Early rays of light welcomed Lyrua when her eyes opened the next morning, but the welcome was burned away by the uncomfortable tugging heat of the wind. Images of tyranny within Manataklos dangled in her mind’s eye, the people caged within the steel pen of its walls. The visions fled her conscious thought as she rubbed her eyes.

She was laying in the grass behind the giant maple. Lander and Fourstaile were nowhere to be seen, but Ove had Athen naked in a wooden washtub. The raven perched on a branch above him, scanning the trees, while he scrubbed himself in the meagre bath.

“What happened to Fourstaile?” Lyrua brushed leaves off the blanket before folding it.

Athen smiled broadly at her. “She said her coconut went away when she woke. She went with Lander so we could bathe.”

“Cocoon,” Ove corrected him.

“Her cocoon,” he said, picking up a towel he had carelessly left in the grass. He stepped out of the washtub to dry himself.

Lyrua lifted the side of the tub to dump the old water. “Help me fill the tub, Athen.”

He tied the string on his fresh trousers and ran over to her. She spent a few minutes guiding him through the spell, gathering mana from the moisture of the woods, even from the old water in the grass, and letting it ripen until he released it in a heavy cascade that filled the tub over the brim. He had more talent for Water than she did, so it was really just practice for him.

As soon as her last piece of clothing was off, Ove swept them up and took Athen aside to help her with the washing. Lyrua lifted her leg to step into the tub, but a cruel realisation came to her mind that tangled her with hesitation. The bath would be cold, and she did not have servants attuned to Fire to warm it. She would have to refill the bath with water warmed in a kettle.

“Ove,” she said, turning. “I am not about to take my bath cold. Can you start a fire and get a kettle?”

Ove’s beak clacked as her head turned crookedly to look at her. “If I had a kettle large enough for a bath, your water would be hot and you would be day dreaming in it.” She turned back to the washing, chirping under her breath. “Not to mention the spank-ings we would get from Four-staile if we set a fire in the woods.”

It was true—not so much the spankings— but Lyrua would not want to harm the woods by setting a fire in the brush. She kicked the tub, spilling water. Who took a cold bath? In autumn no less. Even the poor had kettles for heating bath water. She plodded through her reluctance and stuck her foot into the tub. It was cold. Goosebumps sprang up on her arms and legs. Did she hate the cold more than she hated the dirt? Even the hair under her arms had dirt in it. She recoiled from the smell. Any longer, and even Lander might begin to smell her.

She climbed into the tub, barely holding in an embarrassing squeal as the icy water shocked every thought but the cold from her mind. Curled into a shivering ball, she stared blankly into the woods. Another twisted mass of wood caught her eye, and for a moment she forgot the chilling bath. Just like the last, it had a large knot that flowed with water. It reminded her of depictions of Skoverdant, as a colossal weeping stag of wood, with trees for legs.

As soon as her shivering abated she washed herself with the bar of perfumed soap Athen had used, lathering as quickly as she could to get it over with, and then stepping quickly back out of the tub. The cold air chilled her damp skin beyond what the water alone could have and she thought of just getting back into the tub. Ove’s large and warm towels were a blessing.

Wrapped in the towel’s shielding embrace, she examined her belly. Even the thick towel did not hide it now. She tried to make herself believe that when the baby came, they would be in a place of comfort, not some cold woods somewhere. They would be in the ruins of Marden Teradon. It had once been an obscenely massive city that stretched across the entire continent. A city to challenge the greatness of Manataklos. One of the secluded towns that hid scattered amongst the ruins would be their new home. A modest, safe life with her babies.

She dressed herself quickly to be rid of the cold, but her blouse stuck to the dampness of her back and invited the chill into her skin. Her cloak would have to do to keep her warm.

Athen brought her a basket of fruit from Ove, and they sat in the grass together to eat while Ove pressed water out of their fresh clothes with Air. Lyrua stared at Ove’s cloak as the small ravenfolk worked. She had been fascinated by the cloak before; the way its sheen matched her feathers as if they were the same, while the edges of the cloak melded with the shadows as it fluttered in the wind. Like a bridge between Ove and the Dark, extending both into each other.

A sharp snap sounded from the trees and Ove’s head turned suddenly. She glared into the woods as she tucked the folded clothes away. It was Fourstaile and Lander, crunching loudly through a carpet of dried leaves. Ove compelled Lander to help her separate the tub so she could put it away and they returned to the Sydway with Athen gladly carrying the fruits basket.

It was a colder morning than yesterday, so she was glad for the shelter of her cloak. Not just for the cold, but for the semblance of safety it gave her in a wood that still seemed to be watching them. It was worse than Kraesten’s leering.

“The forest feels different,” Athen said. He stared east into the brush ahead of them so intently that he tripped and stumbled into Ove.

“It does,” Fourstaile agreed. “Skoverdant sees us.”

“What does that mean?” Athen asked. “Have we made him angry?”

“Skoverdant doesn’t get angry,” Fourstaile explained. “As the avatar of the forest, he is only capable of feeling gentle emotions like tranquillity, or sadness.”

