He glanced at the slumbering figures again. The moonlight was not bright enough through the clouds to show the disappointment on his face.
They had recited poetry while he was gone, to each other, and Brasseniel. She was one of the Greenwood, too. A nice little party it must have been, but he was preoccupied, talking to Tindir about the route to the first outpost, and when he returned to the campfire, folk were quiet, settled, and happy in each other’s company. Then Parnard saw his chance, and asked again for news of doings in the Greenwood.
He did not like Barangolf’s look of suspicion after he said that he had never heard of the famous White Stag hunt. Perhaps that is what the King and his court was chasing, all those times they rode out from the eaves of the wood. How was he to know what they did or where they went? Perhaps it was not as famous as Barangolf or his granddaughter Daelinn thought, Parnard almost said, but Brasseniel had known about it. Then again, she was in the King's service - naturally, she would know.
Barangolf looked at me, and his look said, You are different, and that is bad.
It puzzled him at first, until he spoke with Norliriel afterwards, in private. He told her of the time in icy Vindurhal, when he and Estarfin waited for the arrival of Veryacano and his men. Estarfin would not sit next to him by the campfire. But we were not such good friends then, he explained to Norliriel. He even chuckled a little as he described Nirhen’s sneering, and the poor iron-ringed armour he wore, hard-won after a long bout of bargaining with a stingy dwarf. He had been so proud of it.
Then he was reminded of how things were, and knew where the difference lay: once upon a time, he was in Barangolf's place, surrounded by powerful, fine folk. Surely, he must be a little dazzled by it? but what is wrong with a little dazzling?
He was born in a tiny hut under the tall trees of the Greenwood, and now he had a three-room house with swinging doors and long mirrors and elegant furniture, and even a polished marble floor. He was rich, titled, high in the esteem of an ancient and powerful lord. He had earned it, had he not? He rolled the wine again on his tongue. It was delicious, icy cold, but it warmed quickly. He was happy. He should be happy.
He weighed the matter a moment longer, his eyes on the few stars peeking out from the silvery mists, before throwing his cloak over his face.
