Departure
You have driven your horse, and your associates, harder than might be safe, you know. This matter with the Druid has been pulling at you for weeks now. You’d hoped it might simply… resolve itself somehow. That was idle thinking on your part, to be sure. Yet the work that you and your allies have undertaken has seemed so important; both critical and immediate, that the matters of the Wood could be set aside for the present. Except the Druid would not allow that to happen. And come what may, you and your people serve the Druid, the Protector of the Sacred Wood.
Last evening, while your allies slumbered and recovered from the confrontation with that great shambling beast, you had a few moments to reflect on your circumstance. You had arrived precisely there, in the Carriage House on the far reaches of Darkmoor; assuming one could rightly even call this place within Darkmoor, because the Druid, so you had been informed, had selected you as one of the representatives of the Aldmaar peoples to the Installation of the Baron. Because you had been sent, you had found yourself aboard that carriage with Arthur Grey, and through your own willingness to do what was right, and some instinct of the Baron, his seeing some special spark within you, that had resulted in you becoming a member of this band. The Circle, so-called, of Darkmoor.
And then, as you contemplated, there came the call from the darkness. The out-of-place whistle of the spotted brown pheasant that you almost immediately realized was directed at you. By a ranger of Aldmaar. You discovered Merith waiting for you on the Old Port Road, bearing word from the Druid, a loaned horse and a hearty hug.
Young Henrik Mars was to take your place, here with the Circle. To assist with their assault on the Moat House. You were to return, to meet with the Druid.
“It’s serious this time, Sylvar” Merris had proclaimed. “He will not accept another delay.”
To abandon your new friends on the eve of the long-anticipated assault on this bandit stronghold seemed unthinkable. And yet, you are a Ranger of Aldmaar. And the Aldmaar peoples serve the Druid.
Merith is not to blame for you being placed in this abominable circumstance. Nor, certainly, the centaur Indira who accompanies him. As you push your horse and Merith and Indira to their limit, speeding back to the wood, to meet with the Druid, you tell yourself that. That thought does nothing to arrest your boots at stirring the cohort ever forward.
Arrival
Your arrival at Pebble Brook was met with a certain enthusiasm, though muted. The people emerged from their tents and shanties. They called your name. Some patted your back or shook your hand. The children turned out, as they often do, to see you. Clutching their toy bows and swords, those eyes in their dirty faces wide.
You and Merith and, somewhat reluctantly, Indira, were given warm food and a place around the fire. Your refusal to drink with the people was confusing to them, but something about your expression seemed to mollify any hurt feelings. You are not here for drinking and debauchery.
Fresh horses were provided and you pressed on after a too-brief respite. The girl Indira seems shattered at the pace you have kept, and still she pushes on.
Climbing the old hill, with its snaking switchbacks slows your progress. Growing in your gut is a sense of uneasy anticipation. You have endured the Druid’s acid remarks before, but something about this summons is different. You prepare yourself for the worst. Could you be exiled? You would not be the first.
Despite your determination to steel yourself for this confrontation with the great Druid, when you finally arrive at the crest of the hill, the great green wood stretching away in all its glory from horizon to horizon beneath you, the Druid’s Tree fogged in cloud before you, you feel once again like that child brought here for the first time for you confirmation as a Ranger of the Wood. Nine-year old Sylvar Norris, the youngest Ranger since Aldmaar the Great, you are told. If the Druid concurs.
Audience
As a youth, you climbed the rungs of the massive trunk of that great oak, led by Old August, chief of your tribe. Trailed by your father. The tree breathed as you rose up through the levels of the Druid’s home. And the forest likewise exhaled its perfumes of wood and cinnamon and mint and healthy brown earth. Wanting to be seen as deserving and equal to these Rangers, you strive to keep up, but to reveal no sense of effort. You suppress the signs of your heavy breathing as best you can.
When you arrive in the presence of the old, old man of the Wood, you realize that any attempts at obfuscation are folly. His eyes are shining, intense. They see all. His expression is sly, almost mocking. He reclines in the chair of yew which, perched here in the great limbs of this oak continues to produce green shoots. His white ash staff leans nearby. On the periphery of your vision you believe you spy woodland beings in the branches, watching. Sprites and pixies, here for a good show.
“Sylvar Norris,” the Great Druid said/says. “I have awaited your visit.”
You shake yourself free of the reverie. The words are the same, then and now. The Druid, however, has changed. He slumps as you stand before him, in his seat. The staff is clutched across his chest. His eyes, emerald as ever, are blood-shot and rheumy. His breathing ragged, his voice weak.
There is an odd odor here as well. The Druid, you realize, is dying.
“We have ridden without rest since I received your summons, Pater,” you say, and bow.
“You have brought a horse-woman?”
“Yes. She waits at the edge of the trail.”
The Druid nods, slowly. “Merith Emriss, this discussion is not for your ears. You may wait with the horse-woman.” He does not even glance Merith’s way. You hear your friend departing without a word.
“Why have you summoned me, Pater?”
“I have asked for you, Sylvar Norris, three times. Why have you avoided me?”
“I have been engaged, Pater, in the work of helping the Baron of Darkmoor. A work, I believed, you had selected me to fulfill.”
The Druid pulls himself up, and there is an intensity in his face that has always been there in the past. You expect a rebuke is forthcoming. Instead he asks your opinion of Arthur Grey, Baron of Darkmoor.
You state your opinion as honestly as you can. He watches you carefully as you speak.
“I believe that he is a good man, Sylvar,” the Druid says. There is a sincerity in his voice, and a softness. There is an unshielded vulnerability in these words that you have never heard from him, nor expected him capable of. “There are dark days ahead. Not because this young Baron wishes it, but because those who see him a threat know no other way to respond than with violence, lies, deceit and mischief.” He pauses, as if the effort of this honesty has caught up with him. “I fear for our people. I will not be, as you have divined…” he smiles and gestures at his form with what you see is a quavering hand, painfully thin, the skin gone the texture of worn paper, “…here to witness the outcome of this new struggle.”
You produce an effort to protest this statement which he interrupts firmly. “We need you, Sylvar…” he pauses for a second that stretches until you suspect that he has lost the thread until at length he continues, “…I need you, Sylvar, to be our voice with this young Baron. Stay at his side. Help him with your strong arm and your quick wit, to face these threats. Provide him counsel when he requires it; even if there are moments that he does not seek it. There once was a time, when I was younger, when a great threat came to this land. To my shame, I did not face it. I caused our peoples to withdraw. To allow others to be persecuted due to our inaction. Peoples who had been our friends and allies and partners, we turned away from. Out of a sense that we must preserve ourselves. The Wood and the People.”
You have no ability to respond to this admission. He continues.
“I did not act then, Sylvar. And now, at the end of my life, I no longer possess the ability to act when the opportunity arises to erase that stain. I can only place the burden for the atonement of our past betrayal on your shoulders.”
The Druid slumps again, whatever inner strength he had summoned expended.
“Merith Emriss will lead our People. He does not know this, but that day will be soon. I suspect you desired to be the Chief of Aldmaar, but that will not be. You must carry the weight of this with you. The People can never again allow ourselves to grow isolated and fearful. We must do what we can to build a stronger Darkmoor.”
He requires that you acknowledge his instruction. You acknowledge it.
“Go, now, Sylvar Norris. And do not speak of these things. The children believe you will be a great hero, to rival Aldmaar.”
He chuckles. “Let us hope you prove better than that.”