
I left Gallia behind, and it receded until it was only a bright spot against a hazy horizon. Then it and the sea beyond were gone, and everything became green, from the canopy overhead to the moss under Bran’s hooves. Only the sky remained a stubborn gray. Rain fell in brief fits from an impenetrable layer of cloud, and the wind blew cold. Autumn was coming to the North, and it would reach me here before long.
For now, though, the forest was emerald green, and the birds sang summer songs in its branches. After the first day out of the city, the stream of caravans in and out of its gates slowed to a trickle. By the time a week had passed, I saw another traveler only once every few days. I sang as well, as I rode, a rowing song of the frost-cold sea, to warn anyone else on the road of my presence and reassure them that I was not a bandit lying in wait for them.
Continue reading “Journey to the Water Chapter LIV: The Ring-Fort”