Danforth (Chapter 3) Here is the beginning of chapter three. Chapter 3 ​A great forest, encompassed on all sides but one by lean, claw-like mountains, with the other side barred by a gentle river, let out choking gasps of ash into the sky. A stoic regus tree stood amidst this tormented forest, itself straining against the fearsome conflagration. Its trunk and those boughs which clung most closely to it remained untouched by the flames. Other branches were blackened and scorched, and they hung limply, like parasites sucking the #life out of a helpless host. The boughs which distanced themselves most from the trunk cracked and fell to the tree’s base. ​Another branch, darkened not by the fire but by some other force, rested at the feet of a man who stood before the regus. He gazed at the branch, occasionally looking away to the tree. Then a cloud of scathing smoke obscured the ground, and the branch vanished behind its darkness. The man spent a long while staring at the regus, witnessing as branches fell or blackened. A great rumbling of earth nearly broke the man’s unmoving stillness, and the great tree shook violently. Another such sound, another violent shake, and the tree collapsed. Its demise cleared the earthen haze, once again revealing the dark branch. The man leaned down and captured it, examining it thoroughly before dismissively tossing it aside. ​A voice entered the man’s awareness, “Hey, you! Are you mad? Before long there’ll be no escape from this abhorred fire!” A common soldier wearing a loose leather helm and chest plate, a sword stained with ripe blood in his hand, appeared coughing out of the smoke. “Follow me,” he said. “I know the way to the river. I’ll warrant we’ll be safe if we reach it in time.” The man studied the sky for a moment, inciting a rather irritated glance from the soldier. “Do you want to die? I have no reason to waste time saving you, especially with those sacrilegious madmen coming our way. They killed my general, you know, stabbed him…oh, you wouldn’t care. What are you doing out here anyway? Decided to go for a nice walk? I’ll admit I didn’t expect it to go this badly, but I still wouldn’t have come out here just to look at the trees! You obviously didn’t come here to help us. I suppose it doesn’t matter to you whether I survive!” At this point the man was grinning slyly, finding the whole situation ridiculous: the soldier claimed to be in a hurry, yet he had time to stand here and talk about his troubles. He continued, “Would you like to know…will you stop staring at me like that! I’m trying to help you, a stranger, and you…you mock me! I’ve never felt so dishonored in my #life. Will you…” His voice trailed off as the clear but distant sound of war horns joined the harmonies of the fire. The soldier gestured to the man, speaking quietly, “Follow me. We’d better start towards the river.” ​The soldier sheathed his sword, coughing and wiping ash from his face. He gestured one more time to the man and jumped between two trees, breaking into a forcible run as he landed. The man followed him with equal haste, leaving the dead regus tree to itself. The soldier stepped across burning logs and shrubs, stamping out the occasional ember that threatened to light his cloak ablaze. At one point he reached a brightly burning line of trees, forcing him to turn back to search for a new route. It was at this moment that he noticed that the man followed him. “I’m pleased you decided to live,” he said quickly before resuming his flight. The war horns sounded again, this time closer and more discordant: clashes of metal and cries of pain accompanied them. The soldier harkened the sounds, looking anxiously into the forest. Loudly calling for the man to hurry, he turned back, sprinting into the previously dismissed line of trees. “The river’s only a few miles distant,” he said, coughing hoarsely. Two more times the war horns sounded, and two more times the soldier called for the man to hasten. At the third sounding, the soldier came across a low wall of ruined stone, the sign of a fortress built in the forest long ago. Here the soldier rested, his back to the war horns. The man kneeled beside him. ​“We’ll continue in a few moments,” said the soldier, breathing heavily. “Oh!” he exclaimed, for the first time scrutinizing his companion. “I know your face! You came through our camp once.” He laughed, “You looked more noble then. Did you ever…?” The man shook his head. “Ah, it’s probably for the best. You’re probably not fit for such a responsibility anyway.” The man’s eyes flickered slightly. The soldier frowned, “Where’ll you go, supposing you choose to leave this place? Misthálen?” The man shook his head. “Ha! Of course not: I almost forgot that only barbarians live there. Calduria, perhaps?” The man nodded. “That’s a half-respectable place, and, as they say, Caldurians have the best morals. They’re always killing the Oriabs, though…and they have a penchant for