Fairy oaks and pine trees towered high above him. Sunlight sliced brilliantly down between the leaves and tall trunks to dapple the earth below with light. Green patches of moss with the dainty little white flowers folks called fairy rings seemed to glow against the shadows, drinking up the brief moments of light that washed over them. Stone, covered with lichen, broke through the thin earth here and there. This was one of the places the Fairy loved, Morgan knew, smelling richly of good earth, dampness, pine and those sweet-scented little flowers. It was as quiet, perhaps quieter and more serene than any cathedral built by men, a sacred space filled with peace. Even his horse’s hooves were muffled by the forest duff, by the pine needles and powdered leaves, the sound a soft drumbeat not unlike a heartbeat, pacing steadily. For the first time in an age Morgan relaxed, if only a fraction, but he did relax, allowing the tranquility of the place to fill him, to soothe his tense nerves. He closed his eyes for a moment.
