On the morrow, with only a sip of ale to counter the festivities of the night before and while his father proved new recruits, Einarr followed Saetild, the friendliest and least tree-like of the Matrons, down the path through the Whispering Woods. As lovely as the wood first appeared, Einarr felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle as they stepped into its shade.
“We’re not likely to run into your little elven ‘friend’ on the path today, are we?”
Saetild grimaced, her grandmotherly face puckering like a prune. “So you’ve met him, then.”
“He introduced himself, yes.”
“Well, the good news is he’s unlikely to trouble you on the path so long as you’re with one of us. The bad news is, he’s one of a very few beings who might know a suitable teacher for you. My sisters and I may well need to invite him…
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