The Forests of Silence

Afterwards, Jarred could barely remember scrambling from the ditch. He could not remember stumbling through the tangled weeds and thorny bushes beyond the road. He did not know what guided him to the blacksmith’s forge, where at last he fell, fainting, to the ground.

Perhaps he saw the glow of the fire. Perhaps he heard the hammer beating on the red-hot metal, and the sound reminded him of his lessons with Endon. Or perhaps the spirit of Adin was looking after him. For Crian the blacksmith, stubborn and fearless, was perhaps the only man in Del who would have taken him in.

Crian roused him and helped him into the small house behind the forge. At Crian’s call, a sweet-faced girl came running. Her eyes were full of questions, but she was silent as she helped Crian give Jarred water and bread and bathe his cuts and scratches. They took his filthy, torn clothes, gave him a long, plain nightshirt, and tucked him into a narrow bed.

Then Jarred slept.

When he woke, the great hammer was ringing on metal once more, the girl was singing in the kitchen, and the sun was setting. He had slept the day through.

At the end of his bed he found a set of clothes. He pulled them on, tidied the bed, and crept outside.

He found Crian at work in the forge. The old man turned and looked at him without speaking.

“I thank you for your kindness with all my heart,” Jarred said awkwardly. “I will leave now, for I do not want to cause you trouble. But I beg you not to say I was here if the palace guards come searching. They will tell you I tried to kill the new king. But I did not do it.”

“So much the worse,” the old man answered grimly, returning to his work. “Many in Del would thank you if you had.”

Jarred caught his breath. So this was how things were. The king was not loved, but hated. And no wonder. As far as his people knew, he lived in luxury behind his high walls while they suffered. They did not understand that he had no idea of their trouble.

“The guards will not come,” the old man said, without turning around. “I threw your clothes over a cliff into the sea and watched as they found them. They think that you are drowned.”

Jarred did not know what to say. He saw that Crian had finished the horseshoe he had been hammering. Without thinking, he picked up the heavy tongs beside the forge and stepped forward. Crian glanced at him in surprise, but let him pick up the shoe and dip it into the barrel of water standing ready. The water hissed and bubbled as the iron cooled.

“You have done this work before,” the old man murmured.

Jarred nodded. “A little,” he said. Carefully, he lifted the horseshoe from the water and laid it aside.

“I am old,” Crian said, watching him. “My son, whose clothes you are wearing now, was killed three years ago. His dear wife died before him, when their child was born. I have only that child, Anna, now. We live simply, but there is always food on the table. And will be, while I keep my strength.”

He glanced down at Jarred’s hands — soft and white, with long, rounded nails. “You could stay here, boy,” he said. “But you would have to work hard to earn your keep. Could you do it?”

“I could,” said Jarred strongly.

Nothing would please him more than to stay. He liked the old blacksmith. He liked the calm, sweet-faced Anna. Here, too, he would be close to the palace. He could do nothing for Endon now except to keep watch. But he had vowed that this he would do.

Prandine thought he was dead. But he would be unlikely to tell Endon so. It would suit his purpose better to let the king think Jarred was still alive, and dangerous. If he feared for his life, Endon would be even more willing to do exactly as he was told.

But one day Endon may realize that after all I was right, thought Jarred. One day he may call me. And if ever that happens, I will be ready.

So, it was settled. Jarred took shears and cut off the long plaits of hair that marked him so plainly as coming from the palace. And after that, every day, he worked in the forge.

He already knew how to hammer hot iron and steel to make fine swords and shields. Now he had to learn to make simpler things, like horseshoes, axes, and blades for ploughs. But this he did quickly, and as his muscles hardened and his soft hands grew tough he took over more and more of the blacksmith’s work.

The forge was busy, but still Crian and Anna were poor. Jarred soon discovered that this was because most of the people in Del were even poorer, and could pay little for the work the blacksmith did for them. Some, indeed, could give nothing. And these Crian would help all the same, saying, “Pay me when you can.”

By the second day, Jarred had realized with a sinking heart that everything he and Endon had been taught about life outside the palace had been a lie. The city was a place of hunger, illness, and struggle. Beyond its walls, strange, terrible beasts and bands of robbers prowled. For many years no news had come from the towns and villages scattered through the countryside.

Many people were weak with hunger. Yet it was said that in the dead of night heavily guarded carts piled high with food and drink trundled into the city and up to the palace gates. No one knew where the carts came from.

“Somewhere far away, in any case,” Crian muttered, as they sat by the fire on the second night. “Such luxuries could not be found here.”

“It is said that Deltora was once a land of peace and plenty,” Anna added. “But that was a long time ago.”

“The new king knows nothing of this!” Jarred cried. “Neither did the old king. You should have told him —”

“Told him?” Crian growled angrily. “We told him time and again!” He swung around in his chair and pulled an old tin box from the shelf. He thrust the box at Jarred. “Open it!” he ordered.

Jarred lifted the lid of the box. Inside were many small rolls of parchment edged with gold. Confused, he picked out one of the rolls and straightened it.

Frowning, Jarred thrust the parchment back into the box and picked out another. It was exactly the same. And so was the next he looked at, and the next. The only difference in the fourth was that it spoke of “The Queen” instead of “The King” and was signed “Lilia.” Queen Lilia had been Alton’s mother, Jarred remembered.

He scrabbled through the parchments. There were hundreds of them, all stamped with the royal seal. Some were much older than others, signed with royal names he remembered from his history lessons.

“They are all the same,” Crian said, watching him reading one after the other. “The only difference between them is the name at the bottom. For centuries messages have been sent to the palace, begging for help. And these accursed parchments are all the people have ever received in return. Nothing has ever been done. Nothing!”

Jarred’s throat tightened with pain and anger. “King Alton, at least, never received your messages, Crian,” he said, as calmly as he could. “I think they were kept from him by his chief advisor. A man called Prandine.”

“The king signed these replies and fixed to them his royal seal,” Crian pointed out coldly, flicking his finger at the box. “As did his mother and grandfather before him.”

“It is the Rule — the custom — that the chief advisor prepares all replies for the king to sign,” exclaimed Jarred. “The old king signed and sealed whatever Prandine put in front of him.”

“Then he was a fool and a weakling!” Crian snapped back. “As no doubt his son is also! Endon will be as useless to us as his father.” He shook his head. “I fear for Deltora,” he muttered. “We are now so weak that should invasion come from the Shadowlands we could do nothing to protect ourselves.”

“The Shadow Lord will not invade, Grandfather,” Anna soothed. “Not while the Belt of Deltora protects us. And our king guards the Belt. That, at least, he does for us.”

Jarred felt a chill of fear. But he could not bring himself to tell Anna that she was wrong. If she found out that the king did not wear the Belt but let it be shut away, under the care of others, she would lose the last of her hope.

Oh, Endon, he thought, as he went to bed that night. I cannot reach you unless you wish it. You are too well guarded. But you can reach me. Go to the hollow tree. Read my note. Send the signal.

From that time on, before he started work each morning, Jarred looked up at the tree rising against the misty cloud on the hill. He would look carefully, searching for the glint of the king’s golden arrow at the top. The signal that Endon needed him.

But it was a long, long time before the signal came. And by then it was too late.