Sometimes he had stared long and hard at a sacred oak, stared at it for hours, and in the moment of a half-breath, he saw it. Teasing him. Luring him. Mirrowen. The Druidecht were the intermediaries between the beings who dwelled there and those who lived and breathed and died. Occasionally there were Druidecht so accepted by the spirits that they were invited to dwell in Mirrowen. There was no death there, or so it was told, unlike the world he lived in—a world where death met his gaze often. Where the slightest misstep of chance could end a life. The worlds were opposites. One full of life. The other of death.
Annon smelled the smoke before he saw the hovel and smiled with relief that it was nearby. Through a thicket of maples and witherberries, he spied the small, cramped structure and heard the grating rasp of a whetstone and blade. There were voices drifting in as well, and Annon pursed his lips, surprised to find another visitor already there. His annoyance flared, but he shoved the emotion aside. He had not expected another guest to have found this place. It was one of his favorite haunts.
The feeling melted away when he saw the older Druidecht sitting on a stump, mouth open over a bowl of stew, savoring the blend of flavors. It was Reeder. Annon emerged from the copse of trees, sweating slightly, and beamed when he saw his mentor sitting with the couple he knew so well. Reeder was tall and had copper-colored hair that flowed down to his shoulders. It had receded from his scalp significantly since their last meeting. A small gray-flecked beard covered his sturdy jaw. He looked up as Annon approached. It had been several years since they had seen each other.
Reeder swallowed another bite from the stew bowl and then stood, towering over Annon like a bear, and set the bowl down on the stump. “Look at you, Annon. A child no more, but a man grown!”
“It is good to see you, Reeder,” Annon said warmly. “You found one of my favorite places to eat.”
“I know! I was telling these good people that I can see why you visit them so often. The bread is especially tasty. Now, if I were not journeying to Silvandom at the moment, I might stay and learn the secret of their white honey.” He grinned as he gripped Annon’s shoulders, smiling genuinely. “Look at you. It is good to see you again.”
Dame Nestra smiled pleasantly. “I told Reeder we might expect you for supper, Annon. He waited all afternoon for you, but I made extra stew for you both.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” Annon replied. “How is your ax, Master Woodcutter? Worn it to a nub yet?”
“Well used, but sharp as the whetstone gets it.” He reached out and shook Annon’s hand with a grip as sturdy as his tool. “I have some more cutting to do, but don’t forget the tunes you promised us, Reeder!”
“Yes, you said you would sing for your meal,” Dame Nestra insisted, a pleasant look on her face.
Both she and her husband were much older than Annon, but they had been unable to have children and doted upon him as if he somehow made up for that fact.
“Songs you will have, after I’ve talked with my good friend. I was his mentor, you know, though he has proven my equal already.”
Annon smiled and felt embarrassed. “What brings you westbound, Reeder?”
“Some mischief afoot in Silvandom. I learned of it while in Kenatos. I’ll go and see if my old bones may do any good in the conflict. Likely not, but it is a pleasant country to visit besides.”
Nestra returned with another bowl full of broth and vegetables and brought it carefully to Annon, bowing as she handed it to him. He smiled his thanks and inhaled the aroma.
“You eat another bowl if you are hungry,” she admonished him.
“The young are always hungry,” Reeder said, motioning for Annon to eat. “I’d like to finish mine as well. It’s nearly as tasty as the bread. The couple says you wander here often. I’m not surprised,” he added with a wolfish smile.
They supped together, finishing the stew and two generous helpings of Nestra’s bread, sweetened to perfection. Reeder had a healthy appetite and did not refuse a third slice. His face glowed with warmth and humor. “You have a good reputation in these woods, Annon,” he said after finishing the bread and brushing the crumbs from his lap. “Among the spirits. It was not difficult finding you. Do you think you will choose to dwell here longer? Or are you ready to move to another land?”
Annon shrugged, staring at his empty bowl. “I had not given it much thought. There is much still to learn here.”
“I am much older than you,” Reeder said, “and still that is true. Yet the woods of Silvandom have different breeds of spirits. And so do the mountains of Alkire. Each land has its own troubles.” He stared into the darkening wood, his face turning serious, the smile fading. “And then there are lairs where even the Druidecht fear to tread.” He looked down at his hands and then at Annon. “North, for example.”
“Kenatos?” Annon asked wryly.
Reeder pursed his lips. “You know what I mean, Annon. I mean beyond Kenatos, beyond the mountains. The Scourgelands are safe for none of the races.”
Annon smirked and stretched, loosening his weary limbs. “So you have told me, and so I believe you, old friend. What reason could I possibly have to wander in that forsaken place?”