At the start, the world seemed to know I was destined for big things. I was the pick of the litter and my father was proud. He taught me all he knew, and then some, arranging for tutors as fast as I could learn. A winter chill killed my brothers and sisters early in life, so it fell upon me to prepare myself to follow in my father’s footsteps.
I learned everything, from swordplay to sewing, from the movements of heavenly objects to the navigation of the swamp. I was a rambunctious little lad and loved to climb, inside or out, wood or stone, the higher the better.
I remember my mother as a frail creature. The winter chill that killed of my siblings had left her drained. i was too young to remember much of them, but I can recall sitting at my mother’s feet as she read in a soft hoarse voice from the Tomb of History, an accounting of the inhabitants of Swamp Tower and of my family. I can also recall the day she died. Even now, her rooms in the castle seem dark and gray, cold and damp. So much so that even as a child, given free run of the grounds, I avoided them like the plague.
Not that I did not remember her. My mother lived on, not in the drafty rooms that killed her and her children, but in the secret grove, where, hidden deep in the forest, in the deepest part of the swamp, my family lay, where each who passed on slept, ready for the day when they would awake again.
My father showed me the path, telling me of the sacred nature of the trees, how each tree was planted in remembrance of the fallen and how the grove was to be kept hidden from the world. I spent many warm summer days there, frolicking in the grass.
But never climbing. Funny, after so long, so much time spent reflecting on those golden days, I never knew how well I revered those trees.
The way to the grove is tricky. The trail loops and turns, crossing over itself, leading up and down, around patches of bog and even, at one point, under a stone outcropping only to go over an incredibly similar one a few minutes later. Even experienced travelers can get lost. I’ve had to start over from the beginning several times.
The path out is clearly marked. It’s easy to get out, though the trail is just as winding. The nature, however, of the woods makes it impossible to follow the trail out, in, and vice-versa.
My father told me the path was as sacred as the grove. Following the curve of the path puts one in the right mind set to visit. I was to never attempt to find an easier path and was to never show anyone the way in. and I never tried, I knew the Watcher would find me out If I did.
