“I have decided,” said the great elder owl, “after much deliberation, much consideration, much conversation, much rumination–“
“Oh, get it out of you!” snapped the granddaughter. “The sky will freeze, and the oceans will boil, and the rock of the mountains will turn to dust before you’re done.”
“Well. Yes. Of course. Haste and nonsense. Haste indeed. Though at my age, haste is a harrowing thing and not to be–“
“The decision!” cut in his granddaughter, now frowning, crossing her arms.
The old man sighed. “We cannot help. I am sorry.”
The boy felt a sinking inside himself, as if a piece of something hopeful had just been dropped into a chill deep ocean. The great elder Hob prattled on with his reasons, and the objections of those who he had spoken with in private. The old man sounded a touch unconvinced of them. At a guess, the boy suspected he had been badgered into the decision. Perhaps that explained the old Hob’s reluctance to get his decision out, and maybe the impatience of his attendants, children and grandchildren. They might have been worried he would go against them at the last moment, and say something that could not be easily unsaid.
Too late for that now. There was a visible look of relief on the faces of many of the Hobs-Houlard in the room. Apparently offering help had not been popular.
The old Hob talked and talked, but what it came to was that he could not risk the secrecy of their little valley. Some of the other Hobs had even been loathe to let the small group of strangers go on their way. There was clearly a fear that they might accidentally, or even on purpose, give away the secret of the treetop village. They quite obviously lived in fear of the Princes of Sorthe.
Caewen stirred uncomfortably. She looked as if she were about to rise to excuse herself. But before she could even get to her feet, she visibly tensed as the great elder owl started ruminating that indeed it was dangerous to let them leave. She even crept a fingertip to the pommel of her sword. He seemed to notice, and smiled wanly. “No. No need for that. My mind is made up against keeping you here by force. You may go on your way. We are not a people who waylay travellers without reason. We have not sunk to that.”
She relaxed then.
After the announcement, more food was brought forth, and they all shared in rather a subdued meal. Caewen spoke a little more to the old man, quietly, and then she walked over to the boy. He himself, had been carrying on his own quiet conversation with Fleat. The two of them had not said anything more about Fleat’s offer to help, but they had shot each other sufficient looks to confirm that there was now some degree of understanding. Fleat would meet them somewhere beyond the valley. How or when was not spoken aloud. But he would.
“Well,” said Caewen, “I suppose this is goodbye. For now, at least. I think we ought to take our leave quickly and without any fuss. I’m still afraid that whoever was arguing to keep us here in irons might be bending the old man’s ear. He might waver. Child, are you ready to leave?”
“I’m ready,” he said.
“Good. I think we should descend and go. It will be dusk soon. I would like us to travel some way north under the cover of darkness if we can. I’m told that the slopes of the mountains outside this valley have little in the way of woodlands for cover. We’ll be as stark-obvious as a red feather on a cap if we try to leave in the morning light.” She considered and said, “That’s not to say creatures in the Winter King’s service do not see keenly in the dark… but still… it seems the better of the choices. And we might slip by while Sorthe and Winter’s armies are fighting off westward too.”
The boy nodded by way of agreement. That all sounded sensible.
As they left the great house, and descended onto the trunk outside, a cold and biting wind snapped into them and whipped the hems of their clothing up in swirls of travel-strained cloth. Caewen’s hair lashed about her face. It formed long flowing strands as she turned to Fleat, who had come with them outside. “Thank you,” she said, “and goodbye and farewell.”
When the boy said goodbye, Fleat only winked, then grinned and passed him a small bundle wrapped up in sacking. “Me clothing,” whispered Fleat with a smile. I’d rather not go about all-shivery and naked, so keep an eye on it. I’ll meet you on the other side of the riftway.”
“See you there,” whispered the boy. He stuffed the package into his small satchel. It was already jammed full of biscuit and nuts and dried fruits taken from the dinner platters–after all, nobody had seemed to mind. But this made it difficult to stuff the new bulk inside. Eventually, he managed to pull the buckles tight, with only a little straining.
The descent down the cliff-face was just as harrowing as the climb up, if not more so. The stairs were so narrow, they hardly warranted the name. The boy had already half-forgotten that in some places there were no stairs at all, and the way was by hand and footholds over sheer rock. Sometimes there was a thick chain bolted to the cliff to provide something to hold onto, sometimes not.
But, after much careful clambering, they did make it to the bottom without injury. The boy was surprised at how exhausting it had all been. He could feel his heart thumping in his throat. He looked up, to assess the distance. Just faintly, he thought he saw some shapes leave the house above them. Three, or maybe four, black-winged masses, going swiftly away north.
He mentioned it to Caewen, but she only frowned and said, “Maybe the Old Hob has sent spies to scout the ways north? We might have a small degree of help after all. If any of them decide to swoop down and tell us what they see.”
The boy wasn’t so sure, but he certainly hoped Caewen was right.