ARC: Sunstone (3 page)

It was time to reveal her final secret. “There is something else,” she said. She glanced at Geve. This bit he did know about, and he nodded now, encouraging her to speak.

“The baby,” she said. “He has also shown me the way out.”

CHAPTER TWO

I

Julen pushed open one of the hall doors and walked inside. A blast of hot air from the fire in the hearth washed over him, and he stood there for a moment, drinking in the warmth, feeling comforted and welcomed after a morning out on Isenbard’s Wall. In spite of it being the height of The Shining, the wind was always brisk across the high hills this end of the Wall so near the sea.

He cast his eye around and saw his mother and siblings eating by the fire, much of the rest of the household dotted around them, the steward directing some of the servants to carry fresh fruit to the tables, maids carrying pitchers of ale from person to person.

Everything seemed normal and in place, from the huge tapestries depicting various battle scenes from his family’s past, to the light laughter that rippled around the room as people chatted and relayed the events of their day, to the smell of the fresh rushes on the floor, scattered with lavender and mint, and the aroma of roasted meat that drifted up from the kitchens.

And yet, once again, a frisson of warning ran up his spine.

He put his hand out automatically and Rua’s head appeared underneath it, as he had known it would. She stood close to him, cautious and quiet as they both surveyed the room. Could she feel it too? Or was she just picking up on his apprehension?

As before, he couldn’t place the problem, so he mentally pushed it away, walked forward and crossed the hall to his family. “Good afternoon,” he said, bending forward to kiss his mother on the cheek.

“You are late,” she said, running her gaze down him. “And please tell me you are not joining us looking like that.”

He glanced down and surveyed his mud-splattered breeches and boots, scratched at the stubble on his face and tugged at his untidy beard. Then he shrugged, climbed onto the bench and sat. “I would not want to deny you a second of my company while I bothered to change,” he said as he reached for a loaf of bread and winked at his mother.

Procella’s glare faded to a wry smile, and she rolled her eyes and carried on eating. He laughed and cut a thick slice of the bread, winking at his brother, who grinned back. Like the dog sitting beside him, his mother was mostly bark and no bite, although he had seen both of them in battle and knew both to have a savage side that revealed itself when the occasion demanded it. Procella’s hair might now be grey, and occasionally in the mornings she moved stiffly until she had worn off the old battles’ aches and pains she had gained through the years, but only last week he had accompanied her on a foray into the forest south of Vichton where a group of bandits had been preying on travellers on the road south to Lotberg. She had joined him in hunting them down with her characteristic skill on horseback, and when they caught them, she had dispatched them swiftly, casting aside their vain attempts to defend themselves with undisguised contempt before ending their lives.

Julen had remained astride his horse and had watched her take on three of them in one go, thankful of a situation where she could exorcise her frustration and fury instead of taking it out on him. He loved his mother, but without his father there to lock horns with her and keep her grounded, she rattled around the old castle like a bee in a pot, driven to restless vexation through a lack of activity and physical release.

She was not made for peace, he thought as he took a thick slice of pork and another of beef, layering them with a third slice of cheese on the bread before taking a bite. Procella was a woman built for war, and sometimes he wondered whether she was jealous that he worked for the Peacekeeper.

“So what is the news on the road?” she asked. “Tell us something exciting. It is so very dull around here sometimes.”

He glanced at Horada, wondering whether his sister would feel insulted that her mother had described her company as dull, but her gaze was fixed on the candle in the centre of the table, which flickered in the breeze of the open doors, and she did not appear to have heard Procella’s words. His eyes followed hers. The candle flame danced, jumping and writhing like a tortured soul in a bright yellow cage. He blinked, seeing bright light before his eyes for a moment as he turned his gaze away.

“I
have
heard something interesting, as it happens.” He started to cut himself another slice of bread. “There is talk across the whole of Anguis from Crossnaire to Quillington of an unusual frequency of fires springing up.”

“That must be due to the weather.” Orsin was busy cutting himself a piece of apple pie. His genial face was relaxed, his beard neatly trimmed, his light brown hair slightly damp, showing he had bathed only an hour before. Orsin liked to bathe, saying women preferred him that way, which was probably true. “It has been incredibly hot lately. The undergrowth must be dry as a five-day bone, and the bracken and dead leaves would make perfect kindling.”

“True.” Julen concentrated on building another few layers of meat and cheese, and threw a fatty bit of pork to Rua where she lay patiently on the rushes by his feet. “But it is not just in the forest that this has been happening. People have reported it all over the place. In homes, in stables, in market places, in the fields.” He wondered whether to mention the rest of his news, then thought about his initial unease on entering the room and decided not to.

