Arn and his father walked in silence for a time., and he was grateful for it. The road soon reached the riverbank, and there were no more trees between them and the river. It flowed northward, and its waters were clear and shallow. It was louder now, overcoming the other sounds and folding them unto itself, creating a melody of water, trees, and birds. The music released something deep within Arn, a thing he hadn't noticed gripping him tightly. He breathed easier, and the forest air filled him with bright freshness and life.

"This part of the Hillside way, where it follows the riverbank, it is my favourite," his father said. When Arn looked at him, he saw an expression akin to his own, though there were other emotions present which he couldn't yet recognize.

Along the opposite bank were curved trees with long branches that stooped low to the ground, overhanging the water and touching it sometimes. They had no leaves, but along the branches were countless white flowers.

"It's where the Snowy river gets its name," his father said. There is an old poem about the White Willow. Let me see if I remember it.

"The white willow which bends over the river

Her limbs reach for the clear stream

When all the trees slumber for winter

The white willow flowers and blooms

Snowy petals fall from its branches

They glide on the water as it flows

None knows where the petals venture

None but the wind, and she's silent now."

When his father finished the poem, Arn noticed the white petals on the water, bobbing with the waves as the river flowed past them. It did remind him of snow a little. He smiled. "I've never heard that poem before," he said.

"It doesn't sound quite right until you're standing right here, with the petals before your eyes," his father replied, and they continued onwards for another hour. By then, the sun had passed the midpoint of its journey across the sky. Arn noticed a few small trails leading off from the main road and into the forest.

"We might as well stop for lunch, I mean to reach the bridge by nightfall, and we'll have to pick up the pace for that - some food and rest will revitalize us - come," his father said and lead Arn to one of the trails. Soon they entered a clearing, pine trees standing tall on all sides of them. The water's song was dim now, buffeted by the woods, and the stillness returned. Arn thought that he heard a distant croaking sound, though it was so faint he wasn't sure it was real. At the center of the clearing stood several thick wooden logs and a ring of stone with burnt wood inside it. A campsite, Arn realized.

"We won't be cooking just yet. So for now, let us sit and eat the dry meals we have packed - though, perhaps I can make some tea first," Arn's father said, "yes, I think I will indeed make some tea," he added.

While his father prepared, Arn took out his dry meals consisting of meat jerky, assorted dried roots and mushrooms, and put it all on a wooden plate. Meanwhile, a small metal pot sat on a bed of bright coals and steamed lightly. His father used one of the firelighters to get the coals going. It was a stick-like instrument with a clear stone at its end and inscriptions in the old tongue covering its handle.

Arn never used one himself, though he was taught that it only required a bit of Esarel channelled through it to heat up the coals.

"Very good, very good - here you go," his father said and handed Arn a wooden cup with polished metallic inline. "Hold it up, carefully. The water's hot."

"Yes, I can see the steam," he replied while holding the cup. A small tea pouch was already in it, and it released a sharp, earthy aroma as the hot water filled the cup. The scent fit perfectly with the forest, and Arn couldn't imagine drinking the tea anywhere else, not in a town at any rate. They sipped the tea slowly and loudly as it cooled.

"The Black Warden is it," his father said suddenly, catching Arn off guard. "I don't know why we haven't told you children of him, or how you didn't hear of it sooner."

"What is the Black Warden?" Arn asked.

"Not what, who," his father said, then sipped the tea.

"Who, then?"

"A man, probably. If he isn't a myth, he is likely a man - was, rather," Atrel added.

"Was?"

"It's an old legend, Arn. Not as old as some tales from the distant past of our people, but it is old enough for he who inspired it to be long gone from this world."

"What about back at the town? They said he came back."

"I don't know, but I doubt it was him, probably a misguided youth dressed up to impress or someone pretending to be the Black Warden for whatever misguided purpose."

"You really think so?" Arn asked.

"Sure, why not."

"That doesn't sound like a full answer."

"Since we never told you and your sister or any of your cousins, you should hear the story for yourself and then judge."

"Of the Black Warden?"

"Yes."

"Alright."

"Perhaps not just yet, though," his father looked up at the sky. The sun was getting closer to the horizon. "We make it to the bridge by sundown, and I'll tell you."

"Well, that's not fair at all! You just implied you'd tell me now."

"Is it? I guess the wilderness isn't always fair," his father said, then smiled and began putting away the few things they'd taken out, "let's go, Arn, time to move," he added.

True to his word, his father did pick up the pace. They soon left the forest, and the Hillside road now wove through expansive white plains. It diverged from the river, though still passed close enough to see and hear the water. Arn looked back at the forest behind them and the Zekasar Ridge, which stretched across the western horizon. The mountains were pale blue and purple with distance, but they still towered over everything else. The Mountainview bridge appeared in the distance a short while later. A few fires already burned nearby. Another campsite, Arn thought.

"Come now, it's three miles farther at best, and we need to pick up the pace once more if you are to hear the tale of the Black Warden," his father said and hastened his steps.

"It better be a good tale!" Arn replied, starting to get out of breath as he hurried after his father.