Heartwood (27 page)

“I do not know,” she said honestly, watching the way the flames seemed to dance on the log resting in the grate. “I do not know anything any more.”

Peritus said nothing else, and after a while they both fell into an exhausted sleep.

They were awoken some time in the middle of the night by Gisila, who touched them both gently on the arm. “Mother wants you to come upstairs,” she said, holding up her lantern to illuminate her worried face. “Your friend… she… well, you had better come and see.”

Beata and Peritus got to their feet hurriedly and followed Gisila up the stairs. Going into the room, they saw Ida kneeling by Caelestis, holding her hand. The fire had been kept going and its light illuminated the unconscious warrior. Beata came over and knelt beside her. Caelestis's skin was waxy and pale, her eyes sunken like two stones pressed into dough. She breathed very shallowly, and her chest rasped.

Ida looked up at them. “I have done all I can, but I do not think she will last long. The infection has spread into her lungs.”

Peritus sat in a chair and put his head in his hands. Beata took Caelestis's other hand. It was clammy and limp like a fish in her fingers. She began to pray, finding the wooden oak leaf around her neck and clutching it until it bit into her fingers, asking Animus and the Arbor to help Caelestis and make her well, but even as she prayed she knew it was hopeless, that the knight would not be well again. Instead, she changed her prayer and prayed Caelestis would find peace and be welcomed into Animus's arms, where she deserved to be.

Caelestis died just before daybreak, the coldest, darkest hour. Beata and Peritus wept as Ida tried again and again to get a pulse, eventually announcing the knight had finally slipped away.

Ida covered her with a sheet and, taking the arms of the two knights, led them downstairs. She poured them a mug of her strongest ale and made them drink it, then led them in front of the fire. “I will prepare her for burial,” she said. “You must get some more sleep.”

“I could not sleep now,” Beata protested, but it was a feeble argument – her eyelashes felt as if they had horseshoes attached and hung heavily on her cheeks. Peritus was the same, grief and tiredness sapping his energy, and eventually the two of them slept, as the sun crept slowly over the horizon.

When they awoke, Ida was waiting for them. She told them she had said goodbye to her other customers and Caelestis had been bathed and prepared for burial.

“Where shall we bury her?” Beata asked hoarsely, rubbing her face, which felt tight, the skin stretched across her bones.

“We have a small graveyard just down the road, under an oak tree,” said Ida. “But before we take her down there, I want to show you something.”

She took their heads and led them outside.

Something rather incredible had happened. The sun had come out. They stared up, squinting from behind their upraised hands as the golden rays painted the landscape with beautiful warm tones. Tears formed in Beata's eyes. It was still raining lightly, but that just meant the creation to the south of a stunning rainbow that arced across the hills.

She looked up at the rainbow and blinked as sharp tears stung her eyes. “Poor Caelestis,” she whispered. “It is all my fault.”

“Nonsense,” said Ida firmly. “Sickness is nobody's fault. You cannot be blamed because the girl caught a chill.”

“I should have left her behind in Lornberg,” said Beata, thinking this was another disastrous situation that could have been avoided if she had thought sensibly.

“Would she have remained there while you continued on?” Ida argued. “I do not think that is the case. She was quite a strong-willed person until the moment she died. It is ego and nothing more to think you can impose your will on another.”

Beata frowned, wiping her cheeks. “But surely that is what a leader has to do? Otherwise, everyone would do just what they wanted and never follow orders.”

Ida thought about it, wiping her hands on a cloth as she did so. “I suppose so, in a battle situation. But this does not seem like the same thing at all to me. You are a group of knights who banded together to go on this Quest. Each person is accountable for their own actions. You are their guide, Beata, nothing more. You can lead them, but you cannot force them to choose another path than the one on which they were destined to travel.”

She walked away, leaving Beata and Peritus looking up at the rainbow, tears still fresh on their faces. Peritus reached down and took her hand, wrapping her fingers in his own. “We will still succeed on this Quest,” he said fiercely. “Caelestis will not have died in vain. We will continue on to Henton, and we will find this Virimage, and then we will bring him back to Heartwood and save the day. Do you understand, Beata?” He turned her roughly to face him and grabbed her by the shoulders. “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” she said, and he released her, satisfied, wiping his face before going back into the inn. But she stayed there, looking at the rainbow, hoping the journey was not all in vain.

 

V

The road from Lornberg to Realberg wound through the peaks and dales of the Seven Hills, a picturesque journey, or at least it would have been if it had not rained steadily the whole time. Gravis, riding at the head of the party, barely noticed the twinkling rivers and fascinating variation in the colours of the fields from the terracotta-red of ploughed earth to the shining emerald-green of meadows. He was too caught up in his own thoughts.

He had not mentioned to anyone what had happened at the village that night. It sounded ridiculous when he tried to put it into words; he could imagine their responses: “It must have been a trick of the light,” or “Perhaps you were dreaming,” or “How many ales have you had to drink?” How could he explain to them the fear that had overtaken him on gazing at the lit pond, only to see no reflection staring back at him? True, it had reappeared after the cloud passed over the Light Moon, but he knew it had not been there before.

Or did he? Huddled in his cloak, in his own private world, Gravis found himself suffused with doubts, which soaked into him like the rain that dampened all sounds around him. Perhaps he had been mistaken. Perhaps he
had
drunk too much ale, or had merely been looking in the wrong place. How could he be sure?

