Supposed to be or not, the woods were now also home to a lake.  One dappling beam of sunlight even managed to strike the scales of a fish as it wandered into shallows over-top of drowning bushes.  The presence of the little dinghy supposedly indicated that the water had always been here, though perhaps not quite so high as it was at present.  The oars were good shape, though wholly saturated, and the rope anchor was clearly meant to be cast off.  He draped it over a branch, then wrapped it around once for good measure.  When they returned, they would need it to anchor the boat again; no sense having to fish it out of the water.

Roderick glanced at Henry one last time, heart aching.  His red hair was a right mess, matted with mud, sweat, and forest debris after so many mad dashes through the countryside with nary a good bath in sight.  His cheeks were sallow and a bit sunken after night upon night of sleeplessness, and cuts and scratches marked him now where no war had succeeded in marking him before.

I wonder if this noxie has anything to get rid of scars?

Roderick shook off those thoughts before they could turn into hopes.  If the only scars his best friend ever bore were ones he put there…well, that would just have to be the way of things.

A dozen strokes ushered their craft into the clearing, and any remaining worries that their target had drowned disappeared. 

One glance was all one needed to spot their destination.

The lake was, in fact, a valley—an entire valley, all underwater, with masses of trees marching up and down the hillsides as they pleased.  Particularly nosy treetops poked their snoots out from the very depths of the lake like neighbors hiding behind doors whilst looking for reasons to wag their tongues.  Peaks that exceeded the tree line jutted up in all directions to frame the vale, some stretching so far as to lose face to the blue haze of clouds and distance.

In the center of the lake was a smaller mountain.  More than a hill, but nowhere near the height of its lofty brethren, the bit of land stretched upward in irregular tiers and stone-shored walks to a hut that seemed to have wallowed out and made a nest of the peak.  The site was so ostentatious as to be impossible to miss or mistake, so Roderick made his way there without thinking twice.

The barkeep said she lived at the lake to the east, with a much implied, “You can’t miss it,” and sure enough, one could not fail to see such a fantastical place as this. 

So, he grounded the boat on the island-side of a stone wall, and promptly disembarked despite the knee-deep water that eddied about his landing place.  He wedged the skiff between the wall and a dainty willow just in case, but it gave him pause when he looked at Henry again, sleeping soundly as he was.

What if the boat drifted away?

What if it capsized?

What if it sank?

He was thinking too much.  He was, and Roderick was fully aware that his worries were unfounded when the boat was so carefully crammed between a literal rock and a hard place…and even so, Roderick shook his head, hauled Henry over his shoulders again, grabbed their packs, and marched onward. 

No sense in tempting fate.  He’d already done that once and look at where it got him.