He glanced up and paused in the act of placing the last slice of cheese on the top. “What?”

Orsin followed his gaze. Horada’s attention had finally been drawn away from the candle, and she and her mother stared at each other for a long moment before both dropped their eyes.

Procella cleared her throat and sliced an apple in half. “How is the Veriditas?”

He met Orsin’s gaze and raised an eyebrow. His brother shrugged. Julen wasn’t surprised. Orsin had been away for many years, serving first as a page then as a squire at a neighbouring lord’s castle, and he had only returned to Vichton after their father’s death. Although built like Chonrad with his height and broad shoulders, Orsin had their mother’s lack of sensitivity, and this, combined with his long absence, meant he wouldn’t have known an atmosphere if it had stood in front of him waving.

Julen took a bite out of his meat and cheese. “Good. The Nodes are attended to regularly.”

“And the Arbor?”

“Is good. Tall and strong. The flow of energies is working, Mother, do not fear. What is bothering you?”

“Horada and I… We both had the same dream last night.”

He looked up sharply. “The same?”

“Well, similar. We both dreamed the Arbor was on fire.”

Cold sliced through him. Suddenly he couldn’t swallow the meat and cheese in his mouth. Conscious of his mother’s eyes on him, he forced himself to chew several times and took a large mouthful of ale to help the food go down.

He cleared his throat. “How strange.”

“I think it means something.” It was the first time Horada had spoken. She had gone back to staring at the flame, her brow furrowed.

Julen poured her another glass of ale. “What do you think it means?”

“I think the Arbor wants me to go there.” She glanced up at her mother, then away again.

Julen looked at Procella, whose mouth had set into a thin, hard line. “We have had this discussion,” Procella said.

“Discussion?” Horada lifted her chin. “We did not ‘discuss’ anything. You told me I cannot go. That is not a discussion.”

Procella’s eyes blazed. Julen frowned. His mother had little respect for his sister. Procella thought her daughter weak, not just because she was physically small, but because she had never shown an interest in picking up a sword. Their mother thought all her children should be like her – strong and fierce, able to defend themselves should the need arise, but Horada had proved useless in battle practice and had eventually walked away, refusing to take part. Because of this, Julen was sure Procella secretly despised her.

But what his mother did not seem to understand was that Horada’s strengths lay elsewhere. His sister was calm and patient, thoughtful and determined, and although these were not qualities prided by his mother, Julen was sure his father had seen within Horada something of himself. Chonrad’s heart had been the size of a mountain, his strength what the Arbor had needed all those years ago when the Darkwater Lords invaded, and almost certainly just the year before, when it had called to him again.

And maybe the Arbor was calling to her now, as the daughter of Chonrad, to come to it and help it. He could understand why that thought scared his mother. He had been shocked when Chonrad had returned from Heartwood, carried on a pallet, too weak to stand. The Arbor had drained him, and Procella – who had spent her life defending the great tree – would never forgive it for taking away the man she loved.

Julen missed his father. But sometimes things happened in the world that were about more than one person, that were bigger than a love of a man for a woman, or a child for his father. Chonrad had understood that, and in spite of his loyalty to his family, he had left them to answer the Arbor’s call, and Julen did not blame him for it. The Arbor had to be maintained – that, if nothing else, the Darkwater Lords had taught them. And who were they to deny it, if it called to them for help?

But Procella knew only that the Arbor had killed her husband, and now it wanted her daughter, and she was clearly going to do everything in her power to ensure it didn’t get her.

“Eat your chicken,” she instructed her daughter. “You are too skinny.”

In answer, Horada pushed away her plate, got up and walked away.

Procella inhaled as if she were about to yell, but Julen stood and held up a hand. “I will talk to her, Mother.” Procella glared but nodded and turned her attention to the accounts the steward had brought for her to examine. Julen winked at his brother and left the table, Rua by his side.

He followed Horada out through the doors into the yard. She had already vanished, but he knew where she would be heading. He followed the building around to the east, skirted the stables and barns, and walked through the bougainvillea-covered archway into the herb garden.

She walked slowly along the lines of plants, bending occasionally to break off a dead leaf and rub it between her fingers before taking a gentle sniff. The scents of rosemary, marjoram, chives and garlic rose to mingle in the air as he brushed through them.

“I spoke to Silva last week,” he said as he approached her. Silva was a Komis woman who had played a huge role in the healing of the Arbor during the Darkwater invasion.

