- Feb 12, 2007
In the forest it was late Summer: the path a dancing dapple of sunlight amidst birdsong and the background rustle of leaves.
In the forest it was always late Summer.
Unvisited by other seasons, the great belt of the Greenswathe encircled Garth, last city of High Men within the Circle Mountains, perhaps the last in the world. Now Sigurd, said to be the oldest of oaks, had sent for me, although there was never any sense of urgency in his communications, as if the sentinel lived life at an entirely different pace.
I raised the apple I was eating by way of salute. “Summoned, I came.”
The voice that issued from the malformed knothole was a low growl. “Havardr, by the Black Falls, sent word of one who spoke to him without speaking. Havardr is now silent. There may be danger.”
“Spoke without speaking? Did he say anything else about who this was?”
“It was a—” Sigurd lapsed into a long melodious flow, typical of their descriptive terms.
I half-turned my head, raised my voice. “Cuyler, I have need of your ears.”