Forest Mage. Робин Хобб
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wagon. Several of them glanced back at me and shook their heads, speaking quickly to one another. The knife-boy was already sitting on a wagon seat. Ret said something to Breg and they both hooted with laughter. Jard’s brush with death was already a joking matter for them. They had no idea of what had just happened.
The flash of anger I felt subsided before I even felt its heat. Surely the sun had moved in the sky? I gave my head a small shake and let my clenched fists fall to my sides. My arms ached. My nails had left deep red indentations in my palms. I had no idea how long I had stood there. I did know what my Speck self had done. The Dancing Spindle no longer danced. The magic of the plainspeople was broken. I found Sirlofty. It was all I could do to clamber onto his back. I held to the horn of the saddle as I kicked him into a lope and fled that place. The driver of the wagon shouted at me angrily as I passed his team on the steep trail. I paid him no mind.
By the time I reached the road again, I had almost recovered. The farther I went from the Spindle, the clearer my head became. The forest mage inside me ceased his chortling and grew still.
Evening fell, and I pushed Sirlofty on, journeying through the dusk to make up the time wasted in my foolish detour. I wished I’d never left the road. I tried to stuff what I’d discovered back into the darkness, but it rode with me now. I shifted in my saddle and felt it slip under me. Gently I reined Sirlofty in; I dismounted as if I were as fragile as an eggshell. With a feeling of ineffable sadness, I tightened the cinch on my saddle.
It was the first time in my life that I’d ever had to do that.
Night was deep by the time I reached the town. I found an inn that would admit me. Before I fell asleep, as had become my habit, I wrote carefully of the day’s events. Then I scowled at the words. Did I really want these wild thoughts in the first volume of my soldier-son journal? Only the teaching that it was my duty to record what I observed each day comforted me.
In the days that followed, I did not again diverge from my father’s itinerary for me. I fixed my mind on my carefully planned life, on my brother’s wedding, my reunion with Carsina, my education at the Academy, my service and my eventual marriage. My father had mapped out my future as precisely as he had mapped out my journey home. I had no time for illusions, no time to question where my reality ended and someone else’s began. I refused to think about the magic of the Plains and a ‘keep fast’ charm that no longer seemed to work. Everyone knew that the magic of the plains folk was fading. There was no reason to blame myself for its demise. With the destruction of the Spindle, that other self in me seemed to subside. I dared to hope that it was the last I would sense of him. I practised believing that until I was able to think and live as if I were certain it was so.
Although the Midlands are often referred to as flat, they rise and fall with subtle grace. Thus it was that the trees and walls of my father’s home were concealed from me until I rode up a slight rise in a bend of the road and suddenly perceived my home. My father’s manor was set on a gentle rise overlooking the road. I gazed up at it and thought that it looked smaller and more rustic than when I had last seen it. Now that I knew what the estates and manors of the west looked like, I could see that my father’s house was a pale imitation of their grandeur. I could also see how clearly our home was modelled upon my uncle’s house. They had made improvements since I’d left for the Academy. River gravel had been hauled up to surface the drive, and young oak trees, each little more than a shovel-handle high, now edged it. Some day they would be tall and grand, and this would be a fine carriageway to our home. But for now, they looked spindly and forlorn, exposed to prairie dust and wind. Each had a damp circle of soil around its base. I wondered how many years they’d have to be watered daily before their roots reached deep enough to sustain them. This copying of our ancestral home suddenly seemed both sentimental and a bit silly to me.
But nonetheless, it was home. I’d arrived. For an instant, I had the foolish thought that I could pass it by and keep travelling east, on and on, all the way to the mountains. I imagined tall trees and inviting shade and birds calling in the shadowy thickets. Then Sirlofty took it on himself to turn from the main road and break into a canter. We were home! We woke dust all up the long driveway from the King’s Road to my father’s front door. There I pulled him in with a flourish, as our family’s dogs swirled around us in a barking, wagging pack and one of the stablehands came out to see what had roused them. I didn’t know the man, and so I was not offended when he asked, ‘Are you lost, sir?’
‘No, I’m Nevare Burvelle, a son of the house, just returned from the Cavalla Academy. Please take Sirlofty for me and see that he is well treated. We’ve come a long way, he and I.’
The man gaped at me, but I ignored that and handed him my reins. ‘Oh, and send the contents of his panniers up to my room, if you would,’ I added, as I climbed the front steps. I let myself in, calling out, ‘Mother! Father! It’s Nevare, I’m home. Rosse, Elisi, Yaril? Is anyone home?’
My mother was the first to come out of her sewing room. She stared at me, her eyes growing round and then, embroidery in hand, she hurried down the hall. She embraced me, saying, ‘Oh, Nevare, it’s so good to see you. But the dust on you! I’ll have a bath drawn for you immediately. Oh, son, I’m so glad you are home and safe again!’
‘And I am glad beyond words to be here again, Mother!’
The others had arrived by then. Father and Rosse looked startled, even when I turned and strode towards them, smiling. Rosse shook my hand but my father held back from me, demanding, ‘What have you done to yourself? You look like a wandering peddler! Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?’
‘It needs a bit of mending, I’m afraid. I hope Mother can have it ready in time for Rosse’s wedding. Elisi, Yaril? Am I a stranger now? Aren’t you going to say hello even?’
‘Hello, Nevare. Welcome home.’ Elisi spoke stiffly, and looked aside from me as if I’d done something rude and she wasn’t sure how to deal with it.
‘You’re so fat!’ Yaril exclaimed, tactless as she had ever been. ‘What have you been eating at that place? Your face is round as the full moon! And you’re so dirty! I thought you’d ride up, all glorious in your uniform. I didn’t even recognize you at first.’
I chuckled weakly, and waited for my father to rebuke her. Instead, he muttered, ‘Out of the mouths of babes.’ Then, speaking more strongly, he said, ‘I’m sure you’ve had a long trip, Nevare. You’re a few hours earlier than I expected you, but I think you’ll find your room is waiting, with wash water. After you’ve cleaned yourself and changed, please come and see me in my study.’
I made a final effort. ‘I’m so glad to see you, Father. It’s good to be home.’
‘I’m sure it is, Nevare. Well. I’ll see you again in a few minutes.’ There was restraint in his voice, and the edge of command. Plainly he wished me to obey him immediately. And I did. The habit of not questioning his authority and commands was still strong in me, but as I washed the dust from my face and hands, I experienced something I hadn’t felt before about my father. Resentment. It wasn’t just for the way he ordered me about, but for his obvious displeasure with me. I had only just arrived home. Could not he have suppressed whatever it was that annoyed him long enough to shake my hand and welcome me back? Must I immediately fall completely under his domination again? I thought of his rigid itinerary for my journey home, and suddenly saw it not as a helpful aid, but as oppression. Did he or did he not trust me to make my own way in the world?
My anger gave way to a greater frustration as I tried to find some clothing that would still fit me. When I had left for the Academy, I had emptied my room. My mother, ever thoughtful of such things, had hung two of Rosse’s old shirts and a pair of his trousers in my closet, for my use until my travelling clothes could be washed and pressed. When I put them on, I looked ridiculous. The trousers were too short on me as well as far too tight. I had to let my stomach bulge out over the top of them. Both shirts strained on me. I took them off and vindictively threw them on the floor before putting my travel-stained clothes back on. But a glance in my mirror showed me that they were ill-fitting and dirty to boot. The seams in the seat of the trousers looked ready