“Yes,” replied Quentin, ruffling the boy’s dark hair absently, “we’ll find him.” Please, let us find him!

The farmer returned from tending to Blazer and came to stand before the King, not daring to break in on his thoughts by speaking. He just stood there silently and waited. There came a call from the house and when Quentin did not stir, the farmer announced, “M’lord, supper’s set’n.”

The evening sky glimmered with the sunset; the soft white clouds were tinted pink and orange. Crickets sang in the grass at the edge of the road, and swallows skipped and darted in the blue air.

The world seemed poised on a fine silken thread, perfectly balanced between night and day. Quentin sighed and stood. The thread snapped, and the world rolled on toward night.

They walked quietly to the house, dipped their hands into a basin sitting on a stool near the door, and then went in to their supper.

DEEP IN Pelgrin’s green heart, Toli paused beside a spring which trickled out from a hillock of white stone into a crystalline pool. He slid from the saddle and led Riv to drink, then knelt himself and cupped water to his lips. The westering sun tinted the sky with evening colors of dusty gold and pale violet, flaming the woodland greens and burnishing the boles of towering chestnut and hawthorn with a gleam like bronze.

Soon night would cover the forest with her dark wing, and he would have to find a sheltered hollow or a dry thicket for the night. But something drew him on, tugged at him gently, urging him to go just a little further.

Do not stop, it whispered in the boughs around him as the evening breezes stirred the green-gold leaves. Ride on.

So, after a last drink from the pool, Toli heaved himself back into the saddle and pushed on, sending his senses ahead of him to sift the air for a clue-a sound, a flicker of color, a scent borne on the air-anything that would tell him what had pricked his instincts and was drawing him forward.

It has been too long since I was in the wild, he reflected. My skills have grown dull. Now, when I need them most, how will I find the Prince?

He rode along, bending his trail here and there through the wood, straining into the gathering twilight. He stopped, held his breath… what was that?

Nothing. He lifted his hands to send Riv forward once more, then hesitated.

There it was again: a soft chirrup, faint as the whirr of insect wings on the breeze. Toli waited for it to come again, and when it did he knew beyond all doubt what it was.

How long has it been since I have heard that sound? he wondered. Then, placing his hand at the side of his mouth, he answered the call with his own-not as softly or skillfully done, but remarkably similar. He repeated the call once, twice, and climbed down from the saddle to wait, his heart thumping against his ribs.

Through a stand of slim young beeches, stepping noiselessly among the low-hanging branches they came: three Jher kinsmen dressed in skins and wearing deerhide pouches at their waists. They hesitated when they saw Toli, but he made no move toward them, so the forest dwellers advanced.

“Colitha tea healla rinoah,” said Toli when they had come as close as they would. In his native tongue it meant, “You have come far south this leaftime.”

“The deer,” the foremost Jher replied in the lilting speech of his people. “It has been dry in the north forest.” He paused and regarded Toli shrewdly. “I am Yona.”

“I am Toli.”

The three Jher glanced among themselves, excitement mirrored in their deep brown liquid eyes. “Yes,” said the leader. “We know. We have been watching you and recognized you. Everyone knows of Toli.”

“How many are with you?” asked Toli.

“Forty men and their women and children,” Yona replied. “It is very dry in the north.”

“Here in the south,” put in one of the others, “the deer are fat and run slow. Three tribes are with us.”

“Have you room for one more before your fire this night?”

The three looked at each other, smiled at one another with huge, toothy grins, and hooted in amazement at their good fortune. They all but stumbled over themselves to be the first to lead him back to the Jher camp.

The campfires were lit, and venison roasted on spits over the flames, wafting a tangy scent among the trees and dome-shaped dwellings made of deerhide, bark, and twigs. Toli had not encountered another of his race for many years, and he walked into the Jher encampment as one walking back into his own past. Nothing had changed. Every detail of life for the nomadic forest people remained the same-the deerskin clothing, the meals prepared over open fires, the sparkling dark eyes watching everywhere, the timid children clutching their mothers’ legs, the old men squatting before the flames instructing the young boys in wood lore-all was exactly as he remembered it, the same as it had always been.

His guides brought him to stand in the center of the camp. A good number of Jher had already assembled to see the stranger, and the sight of this Jher prince dressed in the fine clothing of the light-skinned men produced murmurs and hoots and shy pointing as they discussed him. For here was one of their own-some knew who he was and told the others-yet changed almost beyond recognition as a Jher. None of them had ever seen such a transformation.

In a moment there came a stirring at the outer fringes of the ring of onlookers, and a pathway formed through which passed a shrunken old man. He carried a long staff made from an ash sapling on which were affixed the antlers of a buck. This ancient one leaned heavily upon the staff and tottered forward to stand before the visitor. At his appearance all the other Jher became silent as they waited to see what their leader would do.

For his part, Toli waited to be received by the venerated leader, hands held loosely at his sides, eyes lowered as a sign of respect.

The old man came near and stood before Toli, drawing himself up to full height, gazing at him with quick, sharp eyes. “Toli, my son,” he said at last, using the polite form of address of an older man to a younger, “I knew you would come to us again.”

Toli’s eyes went wide with the realization of who it was that stood before him. “Hoet?” He recovered himself and said, “It is good to see you, my father.”

With that the old man threw down his staff, put his arms around Toli, and hugged him to his breast. At that moment all the other Jher, who had been watching silently, burst forth and began hugging Toli, gripping his hands and arms, patting his head and back in a great show of affection. Toli, the hero of many of their most often told and highly regarded tales and legends, had come home. Tonight would be a celebration.

A huge fire was made in the center of the village and deerskin and woven grass mats unrolled and placed around the perimeter, and upon each mat a large wooden bowl filled with fruit. Toli and Hoet were led to the place of honor to squat on their mat while the choicest pieces of roast meat were passed to them. The other Jher all found places around the fire. Little children scampered through the village whooping and calling bird sounds to impress the royal visitor.

Hoet hunched beside his guest and gazed at him thoughtfully, patting his arm or knee from time to time as if to reassure himself that it was true after all, that Toli had returned.

When hunger had been appeased, all eyes turned toward Toli and Hoet, and a chant began, slowly and quietly at first, but building rapidly to a crescendo of Jher voices. “Thia seaa!” they called. “We want a story! Tell us a story!”

As the honored guest who had been fed and pampered with ceremonious attention, it was Toli’s turn to repay the favor by telling his people a story. He stood and raised his hands above his head for silence, in the tradition of the best storytellers.