Roger Taylor - Valderen

Edrien nodded knowingly. ‘And you thought that was made out of… pot?’ she said to Farnor, indicating the figurine.

‘Yes,’ Farnor replied, reaching out to take the plate that Bildar was offering him. ‘It reminded me of an ornament we had at home. I remember my mother was very upset when…’ He stopped abruptly, as a rush of memories took possession of him. He felt a tightening in his chest and throat. Bildar watched him carefully and Edrien’s eyes flicked unhappily between the two of them again, searching for guidance. Breathing deeply, Farnor ruthlessly crushed the memories. That time had gone now. It had no place here, or anywhere, ever again. All that mattered now was to survive so that he could pursue his intention to destroy Rannick. ‘She was very upset when my father broke it,’ he said, coldly and dismissively.

Edrien looked relieved, but Bildar frowned slightly. ‘Eat, the pair of you,’ he said tersely, after a slight pause.

They ate their meal in comparative silence, while Bildar sat nearby and surreptitiously watched Farnor closely. ‘How do you feel now?’ he asked, when they had both finished.

Edrien belched loudly, making Farnor jump and calling a reproachful look from Bildar. She apologized insincerely, with a laugh.

‘I feel much better,’ Farnor said, more restrainedly, and patting his stomach. He moved cautiously in his chair. ‘But I’m still full of aches and pains from…’ He stopped.

‘From the beating you told us about?’ Bildar said.

Farnor nodded.

‘I’d like to look you over again, Farnor, if you don’t mind,’ Bildar went on. ‘Just to make sure nothing serious has been done to you.’

Farnor did mind. Even Gryss was someone he used to avoid if he was unwell. He preferred to do as the animals did, namely, retreat to a quiet place and lie still until he was well again. Now however, as in the past, he was trapped by circumstances. Previously subject to the will and cunning of his parents in such matters, he was now subject to the concern and hospitality of his new hosts; not to mention that hint of taunting that seemed to flicker occasionally into Edrien’s eyes. ‘Whatever you say,’ he conceded, with as good a grace as he could manage.

Bildar shepherded him into another room, after asking Edrien if she would clear the table and wash the dishes. She hesitated for a moment, and gave him a dark, narrow-eyed look before she finally stood up and began gathering the dishes together.

It was against a distant background of irritably clunking dishes, rattling cutlery and splashing water, that Farnor submitted to Bildar’s examination. His eyes were peered into. Muscles were poked and prodded and massaged. Limbs were moved up and down, then from side to side, and pushed and pulled, and twisted this way and that, all while Bildar whistled softly and tunelessly to himself. Occasionally he gave a click or a noncommittal but knowing grunt, or he asked a question: Did this hurt? Did that? Can you feel this? How many fingers am I holding up? Have you passed any blood?

This latter reminded Farnor of something else.

‘No,’ he announced when he returned a few minutes later from yet another room, having learned something else intriguing about these tree dwelling people.

Throughout, Bildar made notes on various papers scattered about a small writing desk that he wheeled around the room as he moved back and forth. Seeing Farnor’s curiosity he showed them to him. They were simple pictures of a human body, viewed from the front and the back and various other angles. Each view was peppered with dots, all of which seemed to be joined to one another by finely drawn lines, each bearing a legend of some kind in a neat but very tiny script. The whole effect was more than a little bewildering. Bildar made a half-hearted attempt at explaining the pictures, but abandoned it very quickly when Farnor’s mouth started to drop open. Finally he sat down at a small desk and began slowly leafing through the papers, whistling tunelessly again.

Farnor, sitting on the edge of the couch where most of the prodding had been done, fastened his shirt and gazed around the room. Unlike the room in which he had eaten, this one was quite orderly. Such books as were to be seen were neatly arranged, and there were many pictures on the wall, though pictures was not the most appropriate word, he decided, as they seemed to be simply larger versions of the diagrams on which Bildar had made his notes. There were also one or two devices consisting of poles and pulleys and ropes that he chose not to examine too closely.

‘Tell me what happened,’ Bildar said abruptly, laying down the papers.

Farnor looked at him suspiciously.

‘What happened?’ Bildar repeated more insistently. ‘When you were beaten?’

Anger suddenly welled up inside Farnor. This was none of this man’s business. He would find some way to repay him for his hospitality. But this prying was not acceptable.

Bildar was looking at him narrowly, then quite abruptly his authoritative manner vanished, and he began to flick through his papers again. ‘It’s not that important, if you don’t want to talk about it, Farnor,’ he said with a smile. ‘But you’ve been lucky. There’s nothing seriously wrong with you. I thought so last night, but I wanted to make sure.’ He stood up and walked to a cupboard. ‘I’ve got some liniments and salves that will help to ease your stiffness and help mend some of the bruises and muscle damage.’ He retrieved a small bottle and a jar and handed them to Farnor.

Part of Farnor wanted to refuse them angrily, but he could not respond thus to such simple kindness. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered, taking the two items.

‘That’s for the bruising and that’s for the stiffness,’ Bildar said, indicating which was which. He sat down again and leaned back, pivoting his chair on to two legs in a manner that, to Farnor’s eyes, seemed quite perilous. Looking at Farnor shrewdly, he said, ‘It occurs to me too, that being a… ground dweller… you might find all the climbing you’ll have to do round here quite a strain. You’ll find the salve helps with that quite a lot.’ He nodded to himself, pleased with this small piece of cultural perceptiveness. Then he cocked his head to one side, and said conspiratorially, ‘Judging by the lack of noise, I think Edrien’s finished the washing up. It should be safe to go out now.’ But he kept discreetly behind Farnor as they returned to the first room, as if anticipat-ing some form of assault.

Edrien was standing looking out of the window, her shoulders hunched a little. Bildar smiled. ‘Ah, you’ve finished, I see,’ he said heartily. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think I was going to be so long.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘But we had more to talk about than I’d thought.’ He turned to Farnor as if for support.

Finding himself in the middle of what was obviously a small private feud, Farnor gave an inconclusive movement of his head.

Bildar ploughed on. ‘Come back and see me if you have any problems with your injuries,’ he said to Farnor, adding with quiet significance, ‘Or anything else.’ He turned to Edrien. ‘You’re going to show him round a little more, are you?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ she replied. ‘Then father wants to see him.’

Bildar nodded. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘You’ve caused quite a stir, young man. I haven’t heard the branches in such a twitter in many a year. Not since…’

His reminiscence was interrupted by an angry hammering on the door.

The door was pushed open roughly before Bildar could reach it. Silhouetted against the sunlit green back-ground was a tall, hulking figure.

With a loud cry, Farnor leapt to his feet, knocking his chair over with a noisy clatter. ‘Nilsson!’ he shouted, half fearful, half challenging. His face was white and his eyes wide and staring, but in his right hand, glittering in the leaf-filtered sunlight, was the long-bladed knife that had killed his mother.