It isn’t the same path you took before. The sheer number of deer trails and rough-hewn pathways through the Fellwoods may be uncountable… but to you, the way is clear in your mind. The site of the cabin you pulled Ioleth out of is now no more than a rubble strewn clearing, abandoned for decades if not more.
But there’s always another path.
You spot the smoke from the chimney first, then the light in the window. Another cabin, smaller, more modest, half real and half shadow. It sits on the edge of a copse of trees, the roof rising into oblivion. Out front, sitting on one of the benches surrounding an extinguished campfire, is a figure so thin you could swear he was made of sticks. In his hands, a bone-white violin sings a trio of notes in rapid succession. He stops to tune up, unsatisfied. He still wears the dirt-stained smock of your family’s gardener.
He doesn’t see you. He can’t; his eyes are empty hollows, filled with a low buzzing drone. But nevertheless, his impossibly thin frame swivels in your direction as you approach.
“Ceridwen.”
Briarman Jack’s voice is a nest of hornets, struck by a stone.
"You know my name," the voice isn't the one the Whiskey Riders commonly hear. It's lighter, more airy, and has no trace of the East Tirondian accent. "Who are you?"
“Little girl does not remember Jack.” A wasp crawls from the eye socket, idles on the mans pointed nose, “But I saw you every day, while I weeded the gardens and tended the trees. Made sure your family stayed away from certain parts of the woods on your estate. To be safe.”
Ceridwen approaches carefully, opposite the campfire. "Jack. A gardener for my father. You always had a bag of hazelnuts."
"What has happened to you? Why are you like this?"
A hearty, buzzing laugh, “Bargains, bargains. Prices asked and given. One eye for me and one for you. Do you remember the night when the Bad Men came for your father? The night of torches and screams?”
Ceridwen sits down, although she puts on a brave face, her skin drains slightly and goes pale. "I remember," she whispers.
“There was nowhere to hide, but the servants of your house... well, we’d been here a long time. Knew these woods well, knew when to make offerings. Your father was meant to join us with you, to shelter you until the danger passed. He didn’t make it, so I paid your way instead.”
"My way? The hollow tree. That was you? I don't understand."
“Had to keep you safe, like your father said. And the Lodge was willing... for a price. Took you to a special place where time flows differently. You slumbered there for a night while the others sang you lullabies. One night there.. three weeks in the world. By then the danger was past and the torches were gone...”
The wasps cloud around Jacks head as his voice trembles, “And then we sent you back into the world. I stayed behind. Not much use for a blind gardener. And it’s comfortable here. Always something new to find.”
"The Lodge saved me. The music, I remember the song but have never heard it since we went in again last week."
“Sometimes when I open a window inside, I can hear you play. The crowds, they seem to love you. Maybe some notes from those lullabies stuck around in that mind of yours.”
More notes from his violin of bone. Aching, plaintive, unsettling to your very core.
"The crowds love Sedriks, Ceridwen the girl vanished a long time ago."
“The Lodge was once a god, many gods. Now it is a place. A different thing, but the same thing deep down inside.”
"What does the Lodge want of me?"
“Can’t speak for the House, Ceridwen. Might take offence. But it doesn’t hold any debts over you, I made sure of that long ago. You’re free to walk any path you like. But it does like when you play. We all can hear it, echoing in the walls when you do. Might be willing to teach you more if you’ve the time and inclination. But that’s not for old Jack to decide.”
When he stands, he sounds like a bunch of kindling being broken over your knee. From his eyes, beetles scurry, unexpectedly jostled.
“So much to be repaired, so much to be done. Old place won’t fix itself, you know. I’m just glad to see you safe and happy. But… you come back again sometime. When you’re ready, maybe we could singing those old songs together.”
"If you like the music so much, stay for one song. I'll play for you." and she takes the blackpine Viola from its case on her back and starts tuning.
He stops at the threshold.
The cabin stops shedding shingles and loose boards.
The forest around you seems to visibly tense.
She plays a haunting, mournful dirge that swirls around the trees and the clearing, timid and strange.
Jacks violin doesn’t take long to join in. In the distance, farm animals halt in the fields. A bird falls dead from the sky. A crackle of thunder from a clear blue sky.
Ceridwen is somewhere distant, detached from the viola as the notes echo through her mind ...as her fingers unconscious trace notes in ink to sheet.
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