Torren did not return to the fires immediately.
The Tree Speaker had already disappeared among the shelters below, his thin silhouette swallowed by smoke and evening shadows. Laughter drifted from the center of the camp where the warriors were eating. Somewhere a child cried briefly before being hushed. Life in the valley continued as if nothing unusual had happened.
Yet Torren remained halfway between the grove and the camp, standing alone beneath the dark pines.
His hand still felt strange.
The cold of the weirwood bark had faded, but something else lingered beneath the skin, like the memory of winter trapped in bone. He flexed his fingers slowly, watching them move in the faint light of the rising moon.
The snow.
The battle.
The burning village.
The caves.
None of it had felt like a dream.
Inside his mind, the voice waited quietly.
Torren lowered himself onto a flat rock beside the trail. The wind moved gently through the trees above him, carrying the smell of smoke from the campfires below.
Finally he spoke.
What was that?
For a moment there was no answer.
Then the calm voice returned.
Memory.
Torren frowned.
You said that before.
Yes.
He kicked a small stone down the slope.
I wasn't there.
Correct.
So how did I see it?
The voice responded without hesitation.
Weirwood trees store memory.
Torren looked back toward the grove behind him.
The pale trunks were barely visible through the darkness now, but he could still feel their presence.
Trees don't remember battles.
Ordinary trees do not.
Torren leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
Explain.
The voice paused briefly, as if choosing words carefully.
Weirwoods are connected through their roots and through the Old Gods. For thousands of years, people have spoken, prayed, and died beneath them. The trees observe events. Those observations remain stored within the network.
Torren blinked slowly.
Network.
Yes.
He rubbed the side of his head.
You mean the trees share things with each other.
Correct.
Torren stared at the ground.
So the tree showed me something that happened long ago.
Yes.
He exhaled slowly.
The pieces of the vision moved through his mind again. The bronze armor. The snow. The men with seven-pointed stars.
The Tree Speaker said the Andals took the Vale valley by valley.
Historical records confirm this.
Torren lifted his head slightly.
Tell me.
There was a brief pause.
Then the voice spoke again.
Before the Andals arrived, the Vale was ruled by First Men kings. The mountain clans are descendants of those people.
Torren already knew that part. Every child in the mountains heard those stories around winter fires.
But the voice continued.
Approximately six thousand years ago, Andal warlords crossed the Narrow Sea. They brought steel weapons, organized armies, and a new religion devoted to the Seven.
Torren's red eyes narrowed slightly.
And they killed the people who lived here.
Yes.
The wind rustled the trees.
They also converted many surviving First Men populations to their religion and political structure.
Torren let out a quiet breath through his nose.
Converted.
He didn't like that word.
You mean forced.
Often.
Torren glanced back toward the grove again.
The battle I saw… was that one of those wars?
Highly probable.
He leaned back against the rock.
And the burning village?
Raids and reprisals were common during the Andal conquest.
Torren was silent for several seconds.
Then another thought appeared.
The caves.
The voice responded instantly.
After losing the lowlands, many First Men fled into the Mountains of the Moon. Over generations, those refugees became the mountain clans.
Torren felt a strange sensation settle in his chest.
So that's us.
Yes.
The simplicity of the answer made the weight of it heavier.
For a long time Torren said nothing.
The wind shifted direction and carried the smell of roasting meat up the slope again. The valley below him flickered with firelight.
Finally he spoke again.
The Tree Speaker said the trees remember what men bury.
Accurate.
Torren picked up another small stone and turned it between his fingers.
Why did the tree show it to me?
There was a longer pause this time.
Possible reasons include genetic heritage, proximity to the tree at birth, and emerging greenseer abilities.
Torren froze.
What did you say?
Greenseer.
The word meant nothing to him.
Explain.
Greenseers are rare individuals capable of seeing through weirwoods, animals, and prophetic visions. Historically they were associated with the Old Gods and the Children of the Forest.
Torren blinked.
Children of the Forest are stories.
Incorrect.
Torren did not like how quickly that answer came.
You're telling me they were real.
Yes.
He stared into the darkness between the trees.
The world was becoming stranger every day.
The Tree Speaker thinks I'm something like that.
Possible.
Torren frowned.
He wanted me to become the next Tree Speaker.
Yes.
He spat the word slightly.
I don't want that.
The voice remained calm.
Your preferences do not alter biological capability.
Torren rolled his eyes.
I'm not becoming an old man who paints his face and talks to trees.
The voice did not respond immediately.
After a moment it asked:
What do you want to become?
Torren didn't answer right away.
Below him in the valley he could see several warriors sitting near the central fire. One of them was sharpening a spear. Another was telling a story, judging by the gestures of his hands.
He imagined himself among them.
Older.
Stronger.
Leading raids down the High Road.
Killing Andals.
I want to be a warrior.
The answer came quietly but firmly.
Logical.
Torren blinked.
Logical?
Mountain clans value strength and leadership in combat.
Torren tilted his head slightly.
But if I can see things before they happen…
He stopped.
The thought was forming even as he spoke it.
Strategic advantage, the voice said.
Torren smiled faintly in the darkness.
Exactly.
He tossed the stone down the slope.
The Tree Speaker thinks the gods touched me.
Possibly true.
Torren snorted softly.
You don't sound very impressed.
I operate based on probability rather than faith.
Torren thought about that.
Do the Old Gods exist?
This time the voice answered with unusual clarity.
Yes.
Torren raised his eyebrows slightly.
You sound very certain.
Evidence supports their existence.
Torren leaned back again.
The idea did not frighten him as much as it probably should have. In the mountains everyone believed the Old Gods were real anyway. The trees watched. The forests listened. The world was older than the cities of the Andals.
The difference now was that Torren had seen proof.
So the trees remember battles.
Yes.
They remember villages burning.
Yes.
And they showed me that.
Correct.
Torren was quiet again.
Then another question came to him.
The Tree Speaker knew about the voice.
The calm presence inside his mind did not answer immediately.
Torren narrowed his eyes.
How?
After a moment the voice spoke.
Uncertain.
Torren did not entirely believe that.
He said not all guidance comes in the same form.
Yes.
Torren scratched lightly at the side of his head.
You think he knows about you?
Possible.
Torren stared toward the grove again.
The pale trunk of the great weirwood was barely visible now.
If he asks me about you…
You should answer carefully.
Torren smirked faintly.
You mean lie.
Selective truth.
Torren chuckled quietly.
You're learning fast.
The voice did not react to the joke.
Torren sat there for a few more minutes, letting the night settle around him.
Finally he stood.
One more question.
Proceed.
Torren looked up at the mountains above the grove.
If the trees remember everything…
He paused.
What else can they show me?
The answer came slowly.
Potentially thousands of years of history.
Torren felt a spark of excitement run through him.
Battles.
Yes.
Kings.
Yes.
The First Men.
Yes.
He began walking back toward the camp.
A faint smile touched his lips.
Good.
The fires of the Painted Dogs grew brighter as he approached the valley again.
Behind him, the weirwood grove stood silent beneath the rising moon, its red leaves whispering softly in the night wind as if the ancient trees were still listening.