“I’m sure. It’s the only one in all of Landesfallen,” the stranger was saying.
And so, on a hunch, two days later Fallion took a pack and followed the river upstream, past the towns of Mill Creek and Fossil, and then turned inland and climbed Bald Mountain.
He reached the top near sundown, and there discovered the oak tree, a young tree with golden bark, new leaves unfolding in green while only a few tattered brown remained from the previous fall, and boughs that spread wide over the ground, as if to shelter the world beneath.
Fallion circled the tree.
They called him a son of the oak, but he had not seen one in so long that he had almost forgotten how beautiful a tree could be.
My father planted this, he thought. He stood here once, just as I am now.
For Fallion, the tree was a thread that bound him to a father he had never really known.
He looked for a place to sit, so that he could just admire it. Nearby was a tall outcropping of red rock, and he thought that he could lean against it, soak in its sun-drenched warmth like a lizard. He walked toward it, saw a vertical slit of blackness that revealed the presence of a tiny cave.
Fallion peered inside and found a weathered pack on the ground, its leather surface blending into the dust. Mice had nibbled at it, tearing a hole.
Upon the back of it, a leather cord acted as a latch, and a single gold button held it closed. Fallion peered at the button. The image of the green man stared back.
My father’s pack.
He opened it, looked inside. There had been food inside once, grain and herbs, but the mice and bugs had gotten to it.
A leather pouch held a portrait with a silver backing and a glass cover. The picture was painted on ivory, and showed Fallion and Jaz as children with their mother and father, all of them painted side by side. The boys could not have been more than four. They all smiled, grinning so innocently at the future.
Fallion marveled at it, for he did not recall having sat for the painting. Hours of his life, wasted, forgotten.
Beneath the painting was a change of clothes, a razor and mirror, a few coins, and an old leather book.
Fallion opened the book, and saw that it was a journal, containing notes about his father’s travels, the people he had met, the things that he had learned, his hopes and dreams and fears. It was a window into the soul of the world’s greatest king.
There in the shadows, Fallion could not read it. He thought to take it outside, and reached out for support as he rose to his knees. By chance he touched a staff, an oaken walking stick with a brass base, nicely carved. Gems were set in the handle, and runes had been carved along its lengths.
The Wizard Binnesman’s work, Fallion realized.
He took the staff and the book out into the bright sunlight and squinted as he peered around.
Father wouldn’t have left these, Fallion told himself. His body will be nearby.
Behind him was all rock, a sheer rise of petrified sand dunes, the stone cascading down as if to make a stairway into the heavens.
Below was the hillside, covered with sparse grasses.
The only place that a body could be hidden was there beneath the tree.
Fallion took the staff and prodded the old leaves beneath the tree. They formed a mat, brown leaves splotched by dark lichens and mold. Many had gone skeletal, showing only the bones of leaves.
There Fallion struck something round and heavy, and a skull rolled out from the leaves, grayed by age, its walls thinning as it decalcified.
“There you are, Father,” Fallion whispered, picking up the skull.
He prodded some more and found a collection of bones, a few thin ribs, finger bones, and a hip. There was no sign of foul play, no dagger protruding from the back, no arrow in the heart. Just bones.
Finally Fallion understood.
Father had been a wizard, an aging wizard. Just as a flameweaver carried an elemental of flame within him, or one of the wind-driven would unleash a cyclone, something of the earth had to make its way out of his father upon his demise.
Fallion peered out over the valley, the land that he called home. From up here, he could see the river snaking through green and peaceful fields, cottages down below with red-and-white cattle or black sheep dotting the fields. There were orchards and hay fields stretching as far as Fallion could see.
Fallion’s father had not been murdered. He had been old and decrepit, dying.
So he sought out a fertile place, and had planted himself there.
He wanted me to be here, Fallion realized. He wanted me to be where he could watch over me.
Fallion had never really known his own father. At times he had wanted Waggit to be his father, or Borenson, or Stalker. And as such children do, he had learned from each of those men, had taken something of them into himself.
Squatting there in the shade of the oak, Fallion pulled open the book and began to read, determined to become intimate with a father he had never really known.
Tor Books by David Farland
The Runelords
Brotherhood of the Wolf
Wizardborn
The Lair of Bones
Sons of the Oak
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.
SONS OF THE OAK
Copyright © 2006 by David Farland
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.
A Tor Book
Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC
175 Fifth Avenue
New York, NY 10010
www.tor-forge.com
Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.
eISBN 9781429920490
First eBook Edition : December 2011
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Farland, David.
Sons of the oak / David Farland.—1st ed. p. cm.
“A Tom Doherty Associates book.”
ISBN-13: 978-0-765-30177-2
ISBN-10: 0-765-30177-6 (acid-free paper)
1. Supernatural—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3556.A71558S66 2006
813’.54—dc22
2006005729
First Edition: November 2006
Sons of the Oak Page 41