not wearing much armor into battle. And they refuse to wear helms. Ha! Something about it being ‘dishonorable.’” He laughed jovially. “Honor’s more important to them than safety.” ​The war horns sounded once more, this time much closer. “Oh, that’s a shame!” said the soldier. “I was quite enjoying this conversation, but I’m afraid we have to move on.” He stood, smoothing his clothes. The man’s vision began to fade, and as he followed the soldier’s flight once again, his sight fell downwards into darkness, only to emerge once again in light. ​Danforth lay in near stillness, his mind slowly returning to Celphaïs. That dream, he thought. That memory! I have not thought of that strange soldier in a very long time. It was so long ago that I travelled freely with him, with neither path nor worry…only a simple desire to meet my unique opportunity. Sorcery! Wandering! Why did I ever choose such a thing? I could have stayed in that unusual land with that unusual man, following him alone in his various endeavors: he would not have been bothered by me and my silent presence. Well…is that not what I try to do now with Beren? No, this is not the same. I am leading Beren to greatness, leading him! I could have chosen to simply follow someone, with no purpose, no goal…with only a vague existence which was free from the troubles of what I do now. But no, I have followed the writer, not the soldier. And not the writer only: I have followed myself…and that miserable face! His mind, still coming back to him, had now sighted the shore of Calduria. And what have I gained? A path of wandering which I have grown to despise so greatly that I even now make efforts to end it. In fact, it is already ended. My name is known. My path is known. I am known. My wandering is over. Yet, even as I free myself from one path, another constrains me. Beren! I have made the choice to follow Beren to lordship. A new path, which could itself prove just as insufficient as the first. His mind tracked through the wilderness. No, no. I saw what joy the writer obtained, and I know Beren can have the same joy. Why should I deprive him of that? Well, what of myself? His mind passed into open land. Perhaps doing this thing will help me find a true path. Perhaps, once I have done this, I may return to that far-off land. The gates of Celphaïs lay before his mind. Yes, yes! One last trial before my return! His mind stepped into the inn. Oh, but the face…what shall I do about the face…oh, the face… His mind entered the room marked “3.” I must be rid of the face, as well… His hand wavering slightly, Danforth stood, fully wakened but still weak. After making a few attempts to step forward, he collapsed backwards, his mind exhausted from thought, and crumbled back into sleep. … As Beren woke from a restful night, he frowned in concern. The sorcerer had responded just as his father would have predicted, and Beren had been foolish to think otherwise. His father had said, the ways of sorcerers never change, so don’t think this advice will become obsolete: this I can assure you. Yet Beren had allowed this to happen, standing idly as Danforth grew more and more enraged at Kashmar’s demands. At least the sorcerer had returned to the inn without issue. When Beren had arrived, his friend the innkeeper had greeted him with a meek sigh. They had spoken a few words, exchanged a few nondescript glances, and retreated to their rooms. Soon after, Beren had heard Danforth’s footsteps and the opening of a door. Wrapping his cloak around him, Beren now stepped down into the room where the hearth now burned and Kashmar was staring at his sword, which lay on one of the tables. “Did you ever use it, Kashmar?” asked Beren, trying to start a cheerful conversation. “No,” said Kashmar with apathy. “My only service was to tend to the wounded. I’m sure you fared much differently. I hear you killed many Oriabs fighting alone.” Tiring of being so dull, Kashmar smiled and said, “Well, it seems you have your ‘one great act of importance.’ Are you not joyful at that thought? Lordship may yet be yours!” These words dispelled Beren’s ill mood, “Yes. A foolish notion, Kashmar? It seems I’ve proved you wrong. Soon all those travelers who so recently entered Celphaïs will move on the Calduris, and the whole capital will be filled with news of the battle. As the importance of our victory becomes apparent, even the king will not be able to ignore it.” Kashmar sighed, “There’s still time, though, before any of that happens. Time enough to celebrate victory.” “Is there to be a celebration in Celphaïs?” Kashmar passed back to find some wine, “Well, I have heard that some are planning a… funeral pyre. Like in the legends. It seems to me like a noble gesture.” “A funeral pyre?” said Beren, disquieted. “Yes, for the ones killed by the Oriabs,” he said, handing Beren some wine. “And this is to be some sort of ceremony?” asked Beren before tasting the drink. ​“It’ll be tomorrow