Arthur contemplated the clearing where the elf lay one last time, then turned on his heels and began his descent toward familiar lands. The weight of failure pressed on his shoulders almost as much as his bow and bag. Six days away from the farm, six days leaving Isabella to manage alone with the field work, and for what? To return empty-handed, with only a mysterious stone as his find that wouldn't fill their hungry bellies.
The path he took wound through the rocky slopes of the Cursed Ridge, skirting vertiginous cliffs from which one could see their village of Brownstone, a tiny brown spot amid the golden fields. Arthur knew every stone of this path, every treacherous root that could trip an inattentive walker. He had climbed these slopes hundreds of times with his uncle Gareth, learning to read the signs of nature, to distinguish fresh tracks from old ones, to recognize the bird calls that announced a storm.
His stomach growled loudly, reminding him of his precarious situation. He opened his bag and inventoried his meager provisions: a crust of bread hard as stone, a piece of goat cheese no bigger than his fist, and a few nuts gathered the day before. With luck and much parsimony, this could last one day. Perhaps two if he accepted to suffer a little more from hunger.
- "Well," he muttered, putting the bread back in his bag, "we'll make do with what we have. Uncle Gareth always said a man can survive a week without eating, as long as he has water."
He undertook to strictly ration his meals. A small piece of bread at sunrise, a few nuts at noon, and the cheese saved for evening when hunger would become truly unbearable. Water, fortunately, was not lacking in these mountains. Streams rushed down from everywhere, fed by springs that gushed from the rocks.
The first day of descent was the most painful. His legs still trembled from the shock of the explosion, and hunger was already beginning to gnaw at his stomach. He followed the main path that ran along the Silver Veil Waterfall, that spectacular cascade that leaped from rock to rock over more than a hundred feet in height. The roar of water crashing into the natural basin echoed throughout the valley, covering all other sounds of the forest.
Arthur stopped for a moment to admire the spectacle. Water gushed from a crack in the rock wall, forming a liquid curtain that caught the sun's rays and transformed them into a thousand ephemeral rainbows. Fresh droplets carried by the wind came to caress his face, providing him brief respite from his fatigue.
- "Magnificent," he murmured. "Always magnificent."
He filled his water bottle in the clear basin and drank long. The icy water did him good, momentarily soothing the cramps of his empty stomach. He had often fished in this basin with Gareth, catching the silver trout that swam upstream in spring. Today, he had neither the time nor the necessary tools to try his luck.
The path then continued through the Forest of Whispers, so named because the wind produced strange sounds there as it rushed through the branches of hundred-year-old pines. Arthur knew every landmark of this section: the Great Split Oak, struck by lightning decades ago but which continued obstinately to live; the Mushroom Clearing, where the most flavorful morels in the region grew in spring; the Sentinel Rock, an enormous granite block from which one could watch three valleys at once.
When the sun began to decline, Arthur looked for a safe place to spend the night. Sleeping on the ground in these mountains was synonymous with suicide. Black bears, wolves, and even large wild cats prowled at night, and a man alone and without fire was easy prey.
He finally found an old beech with branches sufficiently wide and spread to offer him an acceptable perch. Climbing with the agility acquired in his youth, he settled in a natural fork of the trunk, about fifteen feet from the ground. Not high enough to discourage a determined bear, but sufficient for most predators.
The night was clear, studded with stars that shone like diamonds on the black velvet of the sky. Arthur leaned back against the rough trunk and carefully took out the stone from his bag. In the darkness, it seemed almost phosphorescent, emitting a soft golden glow that pulsed weakly.
- "What could you possibly be?" he murmured, turning it between his hands.
The surface was perfectly smooth, polished like glass, but warm to the touch. The darker veins that ran through it formed complex patterns, almost geometrical, that seemed to move when looked at from the corner of the eye. Arthur had the strange sensation that these designs were not natural, that they had been engraved by something, for a very specific purpose.
- "You're not an ordinary stone, are you?" he continued, speaking in a low voice so as not to attract the attention of nocturnal predators. "That elf... he was carrying you as if you were precious. More precious than gold, even."
He brought it close to his face, trying to pierce its secrets. The stone seemed to react to his proximity, its glow intensifying slightly. Arthur felt a shiver run through him, as if something, far inside the object, was trying to communicate with him.
- "You remind me of the stories that Kaer the tanner used to tell," he murmured. "He sometimes spoke of magic stones, of gems that contained the very essence of life. But those were just tales, haha!"
