The laughter from the training ground faded behind them as the Tree Speaker slowly walked away from the clearing. He had not spoken when he gestured to Torren, but the boy understood the meaning well enough. When the old man began climbing the narrow path that wound up the slope above the camp, Torren followed a few steps behind.
The path twisted between dark pines and broken stone. Needles crunched under their feet, and the wind moved softly through the branches overhead. The sounds of the camp—voices, laughter, the clatter of wood against wood—grew quieter with every step until only the wind and distant mountain birds remained.
Torren already knew where they were going.
The Weeping Grove.
The forest began to change as they climbed higher. The pines grew thinner, and pale trunks began appearing between them like silent ghosts standing among darker trees. Soon the ground beneath Torren's feet felt different as well, softer and strangely still, as if the mountain itself held its breath in that place.
They stepped into the grove.
The weirwood trees rose from the earth in quiet rows, their bark smooth and bone-white beneath the pale light of the morning. Red leaves stirred above them in a faint whispering sound that did not seem to belong to the wind. Torren had seen the grove many times before, but it always made the same strange feeling crawl up his spine.
At the center of the grove stood the largest tree.
Its trunk was thicker than three men standing side by side, and the carved face on its bark watched the clearing with hollow eyes and a twisted mouth that had been frozen in its silent scream for centuries.
The Tree Speaker stopped beneath it and placed one thin hand against the white bark.
Torren stepped forward slowly, looking up at the face in the trunk.
For a moment neither of them spoke.
"You feel it," the Tree Speaker said at last.
Torren frowned slightly.
"Feel what?"
"The trees."
Torren looked around the grove again. Pale trunks stood quietly all around them, their red leaves shifting gently high above.
"I don't hear anything," he said.
The old man did not seem surprised.
"You will," he replied calmly.
Torren glanced at the tree again, uncomfortable under its silent stare. The carved eyes felt almost alive, as if they were studying him the same way the Tree Speaker often did.
Inside his mind, the calm voice spoke again, quieter this time.
These trees are unusual.
Torren ignored the comment and focused on the old man instead.
The Tree Speaker slowly lowered his hand from the trunk and turned toward the boy.
"For thousands of years these trees have watched the world," he said. "They remember what men forget."
Torren crossed his arms.
"How can a tree remember anything?"
The old man studied him for a moment, as if deciding how much to say.
"The roots run deep," he replied. "Deeper than the mountains. Deeper than the rivers. The Old Gods see the world through them."
Torren didn't know whether he believed that or not.
He glanced again at the face carved into the bark.
"Why do you keep watching me?" he asked.
The Tree Speaker did not hesitate.
"You were born beneath this tree," he said. "Your eyes carry the color of its leaves."
Torren had heard that before, and he did not like it any more now than he had the first time.
"That doesn't mean anything," he muttered.
"It means the gods noticed you," the old man replied.
Torren shook his head.
"I don't want to talk to trees."
The Tree Speaker smiled faintly at that.
"Many boys say the same thing."
"I want to fight," Torren said.
The words came out more stubbornly than he meant.
The old man was quiet for a moment. He looked up at the carved face in the weirwood, then back down at the boy standing beneath it.
"The gods rarely choose simple paths," he said.
Torren frowned.
"What does that mean?"
"It means the mountains may ask more of you than fighting."
Torren looked away from the tree, toward the slopes beyond the grove where the Painted Dogs camp lay hidden between the rocks.
He did not answer.
Inside his mind, the calm voice remained silent for once.
Torren stood there for a long moment, staring back at the white trunk of the weirwood.
The carved face watched him patiently, its empty eyes filled with centuries of quiet.
For the first time, Torren wondered if the Tree Speaker might be right about one thing.
The trees did seem to be watching him.