When the fuss following the ceremony had subsided, Tarkyn found himself seated with his back against a log between Autumn Leaves and Waterstone. Despite a lifetime of adulation, he was still dazed by the honour the woodfolk had accorded him. Sparrow was asleep on his knee, leaning into the crook of his left arm, and he was already the worse for wear to the tune of several glasses of wine. He leaned his head back and said dreamily, “What a long week… Firstly, I was bashed up and nearly died from my injuries.” He rolled his head towards Waterstone to watch his outraged expression. “And I was nearly killed by the forestals for sweeping my hair out of my eyes. Then I let them tie me up. I hated that bit, but what else could I do? You can’t talk sense with frightened people. Then I endured a we