The night wind made the branches around him moan, like an answer to his question. Arthur carefully put away the stone and tried to find sleep, lulled by the familiar sounds of the nocturnal forest.
The next morning, hunger woke him before dawn. His stomach cramps were more violent, and he had to grit his teeth not to devour his last provisions all at once. He contented himself with a tiny piece of bread and resumed his journey, his legs trembling.
The descent became more difficult. The path became steeper, more rocky, and Arthur often had to stop to catch his breath. His vision sometimes blurred, black spots dancing before his eyes. Dehydration was beginning to be felt despite the water he drank regularly.
He crossed the Ford of Three Rivers, where the tumultuous waters of three mountain torrents met in a chaos of foam and eddies. Normally, he could have fished a few trout in the calm holes downstream, but he didn't have the necessary equipment. He contented himself with filling his water bottle and continuing.
On the evening of the second day, Arthur finally reached the Twin Pines, two gigantic conifers that marked the boundary between the high mountains and the wooded hills that surrounded Brownstone. From there, he had only half a day's walk left to reach the village.
He settled again in a tree for the night, an oak this time, whose branches were more comfortable than those of the previous day's beech. His last provisions now consisted of only a few cheese crumbs and three nuts. He ate them slowly, savoring each bite as if it were a royal feast.
Once again, he took out the stone to examine it. That night, it seemed even more beautiful, even more mysterious. Its golden glow seemed more intense.
- "Tomorrow, I'll be home," he told it as if addressing a friend. "Isabella will be happy to see me, even if I return empty-handed. And you... perhaps you can help us. If you're really worth something, you could get us out of misery. Buy medicines for Isabella's cough, or just proper food..."
He interrupted himself, suddenly aware that he was talking to a stone as if to a living being. Fatigue and hunger were playing tricks on him, obviously. He shook his head and carefully put away his treasure.
- "I'm going mad," he muttered. "Completely mad."
On the third day, Arthur began the last stage of his journey. The wooded hills gradually gave way to pastures and cultivated fields that surrounded Brownstone. He recognized their neighbors' wheat parcels, the apple orchards that belonged to the Brunecombe family, the meadows where shepherd Aldric's sheep grazed.
Brownstone was not a large village, barely two hundred souls at most, but it was home. The stone and wood houses huddled around the central square, dominated by the church bell tower dedicated to Aethon. Smoke rose lazily from the chimneys, a sign that the inhabitants were going about their daily occupations.
Arthur stopped at the edge of the village, gathering his courage. His stomach was completely empty now, his legs trembling, and his head spinning. But above all, he was ashamed. Ashamed to return empty-handed after six days of absence, ashamed to have failed where Gareth would certainly have succeeded.
He thought back to the stone in his bag. Perhaps... perhaps he could trade it for food? Malonne, the village butcher, was greedy for profit. If Arthur could convince him that the stone had value...
Malonne's shop was located in the heart of the village, recognizable by the carved sign representing a pig and an ox that swayed above the door. Arthur pushed the wooden door and entered the establishment, his nostrils immediately assailed by the powerful smell of fresh meat and blood.
Malonne was a corpulent man in his forties, with arms thick as tree trunks and a perpetually ruddy face. His hands, stained with blood, handled a cleaver with impressive dexterity, cutting up a quarter of beef on his massive wooden stall. When he spotted Arthur, his face darkened and he put down his tool with an exaggerated sigh.
- "Well, well," he sneered, "here's our great hunter returning! So, Arthur, are you bringing me a nice plump deer? Or perhaps a boar? No, wait, let me guess... a famished rabbit?"
Arthur clenched his fists, fighting the urge to respond sharply. He needed this man, however unpleasant he might be.
-"This time, it's not meat I've come to offer you, Malonne," he replied, striving to keep a neutral tone.
- "Ah!" exclaimed the butcher, striking his forehead with a theatrical gesture. "Of course! You've come to buy meat from me! Because the great hunter Arthur hasn't managed to catch so much as a squirrel!"
- "I found something," Arthur continued, ignoring the sarcasm. "Something that might interest you."
He carefully took out the stone from his bag and placed it on the wooden counter. The effect was immediate. Malonne abruptly stopped his mockery, his small porcine eyes widening with surprise. He extended a hesitant hand toward the stone, then stopped, as if he feared touching it.
- "By all the gods..." he murmured. "What is that?"
- "A precious stone," Arthur replied, regaining some confidence at the butcher's reaction. "Look how it shines, how perfectly polished it is. It must be worth a fortune."