night. I hear one man’s prepared a wonderful speech, and the wife of one of those wealthy innkeepers near the north gate already wrote a #poem about the battle. My friend from the marketplace told me this pyre’ll live with the old legends.” He paused to refill Beren’s wine. “I doubt that, but I suppose it will be interesting, though somewhat somber.” ​Beren lowered his head slightly, as if examining the contents of his wine. A funeral pyre? Like the ones for lords? Would the king approve of this? He combed his fingers through his hair, considering his friend’s words. Somber? Everyone’s probably excited for the break in the normal routine. There’ll be speeches and songs? It sounds more like an excuse for entertainment than a ceremony to honor the dead. Well, I suppose that’s alright, as long as it takes the minds of the citizens off the horrors of the world. After all, they know so little of them. ​The floorboards creaked weakly as Danforth climbed down the stairs. He wore a haggard, weary expression, as if he’d lain awake very troubled that night. He smiled mildly at the sight of Beren, his hand brushing across the hilt of his sword, which hung presently at his side. ​“Hello, Danforth,” said Beren. He grimaced, regretting using the sorcerer’s name. Never remind a sorcerer of his mistakes: they don’t think kindly of you for it. Danforth nodded acknowledgment and trudged to the door. Beren looked questioningly after the sorcerer, but he knew not to inquire further, especially with so dangerous a man. As if hearing Beren’s thought, Danforth stopped at the door and muttered a word. Retracing his steps, he paced uncertainly, waited a few moments, then dejectedly seated himself at one of the inn’s tables, his hand on his forehead. Kashmar looked at the sorcerer and sighed, shaking his head before patting Beren on the shoulder and retreating upstairs to reorganize some rooms. Beren glanced back at the sorcerer, questioning whether or not to speak with him. Did the man truly respect him? His actions at the battle seemed to make that clear, but his father’s words caused Beren to doubt. Perhaps Danforth had a certain purpose for his actions independent of Beren’s interests. Perhaps Danforth was using Beren as a means, a weapon to lay aside and take up again later. Perhaps Danforth acted on a whim. Beren’s father frowned angrily, one can never know a sorcerer’s mind! Do not waste daylight trying to. Yet a rift of understanding certainly hindered Beren, and he knew that without action his companionship with the sorcerer would never give him further benefit. Glancing back again, Beren more carefully scrutinized the sorcerer. Danforth’s eyes wandered across the floor as he sat leaning forward, his hands now clasped together on one knee, his cloak wrapped around one leg, his face calm and unconcerned. My father, Beren thought, I trust simply speaking with him would not go against your advice. He imagined his father leaning back and smiling. Resolved, Beren stepped near to the sorcerer, resting one arm on his back so that his crimson cloak twisted nobly about him, and waited until he looked up. “You honor me by remaining here, sorcerer, for I would expect you to have left us to return to your path.” “My path is finished,” said Danforth candidly. “No recognized man can wander, for wandering demands silence and solitude, neither of which survive with the mark of a name.” Beren moved a chair near to Danforth and sat down, his cloak enshrining him as a ring enshrines a jewel. “I feel I must speak,” he said carefully. “though what I must say I cannot discover.” Such uncertainty, thought Danforth. He knows not whether to fear me. “You must say whatever you wish openly with me: I am not one who cannot understand reason. Speak, and I shall listen.” Beren sifted through his father’s advice, but could not find anything suitable, so he followed Danforth’s advice instead. “I wish to understand your opinion of me and your purpose with me…that is, I wish to understand our companionship. You were under my command, but was it because of your opinion of me or some other purpose?” There, it is said. Danforth, pleased by Beren’s boldness, stood. “I honored you with command over me because I was honored by your command. From your words and appearance I saw that you were a man of worth, noble and virtuous. How could anyone not have submitted to your command, seeing that? So I plainly state my opinion: I respect you, and I will aid you in whatever task you choose now to complete, should you but ask.” Hearing these words, Beren could not understand how they could be true. Such praises, so pleasing to the ear, how could he comprehend that they came from a sorcerer? But he believed in Danforth’s sincerity, for it gave him delight to think of the future with such a powerful weapon to reduce to ruins all obstructions to lordship. He imagined himself surrounded by mirthful celebration, smiling at each merry chant of “Lord