Athen cooed. “I want to make sure he is not sad. Does he mind if I pick flowers?”

“He won’t mind anything that doesn’t do great harm,” Lander said, patting the boy on the head.

Athen held out the basket to Ove so she could empty the fruits from it.

“That’s a fruits basket, it isn’t for flowers,” she said, taking the basket from him. She gave him a deep one with a strap he could hang around his neck instead, and he set about plucking every flower he could find.

“Do not go anywhere near those monkshoods,” Lyrua warned. They kept a close eye on him, but he did not go off the path at all if there were monkshoods in sight, and even still he quickly had a bounty of over a hundred colourful blossoms.

They passed through a deep stretch of shade cast by the rising sun, and a tall figure in the road came into view, standing alone in the sunlight beyond. Lyrua recognized Kraesten’s lanky form, eerily staring in their direction.

He waved to them. “Good morning!”

“Keep your distance.” Fourstaile waved him away.

The spellbreaker spun energetically to follow them as they passed. “You smell quite fresh this morning, Sermeledy.” He winked at her. “Find a spot for a bath somewhere out here?”

“Behave yourself.” Fourstaile spat her words at him. “If you don’t want Nickel to feed your blood to the woods.”

Kraesten raised his hands defensively. “Alright, alright! Don’t wither your roots.” He breathed deeply. “Truth is, the woods have me a bit fretful this morning. They feel… wary. I’ve not gone mad have I? I was afraid to go any closer to that feeling. Not alone, and not without my silver sword.”

“What makes you think it isn’t Skoverdant?” For all their previous chatting, Lander watched the spellbreaker with one hand poised on his hilt.

“I told you, I saw Skoverdant. It was not like this.”

“You believe that because you’re ignorant,” Fourstaile said. “Skoverdant’s emotions run through these woods like a current. If you have enough mana and the right mind to sense that current, then you know what he feels. Yesterday, he was not so wary.” The forest groaned to punctuate her words, as if all the trees leaned in to listen at once.

Athen looked all around, as if searching for something. Or following something. A hot wind blew over them, carrying with it overwhelming intent. Lyrua followed her son’s gaze, finding it locked on the treetops where branches animated by the wind twisted into each other. The wind urged them south. Athen raised his basket of flowers and the wind seized them, carrying the hundred blossoms into the trees.

The wind roared, pushing them with a force they could not disobey. The branches of every maple and oak bent south to relay the wind’s command.

Lyrua took Athen’s hand as she turned from the twisting forest to run south. Earth tore from the ground to mingle with dry leaves in the air. She had to shield her eyes with her arm to see. Ove was torn from the ground and sucked helplessly into the trees, her Air spells less than a breath against Skoverdant’s agitated exhalation.

Fourstaile had to root herself with every step to stay on the ground, and quickly fell behind. Lyrua looked back in time to see the Highward swallowed by lurching trees as the forest closed in behind them, whirling and gnashing like a gluttonous maw.

She never felt any intent but urgency from the Eddying Woods as it forced them forward, but her fear of its power quickly turned to rage as Athen was pulled away from her by the force of the wind. Lander caught him out of the air, and her heart surged with relief, but then Kraesten was blown over, rolling and tumbling along the writhing earth. Her feet were torn out from underneath her, and she shielded her stomach with her arms. Pain shot through her head as it hit the ground, and she was quickly tossed back into the air. She could not concentrate enough to tell where Athen was.

The forest was above her now, and as she fell, she made out the head of Skoverdant. She met his eyes, large twisted knots of wood overflowing with sparkling streams of clear water. She sensed no malice from him, only respect and concern. She could feel that she was no enemy to him, but he did not want her in his woods.

Whatever understanding she almost reached with him was knocked out of her as her back hit the ground and dirt crowded into her mouth. The hot wind tossed her like another dried leaf, and she began to lose track of how long she was spinning through the air. She could only pour her Light into her arms to keep them from breaking as she cradled her stomach.

She crashed into something, and another eruption of pain wracked her body. She fell, but her leg was caught, and she swung down painfully, her momentum broken as her forehead collided with bark. The wind ceased, and the forest fell quiet, except the gentle murmur of running water.

She vomited, and the bile ran up her nose and into her hair. She gasped for air, trying to force her nose clear. She found little solace in the bile in her nose telling her how she was hanging. She ignored her blurry vision and spinning head, and bent upwards to reach the branch where her leg was caught. She struggled to free herself, tugging her boot fruitlessly to dislodge it. She gave up and undid the laces.

Her foot slipped free, and she fell a few feet to land on something soft, like rich earth under a bed of leaves. Water poured over her face, drenching her, but rinsing the dirt from her mouth and the muck from her nose. She coughed up water as the stream receded, and the colossal head of Skoverdant stared down at her. His visage was of a stag woven of the living forest, the leafy branches twisting out of the top of his head as lush antlers. A hundred small blossoms decorated his face.

