Semua Bab Foundling: Bab 11 - Bab 20

It was Rumbole and Crest who discovered a route over mountains guarding deep forests hidden between treacherous ridges cut by white-capped rapids leading to precipitous falls. A rough terrain of beauty and bounty where many men had become lost never to return, but not Rumbole and Crest.They would disappear for months on end only to return with strange and exotic furs. They made a small fortune selling their wares to the merchants of Free Hold; a fortune they would drink and whore away during their sojourn there.The legend went that they had become trapped on the high mountains by an early winter storm coming in from the east. With the cold and sleet cutting into flesh, they were forced ever westward. Running before the storm they followed the path of migrating animals. Days of cold, catching sleep when they could, moving so as not to perish, it was some time before they realized they were on the lee of the storm sheltered by the pitched contours and jagged heights of mountain peaks.

People could talk about privilege all that they wanted, but being hot, sweaty and not knowing when your next bath would come while putting one plodding footstep before the other in robes that were a comfort in the morning before the sun had warmed the chill air but were too heavy in the afternoon. Then, privilege did very little to assuage any discomfort.He could calm the heart, take longer breaths, slow the blood and cool the body so as not to let the heat discomfit him so, but it would have taken more concentration and attention than he deemed warranted. Such measured control did not come easily to him as it did to healers or those vain in pursuit of an artificially propped reserve. It was rational, effective, but not for him. Instead of focusing his attention on being comfortable or, alternately, letting frustration wash over him because of his discomfort, he welcomed the sensations of the heat that powered the motions of his body, the discomfort that let him know he was alive, th

Wood smoke drifted on slow-moving currents carrying the scent of cooking meat among the branches of the forest and between the close trunks that tried to push back the light that intruded on their darkness, the foreign presence in their midst that leaped and danced, retreating and advancing, invading their solitude.Poe took no notice of the battle between forest and flame. His imaginings were split between the squirrel, spitted between two forked limbs dripping fat into the crackling fire, and the sleeping child wrapped in the blanket from his rucksack.The child was all elbows and knees, spindly, knotted sinew and vein emphasized by his dark skin. His face was long and angular: high cheekbones, flared nostrils, and arched, full brows. His hair was tangled and filthy, bound at the nap of neck by an old ratty strand of leather.The boy twitched, fighting the artificial sleep laid upon him. The spasms were coming more frequent as the boy’s resistance grew stronger, but his mind had nee

It was a little past midday on the second day of the journey when Poe walked up the knoll to the farmhouse. He could see where the worn stone of the original foundation butted up against wings added later to become a two-story home with nine windows facing the lane: five on the second story and four on the main level and an equal number facing the planted fields. As Poe crested the knoll, he could see the fields on his right stretching away into the distance and on the other side sheep, waiting to be sheered, milling in a paddock beside two barns. There was activity everywhere, in the paddock, the barns, and the fields where curious heads turned to track his progress. When he knocked, an old woman, bent and slightly stooped but with eyes as forthright as those of a newborn and fetching as the flight of a sparrow across a noonday sun, opened the door. She wore a high-cut black bodice with short white sleeves over a simple gray dress with blunt toed shoes sticking from bene

When they began their journey, Poe thought it best to stay to the tree line. He had a good idea of where he was, had locked in memory maps of the area. He knew in which direction lay the High Road, the settlements in the area, and the roads leading to and from them. By staying to the tree line, it would be easy to avoid all common traffic until he needed to take the High Road for the last leg of their journey, but before that, he would need to get Hunter some clothes, and Poe now knew why Master Giles had suggested he stop at this particular homestead if there were need.They were putting the final preparations on supper when Poe returned with Hunter. When the Conjurer opened the door to the grimy, woolly-headed boy with gnats leaping about those matted locks, and dirt smearing his naked body so as to almost be a layer of clothing, she turned her nose up but made no comment. Her first duty was to see to the boy, as best she could, and the Mage would be of little use in that, so she sho