Beren.” Yes, he could not reject the sorcerer’s offer with the possibility of using him to gain lordship so prevalent in his consciousness. But his father’s wariness caused him to choose his words with care, so as not to incite the sorcerer’s anger. “I rejoice,” he said, unable not to smile, “to have such a companion, and I certainly would like for you to give me aid. I seek a noble position, the title of a lord. This battle undoubtedly will bring me fortune, but should it not lead me straight to lordship, your aid in achieving it I will graciously receive.” Danforth nodded approvingly, as if the information was new, “The rank of lord is an honorable goal, one which I will do all I see fit to bring to you.” “I thank you, and I shall return your kindness as best I can, when the time comes.” The two men felt the strength of their alliance, the uncommon power of directing the future. Danforth bowed his head slightly while Beren smiled wryly at his success. Unaware of the pact just formulated, Kashmar ambled into the room, “I meant to ask you, Beren: will you stay longer in Celphaïs now?” Beren laughed, still thinking of the future, “Yes, yes. This town is now a place of importance.” He took up his cup and finished the wine. Danforth smiled, gestured farewell to Beren, and went upstairs. “I think I will go to the marketplace,” Beren said, nodding farewell to the innkeeper and leaving him in the room alone. ​Stepping back towards the stairs and muttering some incoherent phrases, Kashmar noted a certain hollowness in his inn. The dark corner no longer housed a tenant. “He’s gone!” cried Kashmar. What’s this? he thought, looking back on the pain and sadness with which he had made the exclamation. He was a miserable fellow, an unwelcome fellow. Why do I miss his silent presence? He knocked insolently on a nearby wall to dispel a growing silence. A miserable, unwelcome fellow! He clambered up the stairs. ​In the marketplace Beren bought a new brooch for his cloak. The merchant who sold it to him recognized him from the battle and offered his thanks. Enjoying the praise, Beren wandered around Celphaïs and collected compliments from all who passed by him. Even those who had not seen him in the battle or had not been in it themselves gestured respectfully to Beren, assuming he must have played some major part upon seeing either his crimson cloak or his sword. At one point on this glorious walk Beren saw Sieghall walk past him; he decided not to greet him. Finally, having covered almost all of the paths in the town, Beren strode back towards the inn. As he turned the corner where he had many times before heard a dreadful melody, he, further than not hearing it, though it was there, thought of something else entirely. He thought of Sieghall, who he now realized had been walking north. He must have been going to the watchtower, he thought, unable to repress a feeling of respect for the man. ​He returned to the inn and, after a few hours, bade Kashmar good night. … The following evening brought forth a calm and radiant sky; the stars glimmered like the reflections of the sun off a sword, and the brightest seemed to be held aloft by the force of man as a healing torch. Such wonders, though, hid themselves from the people of Celphais above the smoke-filled shroud of the funeral pyre. Tall stacks of flaming bark surrounded the bodies of the slain, so that the watchers would not become sickened by the unruly sight of them. Stones had been arranged across the floor of the cleared marketplace to prevent the charring of the more permanent stones of the town. A faint breeze swept the smoke away from Celphaïs, momentarily revealing the sky before another wave emerged. The entirety of the town’s population was present. Some were staring idly at the spectacle, while others smiled at the variety of entertainment. Musicians crowded the corners of the square: they played at once but with different melodies, creating a wild dissonance to intermingle with the crackle of the flames. Beren drew his palm across his chin, hiding a lip curled in mild disgust. He leaned against one of the columns that outlined the market and on most days divided the numerous market stalls. His friend the innkeeper stood beside him, decidedly apathetic in his expression. He had tossed aside his makeshift hat, which now lay unimpressively at his feet. His thinned hair spun mildly with the draft. “I don’t like it,” stated Beren plainly. “Don’t like what?” his friend asked with no particular interest. Beren shrugged, “This pyre, I guess. It still eludes me why they chose such a thing. You read about these in legends, and even there only the noblest men are honored in this way. Why then should these men who probably only killed one man in their whole lives have a pyre? Was it their relatives who demanded it?” Beren lowered his head with a woeful shudder. “I know they’ll be loath to believe it, but these men do not deserve a funeral pyre.”