of going south to other Hathrim cities, Hearthfire Gorin Mogen was moving his people north. All of his people. To where?
I doubted that he would be so foolish as to make landfall on Forn, though we should be wary of it regardless. Desperation can drive anyone to madness. Or maybe it wasn’t mad; if he planned to cut down our trees and return south, the potential income from such a timber raid might be significant enough to finance the building of a new city. Panic seized me at the thought. We didn’t have any thornhands up here in the north since the Hathrim timber pirates typically attacked our southern shores, so who could stop him? I couldn’t do it all by myself.
That branch, I decided—I hoped!—was unlikely. He wouldn’t conscript his entire population into piracy and risk them against our defenses. I mentally leapt elsewhere: the vast stands of pine on the north slopes of the Godsteeth were unguarded by the Nentians and represented unthinkable riches. What if he landed there, clear-cut as much as he could ship, and then sailed south to start anew? The death cries of the trees would be horrible, but I don’t think the Canopy would move to prevent it, and that might be the same calculation Mogen already made. I could hear the arguments of the cautious now: We should not risk our roots for trees outside our borders. If the Nentians cannot be bothered to worry about their resources, why should we? It is Forn we are pledged to protect, a fact no one can dispute, and so the Canopy will allow an unspeakable desecration and I will have nightmares and feel the bite of axes in my limbs for weeks after it happens. My eyes fill up just thinking about it.
The trees from our side of the Godsteeth would be even more profitable, of course, and we would need to patrol the passes in great numbers to make sure the Hathrim never harvested so much as deadwood without permission.
When morning came, they extinguished their fires and I could see nothing, sunlight glinting off water and distance disguising details. But there was no question that this had to be reported to the Canopy. Greensleeves up and down the coast needed to know about this, and if the Hathrim were heading for Ghurana Nent, the Nentians needed to be warned, too. They might not care as we did about the clear-cutting, but they would care about their borders being breached.
The details and the thinking cannot be communicated well by root and stem, so I am on my way to report to Pont in service to the Canopy, breaking my journey to record this and spade a small meal down my throat, dangling my feet over the edge of the Leaf Road. No doubt some other greensleeves will be there, adding their branches of understanding to the problem. With any luck, Pen might be well enough to travel now and meet me at the Second Tree. I would be proud to introduce her to everyone. And if I can convince the Canopy to defend the northern slopes of the Godsteeth from wholesale slaughter, I will.
—
A flash, a cloud of green smoke, and Nel Kit ben Sah dissolved all too soon. The bard bowed to Survivor Field, saying, “More from Nel tomorrow. But now I must introduce you to Gondel Vedd, a linguist at the Senn College of Languages at the University of Linlauen in Kauria. Please excuse his initial appearance—he will clean up nicely later, I assure you.”
Once Fintan cast down his next black sphere, a Kaurian man, mildly stooped and on the edge of elderly or, to be charitable, in very late middle age, looked around in wonder. He was bald on top, his remaining hair was white and unkempt, and he had a mustard stain on his tunic. He didn’t look particularly brilliant or heroic but did have a quick intelligence in his eyes. His voice surprised me; it was a high tenor but strong and confident.
A hammering fist on the door woke me after a fitful two hours’ sleep, and it was still black as tar in my rooms. I’d stayed up until my last candle guttered out, reviewing ancient texts on the origins of the Rift—again—and my eyelids felt weighted and sticky as if someone had poured honey on them as a practical joke. “Gondel Vedd! The mistral requires your counsel!” a voice boomed, followed shortly thereafter by more pounding. Apparently