Horada glanced over her shoulder as he approached, and straightened, shading her eyes from the sun. “Oh?”

“She is putting together a chronicle of medicines.” He snapped off a small piece of mint and pressed it to his nose. “I told her that you are renowned throughout Vichton for your tinctures. She is hoping you will write some of them down for her so she can add them to her list.”

“I would like to meet her.” There was more than a hint of bitterness in her voice. “But that is clearly never going to happen.”

He sat on a wooden bench amongst the roses and patted the seat to his right. “Maybe one day we will be able to persuade Mother to let you go.”

“Not now.” She sank listlessly onto the bench. “I should not have said anything about the dream. Now she will never let me out of her sight.”

“It is not good to keep secrets,” he said.

That earned him a wry look. “So says Heartwood’s greatest spy.”

He laughed. “I am not a spy.”

“Are you not? You cannot fool me, brother. Gravis the Peacemaker may call you his right-hand man, but I know he makes use of your talent for stealth and your liking of shadows to infiltrate Anguis’s darker spots.”

He cocked his head at her. “And what makes you say that?” She was right, of course, but he would never admit it. The less she knew about what he really got up to out on the road, the safer she was.

She didn’t answer him, just sank back onto the seat and tipped her face up to the sun with a heavy sigh. “Do you know how much I envy you?”

“Envy?”

“No one controls what you do or where you go. You do not know how lucky you are.”

He studied her thoughtfully. How would he feel cooped up in this castle day after day with his mother? Frankly, he thought he might have gone mad. “I do understand. And perhaps our parents have been overprotective. If so, it was only done out of love for you. But you are seventeen now. Many girls are married younger than that. Surely it will not be long before you have a husband and a castle of your own.”

Horada dropped her head and stared across the gardens. “Exchange one prison for another?” She turned her dark blue eyes on him. “Would you do it?”

He said nothing, knowing it was a rhetorical question. “What do you want, sweetheart?”

She looked up at a seagull soaring on the zephyrs above the castle. “To be free.”

Julen said nothing. The two of them sat in silence. What was there to be said, after all?

II

Tahir was sitting at the high table, breaking his fast, when Demitto finally roused from his pallet at the bottom of the hall. The Prince watched the man push himself upright, stretch, scratch his head wildly until his hair stuck up all over the place, then proceed to get dressed.

The ambassador looked a lot different without his armour, Tahir thought. Because of the heat, the guards at Harlton tended to wear little more than a leather jerkin and breeches on normal days, and even their ceremonial armour consisted of standard flat plates buckled onto the leather. The ambassador’s armour had stunned Tahir with its elaborateness. Polished to a high shine and clean even after his long journey, the steel had been finely engraved with entwining leaves and vines, the numerous plates fitting over each other in intricate layers to enable him to move easily. The breastplate sported a picture of the Arbor, inlaid with tiny emerald chips to illustrate the tree’s leaves. The helmet was also engraved with complex leaf designs, and a fan of peacock feathers sprouted from the top to fall down the knight’s back. Tahir had never seen a peacock, and the shimmering blue and green eyes had sent a shiver down his back.

Although the suit would be impractical for the humid Amerle weather, the ambassador had struck an impressive sight when he first walked through the castle doors and strode toward the dais. The sunlight had slanted through the high windows and bounced off the jewels in the breastplate, dazzling Tahir and enveloping the emissary in a bright aura that Tahir had interpreted as a sign of holy fervour emitting from the knight’s very soul.

Now, he realised how mistaken he had been. The ambassador was just a man, and not a very impressive one at that. Barely taller than Catena and about as thin, his hair was long, dark and scruffy, nowhere near as stylish as Tahir’s own shiny and braided locks. He was well muscled though, presumably from years of weapons training, which surprised the Prince. He had not expected the ambassador to be a fighting man. He had expected a priest, a righteous, saintly figure who would give Tahir some reassurance that the role he was about to carry out had some purpose other than to provide compost for a plant.

Demitto did not appear to be righteous, or saintly. Having tugged on a tunic and breeches, he walked to the high dais a few seats down from Tahir, burped, farted, then sat and pulled a plate toward him and started eating.

“It is polite to say ‘pardon me’ if one belches at the table,” the Prince said, indignant after years of social grooming.

Demitto looked across at him, still chewing, and surveyed him with an amused gaze. He gave a mock bow. “Begging your pardon, my prince.” Then he lifted himself up and farted again, louder this time. Behind them, the servants broke into a ripple of giggles.

