m all right now – I think,’ Farnor said, after a moment. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what…’ His voice tailed off.
‘You’ve had some kind of a nasty shock, I’d say,’ Bildar said, sitting down beside him. ‘But whatever’s…’
Some pent-up wildness within Farnor was released. ‘Shock!’ he heard himself crying out, his voice cracking with an almost childish incredulity. ‘My parents murdered, my home burned, me beaten like a dog – and then pursued by…’ He wrapped his arms about himself again and began to shiver violently as some other, darker compulsion welled up inside and silenced him. Gritting his teeth, and driving his fingers painfully into his arms, he forced himself to stop trembling.
Derwyn and Bildar, both standing by his side now, were looking at him in horror. Derwyn’s arm was extended to warn Edrien, who was standing with another woman in the doorway, not to enter.
‘He has no fever. Nor any contagion that I can find,’ Bildar said, in answer to the unspoken question on Derwyn’s face. He touched his own temple discreetly. ‘But he seems to be appallingly troubled. We must be patient with him. I think perhaps we can do nothing but tend him until he can find the strength to speak of what’s happened.’
‘Don’t talk about me as though I weren’t here,’ Far-nor said angrily.
A flash of reciprocal anger lit Derwyn’s face, but Bildar laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘I apologize,’ he said to Farnor, before Derwyn could speak. ‘It was ill-mannered and thoughtless of me. A Mender’s way, I’m afraid. But you’ll understand, I’m sure, that you’ve come to us as mysteriously as if you’d dropped out of the sky. Almost like something out of an ancient tale. Your appearance and your speech tell us that you’re not Valderen, or even of the Forest, and suddenly you talk of the most fearful happenings. We’re concerned for your pain, as we would be for one of our own, and we’re concerned for what your pain might mean for us, if evil things have driven you from your home and land, Farnor Yarrance.’
Farnor put his head in his hands but did not reply.
Derwyn frowned thoughtfully, then crouched down in front of Farnor. ‘Tell us what you can, when you can, Farnor,’ he said. ‘You may stay in our lodge until your body’s truly rested, and your spirit’s more at peace.’
Farnor looked up sharply, his face riven with con-flicting emotions, greatest amongst which was anger. Gradually however, he seemed to gain control of himself again. ‘Thank you, Derwyn,’ he said, his voice subdued. ‘I seem to be full of dreadful thoughts and feelings that I’ve never known before. I’m sorry. I can’t stay, I have nothing…’
Derwyn rested a hand on his arm. ‘For such time as you need to recover yourself, you’ll be our guest, Farnor,’ he said. Then he straightened up and affected a heartiness which, in truth, he did not feel. ‘I’ve no doubt that as you get better we’ll find some chores to keep you occupied.’