yet lived. And dear Andor and big, laughing Vilmos. And László.
László. The King. King , he thought to himself. His master had owned ten times the land that László ruled, yet was called the name that means “Baron” in their tongue. Miklós shuddered as he thought of the power his master had wielded. An effort of will, and he could be miles away. A snap of his fingers and a hovel would burn and crumble and disappear as if it had never been.
And pitiful László called himself a King.
Miklós realized that he no longer feared László. What he had learned in Faerie was little enough next to those who had worked the fields beside him and insignificant next to his master, yet next to László he could be a god.
But as Miklós walked, and hummed, and listened to the sounds and smelt the smells of the Wandering Forest, this mood passed. László had always had a temper, and did things he later regretted. László had, in all probability, spent the last two years regretting that night. He probably believed Miklós dead and tormented himself with the thought.
No, punishing László was not what he had returned to do.
Returned to do?
He considered this thought. Where had it come from? Why the feeling that there was something that he needed to do? He had a
life to live. People to meet. Lovers to love. Maybe he could learn to climb mountains.
Then he remembered his dream of the night before and spent much of the rest of the day wondering.
MIKLÓS AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO A DRIZZLE OF RAIN that threatened to become a downpour. He quickly gathered his pack together and ran until he found a broad oak under which to take shelter. By mid-morning the rain ended, and the sun was glimmering through fat oak leaves.
Miklós began walking. He was well into the Forest by now. With each mile his mood seemed to shift; sometimes anticipatory, sometimes apprehensive, sometimes eager, sometimes ambivalent.
He had noticed this and was pondering it (he had always been introspective) when the woods around him became quiet. In the Wandering Forest it was no great feat of woodsmanship to notice the silence; it was a place filled with birds that piped, small animals that chittered, larger animals that growled. When they unceremoniously stopped the orchestration (leaving Miklós feeling vaguely stupid for having missed whatever message they had all received), Miklós stopped as well, listening intently and looking around.
On a branch of the oak nearest him sat an athyra with its thick brown plumage and hooked beak. A little way off, a teckla sat up on its back legs, motionless except for quick, furtive movements of its gray, whiskered head. Nothing else moved.
Miklós dropped to one knee so he wouldn’t tire of standing. He realized that he knew, as well as any of the other animals, that something was coming. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe. Gradually, though, he adjusted to the rhythm of the Forest—the tensionless waiting, the alert calmness.
He had been kneeling, motionless, for several minutes when it appeared, as a flickering movement through a thicket, far off to
the right of the direction he was facing. He watched it carefully, not wanting to move until he knew what direction it was safe to move in.
The teckla knew this before he did—it darted off to Miklós’s left. Miklós considered briefly, then followed. He glanced back, but the athyra hadn’t moved. He looked over to where the movement had appeared and had a sudden, clear vision of a monstrous head—narrow, triangular, and reptilian. He had never seen it before, but his stay in Faerie had taught him to recognize it. Three small tentacles, which Miklós knew to be sense organs, descended from its chin. There would be larger ones around its neck, but Miklós didn’t remain to see them. He raced off through the woods, hoping the teckla knew enough to pick a direction opposite the one the dragon would choose.
THE WANDERING FOREST WRAPPED ITSELF LIKE
László. The King. King , he thought to himself. His master had owned ten times the land that László ruled, yet was called the name that means “Baron” in their tongue. Miklós shuddered as he thought of the power his master had wielded. An effort of will, and he could be miles away. A snap of his fingers and a hovel would burn and crumble and disappear as if it had never been.
And pitiful László called himself a King.
Miklós realized that he no longer feared László. What he had learned in Faerie was little enough next to those who had worked the fields beside him and insignificant next to his master, yet next to László he could be a god.
But as Miklós walked, and hummed, and listened to the sounds and smelt the smells of the Wandering Forest, this mood passed. László had always had a temper, and did things he later regretted. László had, in all probability, spent the last two years regretting that night. He probably believed Miklós dead and tormented himself with the thought.
No, punishing László was not what he had returned to do.
Returned to do?
He considered this thought. Where had it come from? Why the feeling that there was something that he needed to do? He had a
life to live. People to meet. Lovers to love. Maybe he could learn to climb mountains.
Then he remembered his dream of the night before and spent much of the rest of the day wondering.
MIKLÓS AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING TO A DRIZZLE OF RAIN that threatened to become a downpour. He quickly gathered his pack together and ran until he found a broad oak under which to take shelter. By mid-morning the rain ended, and the sun was glimmering through fat oak leaves.
Miklós began walking. He was well into the Forest by now. With each mile his mood seemed to shift; sometimes anticipatory, sometimes apprehensive, sometimes eager, sometimes ambivalent.
He had noticed this and was pondering it (he had always been introspective) when the woods around him became quiet. In the Wandering Forest it was no great feat of woodsmanship to notice the silence; it was a place filled with birds that piped, small animals that chittered, larger animals that growled. When they unceremoniously stopped the orchestration (leaving Miklós feeling vaguely stupid for having missed whatever message they had all received), Miklós stopped as well, listening intently and looking around.
On a branch of the oak nearest him sat an athyra with its thick brown plumage and hooked beak. A little way off, a teckla sat up on its back legs, motionless except for quick, furtive movements of its gray, whiskered head. Nothing else moved.
Miklós dropped to one knee so he wouldn’t tire of standing. He realized that he knew, as well as any of the other animals, that something was coming. He had to keep reminding himself to breathe. Gradually, though, he adjusted to the rhythm of the Forest—the tensionless waiting, the alert calmness.
He had been kneeling, motionless, for several minutes when it appeared, as a flickering movement through a thicket, far off to
the right of the direction he was facing. He watched it carefully, not wanting to move until he knew what direction it was safe to move in.
The teckla knew this before he did—it darted off to Miklós’s left. Miklós considered briefly, then followed. He glanced back, but the athyra hadn’t moved. He looked over to where the movement had appeared and had a sudden, clear vision of a monstrous head—narrow, triangular, and reptilian. He had never seen it before, but his stay in Faerie had taught him to recognize it. Three small tentacles, which Miklós knew to be sense organs, descended from its chin. There would be larger ones around its neck, but Miklós didn’t remain to see them. He raced off through the woods, hoping the teckla knew enough to pick a direction opposite the one the dragon would choose.
THE WANDERING FOREST WRAPPED ITSELF LIKE
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