Catena approached the table and took a seat opposite them. She had clearly overheard their conversation, but to Tahir’s annoyance she didn’t reprimand the man. She just rolled her eyes and ladled porridge into a bowl.

Tahir stiffened. The man was mocking him. He noted Demitto’s bleary gaze and reddened eyes, the heavy bristle on his chin. How dare the man appear in his presence in such an uncouth manner? “You were out drinking last night,” he observed.

Demitto nodded and took a large bite of bread. “Indeed I was. Twelve ales, the inn had, all from various parts of Laxony. I highly recommend it.”

“Your behaviour shocks me,” Tahir announced.

“So I see.” Demitto’s eyes gleamed. “May I ask why?”

“Because you are an emissary of Heartwood,” Tahir said hotly. “A holy man should not act thus.”

Demitto burst into laughter, shook his head and swallowed a large mouthful of ale. “My dear prince, one thing I am
not
is holy
.
” He gave them both a curious frown. “I am beginning to wonder what kind of vision you have of Heartwood down here.”

“You represent the Arbor, do you not? You wear its likeness on your breastplate.” Tahir clenched his fists on the table as the frustration and fear that had been building over the past year rose to the surface like a piece of wood cast into the moat. “The Arbor is a representation of Animus’s love in Anguis. It deserves some respect, especially from those who claim to stand for it.”

Demitto swallowed, put down his knife, turned to face the Prince and narrowed his blue eyes. “Now let us get a few things straight, little man. How old are you?”

Tahir lifted his chin. “Thirteen.”

“Thirteen. And how many towns and cities have you visited on your travels?”

Tahir’s cheeks grew hot. “I have never been out of Amerle.”

“You have never been out of Amerle.” Demitto’s voice mocked him. “Well I am thirty-one, and I have visited practically every town in the whole of Anguis. Mortaire, where they make silver jewellery so intricate it looks like lace. Ornestan, where the great professors teach everything from Philosophy to Law to Science, and where I took part in a debate with the great scholars of the north. Franwar, where the quays are piled high with fish and crabs and lobsters, and where I went diving for coral on the reefs. Henton on the east, where they craft ships so large they can carry a whole army. And even to Darle in Komis – and yes, I can see that surprises you – where they carve wooden animals so lifelike you have to look twice to see if they are real. I have eaten with kings, slept with princesses, fought for princes and got blind drunk with guards. I can speak every language and feel at home at any table. I have seen the world, my friend – I am synonymous with Anguis. That is why I am Heartwood’s ambassador – nothing more.”

He turned back to his food and bit into an apple.

Tahir stared at him, heart pounding. The man was rude and arrogant, but still, there was something about him… Even though he made himself out to be little more than a mercenary, he emitted a charisma that Tahir had never seen before from anyone at court. Maybe it was just that he had travelled a lot and met many people – that he was exotic, like the peacock plume in his helm. But once again, in spite of his bristles and scruffy hair, he seemed to emit a golden glow, and the sun wasn’t even shining.

Tahir’s gaze slid across to Catena. Even though he suspected she had accompanied Demitto on his tour of the inns, she looked bright, her uniform clean and her dark hair carefully braided. She had been up for several hours – he had seen her out on the ramparts, organising the daily watch like she usually did every morning. He liked Catena, although he knew she didn’t return the affection. But whereas many other courtiers said what they thought he wanted to hear, she always said exactly what was on her mind, even if she knew he wasn’t going to like it, and he secretly respected her for that. She had been captain of the guard as long as he could remember, although she couldn’t be older than thirty. But even though he knew he irritated her, he trusted her probably more than anyone else at the castle, including his parents.

Now she glanced at him, and he raised his eyebrows, wondering what she thought of the Heartwood ambassador. She looked at Demitto, then back at the Prince. Her mouth quirked. She liked him, in spite of herself, and Tahir thought he could understand why.

He pushed the remains of his breakfast around his plate. Humbleness did not come easily to him, but this man was to accompany him on the long journey to Heartwood, and he had not meant to alienate him. “I am sorry if I offended you. As you say, I have not travelled much, and I am not used to the ways of others.”

Demitto met his gaze for a moment, then gave a short nod. He pulled a bunch of grapes toward him, plucked a few from the stalk and popped one in his mouth. “So tell me, young prince. How do you feel about being Selected?”

Tahir shrugged and played with the oak-leaf pendant around his neck. “I am honoured, of course.”

“Of course.” Demitto’s mouth curved.

“You have accompanied the Selected to Heartwood in previous years?”

“Yes. Several times.”