She sensed a gentle sadness from him. Sadness for her. The understanding returned to her, that he had not intended to harm her, but felt urgently that he did not want her in his woods. His presence was soothing and warm, easing the aches in her body until most of her pain was gone.

He laid her down gently on the forest floor, and his head unravelled, leaving only thick tree branches and a gentle sprinkling of water. She rolled over and pushed herself to her feet. Her boot lay in the dirt next to her. She was in a very small clearing on the Sydway, just a small bulge in the path. A large sphere of steel was in the clearing with her. It was horribly dented, and even cracked in some places.

She knocked on it. “Lander!”

“Mother!” came a cry from within. The sphere crumbled away, revealing bare-headed Lander holding her son protectively inside. Athen leaped into her arms so Lander could stand, and he quickly moulded his metal back into his armour.

She squeezed her boy tightly until he tried to push away.

“Why are you soaked?”

She did not let him go. Instead, she sat, pulling him down to cradle him in her lap. Relief brought tears to her eyes, but her cheeks were still hot with anger. “I was afraid I was going to have to burn this forest to the ground.”

“Skoverdant was very nice actually,” Athen smiled. “He thought we might bring trouble into his woods, you know. I wish we had not worried him.”

“Only you could call the rage of nature ‘nice’, lad.” Lander swung his arms around, testing them for kinks, then began staring the dents out of his violin. “Where is Ove? That bird barely weighs anything. I think some of the leaves fared better than her.”

“She should be fine,” Lyrua said, “so I am sure she will turn up soon.” She pointed into the bushes, where half a man was sticking out. “Is he dead?” She let Athen free, and picked up her boot to knock the dirt out of it.

Lander broke the bush pulling Kraesten out and tossed him in the dirt. He was unconscious, but still breathing. There was a purple bruise the size of a plum on his neck. “He’s alive. I say we leave him here.” Lander stepped onto the path, pawing at his bare head with a grimace.

“I found Fourstaile,” Athen called out, waving his arms. Lyrua pulled the boot on and stumbled over to him, not feeling as well as she had thought, and saw where Fourstaile lay face down further along the Sydway.

She rushed over to her, tailed by her son. The Highward lay like a toy in the path, her arms straight at her sides. She held Lander’s hat in one of her hands. Lyrua had to look again. Fourstaile’s arms. She shook the stout woman. “Fourstaile!”

“What?” she groaned. She let her face drag through the earth to turn her head.

“Are you all right?” Lyrua asked.

“That was horrible.” Fourstaile smiled, swinging her arms up and down in the dirt. “I feel so much better now. Like a new garden. Fresh leaves, vibrant petals, and free of dog urine.”

Lyrua cocked an eyebrow. “Your arm is back.”

“And two more of your chrysanths,” Athen added.

Fourstaile rolled on to her back and looked at her hands. “Ah, so it is! My arms have doubled. I have so many arms now,” she grinned. Her hair and flowers were splayed in the earth around her head like a spilled flower pot. “Old Skoverdant must have really loved those flowers you brought him, young man.” She rolled the back of her head around in the dirt instead of looking right at him.

Athen’s cheeks reddened. “They were already his anyway.”

Lander lumbered over, having decided to bring the spellbreaker after all, but he held him away from his body like stinking garbage. “Skoverdant is a being of intent. Intent counts for everything with him,” Lander said. “Hence, your giving him his own flowers is received as a welcome gift, but on the other side of that, he feels little fault for banging us up, because his intent was only to move us. Contrary to folk, who judge only themselves by their intentions, while judging others by their actions.” He dropped the spellbreaker roughly on the ground to pick up his hat, and beat the dirt off of it before setting it back on his head.

“I like Skoverdant,” Athen said.

“Me too,” said Fourstaile, still lying in the dirt, “Which is why this forest is so respected. We all love Skoverdant.”

Lyrua turned her son away. Whatever was wrong with Fourstaile, she did not want to be prodded with questions about it. Instead he noticed the spellbreaker discarded on the ground, and knelt at his side. Lyrua could see the colour fading near her son’s hands as he drew mana to cast Light on the bruise. The energy stimulated the spellbreaker’s body, forcing it to heal quickly, and the colour of the bruise improved a little. As soon as his spell was done, Lander swept him away from the man.

He gave Athen to her. He was breathing heavily, as if he had just been chasing Ove all afternoon. Even Lyrua had trouble remembering to breathe properly while concentrating on a spell. She showed him how proud she was by hugging him, even if she did not agree with healing the creepy man.

Lander prodded Kraesten’s ribs with his foot, but he did not stir. “He’s well out, but his head was fine when I checked him, so he’ll probably wake up eventually.”

“May I heal my sister?” Athen asked. “She could be dizzy.”

“Of course you may, but don’t forget to breathe evenly this time.”

As Athen put his hands on her belly, Fourstaile decided it was time to get up and rolled gracefully to her feet. She shook her head to dislodge loose dirt from it. “It looks like we’ve been politely shown the exit,” Fourstaile waved her new arm aggressively at the southward path, “so let’s get you to West Eddy, and then I need to find my Spellwards.”