“We can’t risk getting lost in the forest,” she said to Ardent. “We’ll have to take the road. But we’ll walk on the side, and if we see anyone, we’ll duck into the undergrowth and hide until they’ve passed.”
“There are ducks in the undergrowth?” asked Ardent. He hadn’t really been listening, because of the excitement of the sheep and various intriguing scents coming out of the trees ahead.
Anya took a deep breath and repeated her instructions.
She had been in the forest briefly before, but only with lots of other people, and she had not visited for quite a few years. It felt odd to be alone in the green silence, with just Ardent, and to be walking along the side of the dusty road rather than riding down the middle as part of a large company. But the dappled shade was pleasant, cutting back the heat of the summer sun, though at some points the road narrowed and the tree branches almost met overhead, forming long arched-over lanes that transformed the shade from being pleasantly cooling to dark and potentially dangerous.
They were passing through one of these overgrown lanes when Ardent dropped the bundle, sniffed the air, and growled quietly, “Smoke up ahead, Princess. C-c-could be an ogre picnic.”
Anya stepped off the road and crouched down beside the pale trunk of a large ash, reviewing the few small spells she could cast. None seemed likely to be of much use against even one ogre.
“Can you smell ogres?”
“No … ” said Ardent. “I c-c-an smell pea-and-ham soup, though. Ogres particularly like pea-and-ham soup—”
“So do people,” said Anya crossly. “It’s probably one of the foresters’ cottages. There are few along this road. I thought the first one was farther away. We’ll go ahead cautiously.”
“I c-c-ould sneak ahead and take a sniff,” Ardent offered.
“No, you stay with me. And don’t forget the bundle.”
“I won’t!” Ardent turned on the spot to pick up the bundle that he had dropped and then forgotten.
The pair advanced cautiously along the edge of the road, ready to duck into the undergrowth at a moment’s notice, as previously planned. As they got closer, they saw a thin stream of smoke rising up through the forest canopy, and the smell of pea-and-ham soup got stronger, now accompanied by the sound of human voices.
“I like pea-and-ham soup myself,” said Anya, suddenly realizing that (a) she was hungry and (b) unlike at the castle, she would need to get food for herself somehow.
“So do I,” muttered Ardent out of the corner of his mouth, almost dropping the bundle.
“It’s probably foresters,” said Anya. “But be ready.”
She paused to remind herself of the two words of power used in a spell called The Withering Wind, which sounded like it would be truly fearsome but actually just caused a lot of shrieking wind noises in the ears of whoever it was cast on. Anya hoped this would be scary or distracting enough to enable her and Ardent to run away.
Creeping close, they saw there was a forester’s cottage, a tumbledown affair of planked walls with a thatched roof, both walls and roof sporting holes. The smoke was from a fire that had been laid outside the cottage, with a large bronze cauldron suspended on an iron tripod above it, the source of the delicious pea-and-ham soup smell.
A woman had just added a pinch of something to the pot, and was stirring it in with a long, blackened stick. She was gray-haired and dressed much like the castle servants, in a plain undyed kirtle, with a rope around her middle instead of a belt. From that belt were suspended a large, somewhat battered ladle and an imposing knife in a buckskin sheath.
After they had watched for another few minutes, the smell of the soup was just too tempting. Anya stood up from her creeping crouch as they approached, and deliberately made more noise, treading on a few fallen sticks. The woman turned as she heard them, her hand falling to the handle of her knife.
“Good day, madam forester!” Anya called out.
“Good day to you,” said the woman. Her hand didn’t leave the knife.
“I was hoping we might buy a bowl of your soup,” Anya went on.
“Two bowls,” muttered Ardent, dropping the bundle. He snapped it back up before it hit the ground, this time definitely puncturing Anya’s second-best kirtle. She winced, took it out of his mouth, and hung it on the end of the staff she had cut earlier, where Denholm in his little wicker cage was already suspended.
“Who are you?” asked the woman. She looked up at a nearby ancient oak and called out, “Hedric! There’s a princess here with a frog and a dog!”
“I know,” said a voice from above. Anya peered up towards the foliage, but couldn’t see who was talking … until a large, long-bearded man in a green robe suddenly dangled from a branch, held on for a moment, then dropped to the ground.
“Ow,” he added, bending down to massage his left knee. “I should know not to do that. Greetings, Princess.”
“How do you know I’m a princess?” asked Anya.
“Anyone can tell you’re a princess,” sniffed the woman. She sounded quite unfriendly. “Fine kirtle, a belt purse, a royal dog walking alongside. And the frog. That’s just showing off. You should kiss him right away, but I suppose you want an audience? Two of us enough for you?”
“That’s enough, Martha,” said the man. He had druidic tattoos of leafy vines winding around his hands and wrists, disappearing up into the sleeves of his robe. “Things aren’t always what they seem.”
“We’d just like to buy some soup, please,” said Anya. “And I can’t transform Denholm back. He’s not the love of my life, he’s my sister’s. Well, he was … It’s complicated. Are you a druid, by the way?”
She was thinking of the ingredients for the lip balm. Surely it would be too easy to just run into a retired druid straightaway …
“Yes,” said Hedric. “Though I’m on a sabbatical right now. Between sacred groves at the moment, though I have the acorns and I expect I’ll get around to planting one up sooner or later—”