“Were they like me?” Tahir despised the way his voice sounded young and weak, but he could not hide his apprehension.

Demitto tipped his head from side to side as he considered. “Some were young, some were old. You are the youngest sacrifice ever to be offered, as far as I know.”

“Do you… attend the ceremony?”

Demitto chewed another grape, his eyes on the Prince, then swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”

Tahir’s heart thumped against his ribs and nausea rose inside him. He picked up his knife and carved a few lines in the table. “Can you describe it to me? Nobody here has been able to tell me what will happen in detail.”

Demitto took a swallow of ale from his goblet, leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs. He exchanged a long glance with Catena, and it seemed as if they had a silent, private conversation before his gaze came back to Tahir. “Surely you would not want to spoil that precious moment by knowing all the particulars beforehand?”

“Like knowing how sausages are made? Because the truth is so disgusting? I am not a fool.” Tahir stabbed the knife into the table where it sat upright, handle quivering. His throat tightened, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. His hands clenched into fists, his body went rigid. And then the fear passed, leaving in its wake a wash of emotion that made him sink his head into his hands as tears pricked his eyelids.

He sat there for a moment, breathing heavily, ashamed and embarrassed at showing the feelings he had tried so hard to hide. Along the table, Demitto and Catena were silent, although he was sure they were having another of their silent conversations, mocking him no doubt.

Then Demitto cleared his throat and leaned forward. He pulled Tahir’s knife out of the table and turned it in his fingers as he spoke.

“Maybe you have heard tales of the Arbor in the past? No doubt it has been described as glorious, as bigger than any tree anyone has ever seen, as this magical creation, equivalent to dragons and griffons and sea monsters that you can never imagine existing in real life.”

He sat back. “The truth is so different, it is difficult to describe. I have tried to explain Heartwood to your captain here. It is not a glorious, shining place filled with holy monks who sing praises to the Arbor day and night. It is a city like any other, made by men and filled with men, with dark alleyways that stink of piss, with pickpockets and murderers, with markets selling cheap necklaces in the shape of an oak tree that break five minutes after you take them home. Governed – if you can call it that – by a foolish king who has no more understanding of what the Arbor stands for or its history than the pauper eating the bones left by the palace dogs. And the Arbor itself? It stands surrounded by huge wooden shutters that close it off to passers-by, overshadowed by the palace to the east and the houses to the south and west. Pilgrims pay a coin a time to file through the gateway and along the path to brush their fingers against its trunk before being ushered hurriedly away.”

Tears ran down Tahir’s nose and dripped onto the table. He closed his eyes, trying to make them stop, clenching his hands in his hair.

“But what most people do not know,” Demitto continued, his voice low and mesmerising, “is that late in the day, when all the crowds have gone and the world is dark, the gates are opened to those who can afford to pay for a special nightly ceremony. I attended this one night when I was younger and curious about the tree and its power over the land.”

Demitto’s voice sank even lower, stroking over Tahir’s frayed nerves, seemingly weaving a magical spell around him, and he opened his eyes to watch the emissary, entranced by his steady stare. “I was allowed to walk right up to the Arbor. To say it is huge is an understatement, young prince. It is difficult to gauge its size from behind the shutters, but it towers above the surrounding land, the height of ten men, maybe even twenty. Its leaves never fall – did you know that? Not even in The Sleeping. It is always green, and the leaves move as if in a breeze, even if the air is as still as death.”

Resting the tip of the blade on the wood, the ambassador turned the handle slowly, and it seemed to catch the light of the lone candle in the centre of the table, momentarily blinding the Prince. Tahir stared at it. Was it his imagination, or could he see the reflection of oak leaves on the shining steel?

“I have also been to four of the five Nodes,” Demitto said, his voice warm and smooth as honey. “The Green Giant, the Portal, the Tumulus and the Henge. When you stand on these sites, you can feel the energy running through the earth. The ground literally trembles beneath your feet. You see, the Arbor is alive. And I do not just mean alive like every other tree in the kingdom. The bark is warm, and if you place your ear against its trunk, you can hear the slow, steady beat of the Pectoris inside it. It is
alive.
It lives. It breathes. It knows. It sees inside the heart of every man. Its roots stretch to the ends of Anguis. And it needs you, young prince. So do not be mistaken in thinking that your life is of little value. The Arbor knows your worth. And to it, you are more precious than gold.”

Demitto stopped turning the blade. Tahir blinked. His eyes met the emissary’s and a shiver passed through him from the roots of his hair to the tips of his toes.