Malonne leaned over the stone, studying it from all angles. Arthur could see greed igniting in his eyes, cupidity slowly replacing surprise.
- "How much do you want for it?" the butcher finally asked in a hoarse voice.
Arthur hesitated. He had no idea of the stone's real value, but he couldn't show his ignorance.
- "Enough to feed my family for a month," he replied cautiously.
Malonne burst into a greasy laugh.
- "A month? You're dreaming, boy! This stone, it's pretty, certainly, but it's not worth more than a few copper coins. I'll give you a piece of pork for it, that's already generous."
- "Pork?" Arthur was indignant. "You're joking! This stone is unique, look at its brilliance, its perfection..."
- "Unique, my eye!" Malonne cut him off. "It's colored glass, nothing more. Come on, two pieces of pork, and that's because I'm good-hearted."
Arthur felt anger rising within him. Malonne was obviously trying to swindle him, taking advantage of his youth and inexperience.
- "Where did you find this, anyway?" the butcher continued in a suddenly more suspicious tone.
- "In the Cursed Ridge," Arthur replied without thinking. "More precisely in the Brumelune Woods."
The effect of his words was devastating. Malonne's face became livid, then red with rage. He grabbed the stone and threw it violently toward Arthur, who caught it just in time against his chest.
- "CURSED!" screamed the butcher. "You dare bring cursed objects into my shop! You want to bring misfortune on my family!"
- "Wait!" Arthur protested, clutching the stone against him. "You could have damaged it!"
- "Get out of my shop!" Malonne continued, pointing an accusing finger toward the door. "Get out immediately, or I'll call the guard! I want nothing to do with the affairs of that cursed forest!"
The dispute had attracted attention. The door burst open abruptly, and Borht, the village chief, made his appearance. He was an imposing man, muscled by years of work as a lumberjack, his face marked by weather and effort. Past forty, he commanded the respect of all Brownstone's inhabitants through his wisdom and strength.
- "What's happening here?" he asked in a calm but authoritative voice. "We can hear you shouting from the other end of the square."
- "That cursed boy!" Malonne exclaimed, pointing at Arthur. "He's trying to sell me cursed objects! He wants to bring misfortune on the whole village!"
- "That's not true!" Arthur protested. "I just wanted to trade a stone for food. It's Mr. Malonne who tried to swindle me!"
Borht sighed and ran a hand through his graying hair.
- "Show me this stone, Arthur."
Arthur hesitated, then held out the object to the village chief. Borht examined it briefly, frowning.
- "It is indeed a beautiful stone," he admitted. "But Malonne is right to be cautious with objects found in the Cursed Ridge. No one knows what hides there."
He returned the stone to Arthur and turned to the butcher.
- "That said, Malonne, this boy is returning from an unsuccessful hunt. His family needs food, and his cousin Mordred is leaving soon for the army. A little Christian charity wouldn't hurt you."
- "I want nothing to do with..."
- "How much for a good piece of beef?" Borht cut him off, placing a few silver coins on the counter.
Malonne looked at the coins with greed, then at Borht with suspicion.
- "You... you're buying for him?"
- "Indeed. Give me your finest pieces."
The butcher didn't dare refuse. Reluctantly, he wrapped several beautiful pieces of beef in oiled parchment and handed them to Borht. The latter left the shop, followed by Arthur who couldn't believe it.
- "Here," said Borht, handing him the package. "This should feed your family for a few days."
- "Mr. Borht, I... I don't know how to thank you," Arthur stammered. "But I can't accept charity. Let me work for you to pay you back."
- "That won't be necessary."
- "Yes!" Arthur insisted. "Please. Tell me how much I owe you, and I'll work until I've repaid my debt."
Borht observed him for a long time, then nodded with a smile.
- "Very well. You can come help me cut wood tomorrow morning. A day's work should suffice."
Arthur accepted with gratitude and left the village, his heart lighter despite his fatigue. Isabella's house was half a league outside Brownstone, a modest stone farm surrounded by cultivated fields. The building was small but solid, with a recently redone thatched roof and blue-painted wooden shutters.
As he approached, Arthur saw Mordred working in the vegetable garden, hoeing the rows of vegetables with the fierce energy of someone trying to forget his troubles. His cousin was a young man of twenty, with curly brown hair and green eyes sparkling with intelligence. But today, his face was dark, marked by the anguish of his imminent departure for the army.
Arthur pushed open the house door and entered the kitchen, where the familiar smell of fresh bread and dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams awaited him.
- "Aunt Isabella!" he cried, proudly brandishing his package. "Look what I brought back!"