His self-doubt ignited and flamed within him as if his innards were made of paper, and he soon began to think about the Quest and Questioned his ability to complete it. How could Valens have thought him a worthy leader? Even if they made it to the Henge, what was he supposed to do to activate it? He couldn't even grow the tiny flower that Silva had urged him to do. He thought about the way the daisy had blossomed in Gavius's hands, and envy surged through him. He had no doubt whatsoever Gavius would complete his mission. He just
knew
his twin would find his way to the Green Giant easily, would do whatever was needed to be done to open the Node and get the energy flowing, and would return to Heartwood triumphant, probably in time to come down to the Henge and help Gravis out with his own failed Quest.

He lifted his face up to the rain, trying to stem the hot tears threatening to course down his face. What was wrong with him? Why did he feel this heaviness in his stomach, as if it had been lined with lead and was trying to sink to his boots? He had always known Gavius was the clever one, the strong one; he had never been blind to his own failings but had accepted them cheerfully. Why now was it bothering him so much?

He knew the answer even as he formed the Question. It was being apart from his brother that made the difference. Gavius was like a huge sun; he lit every room, and the people within were like planets orbiting around him, caught up in his gravitational pull. Gravis felt he knew what the Light and Dark Moons felt like, circling Anguis in a steady, never-ending cycle, looking down on the world with its plants and people and wishing it could be part of it, but condemned to merely watch from the shadows. While he was with his brother, he did not notice the light that emanated from himself was mere reflection from his twin. But now they were apart, Gravis could see himself for what he truly was: darkness, which is really nothingness, because darkness is just an absence of light, and nothing in itself.

He looked up from his fixed gaze a few feet in front of his horse to see the town of Realberg nestled in the valley between two hills. He looked around, surprised to see the sun setting – it was nearly night-time, and he had spent the whole day in silent gloom, unaware of time or distance passing.

He looked behind him, relieved to see his party of five still trailing there, Fortis bringing up the rear as usual. They looked tired but smiled as his gaze rested on them, and he gave them a small smile back, suddenly guilty he had not spoken to them all day. It was his role as leader to keep his party together, and he had not fulfilled that at all.

But he was tired of berating himself, and so he said now, “Come, let us find ourselves an inn for the night, and have food and ale and forget our dreary journey today.”

The others cheered and the horses picked up their hooves, and so they trotted into Realberg, a bustling Laxonian town, on the main road from Amerle and Frennon to the north. Though the hour was getting late, there was still plenty of movement in the town; many shops were open and tradespeople spilled out onto the street, touting their wares. The party stopped to buy some food, an extra cloak or two and other bits and pieces they felt would aid them on their journey, chatting to the vendors and smiling at the children who ran up to stare at these unusual knights.

Gravis watched his compatriots talking to the townspeople but felt strangely separated from them, and light-headed, as though he had not eaten for days, although he had stopped for lunch with the rest of them. He spurred on his horse a little further down the road, stopping when it showed interest in a drinking trough. He sat for a moment, people milling around him, then looked down to see a little girl staring up at him, maybe three or four years old. She had a ragged object tucked under her arm, which could have been a dirty, well-loved doll, and sucked her thumb. He looked at her, thinking how blue her eyes were, how clear and how piercing, as if they were seeing right through him.

As if to confirm his thoughts, someone – presumably her mother – came up to her and took her by the hand and made to walk off with her, scolding her for wandering away, but she resisted, taking her thumb out of her mouth and saying: “That man, Mummy. I can see through him.”

“Oh come on,” scolded her mother, giving Gravis an apologetic smile before leading her away. Gravis, however, didn't return the smile. The little girl's words had chilled him.
I can see through him
. He held his hand before his face. It looked normal, if somewhat dirty after the day's ride. Not transparent, anyway. And yet, he thought he knew what she meant. He
felt
transparent. As if he were fading away gradually, no more substantial than mist over water.

The others were passing him now, heading down the road, searching for an inn, and so he nudged his horse forwards to follow them, but his heart pounded, and his mouth was dry.

A little further along was a tavern called the Oak Leaf, a common name for an inn in Anguis, and so after enquiring if they had rooms, the party took their horses to the stable around the back to be rubbed down and fed by the owners' sons and then went inside. After a long day's ride, the warmth from the crackling fire was very welcome, and the smell was strangely comforting, thought Gravis: ale mixed with hot meat blended with the rosemary and mint from the rushes on the floor. They sat at two tables, ordered several plates of meat, bread and cheese, and talked quietly about their journey while Gravis stared into the fire.

“Are you all right?”

He looked up to see Aranea looking at him with concern. He studied her for a moment, seeing her properly for the first time. She was average height and quite slender, but with the telltale muscles of a trained knight. She had loosened her dark blonde hair from its braids and it hung in a wavy curtain down her back. She was young, although probably not much younger than him, he thought, with smooth, unlined skin and wide greeny-blue eyes.

“Can you see through me?” he asked, then immediately thought how stupid the Question was.

She didn't laugh, however. She observed him thoughtfully, her eyes running over his face, light frown lines crinkling the space between her eyebrows. “I can see you are in pain,” she said.

“I am not hurt.”

“I did not mean that kind of pain.” She looked up as the innkeeper brought over their food, and accepted a plate, putting it between herself and Gravis. He was not hungry, but took the bread and meat when she handed it to him. Suddenly, he was tired of being alone, of bottling up his fears. He wanted someone to tell him he wasn't going mad, that everything was going to be all right.

He pushed away his plate and said, “Would you like to go for a walk?”

She looked surprised, but said, “All right.” Picking up a piece of bread and topping it with cheese and meat, she followed him out of the inn.

The rain had lessened and they threw back the hoods of their cloaks and walked along the muddy streets, which were beginning to quieten as the shops had started to shut.

Aranea nibbled on her bread and cheese, glancing in the shops as they passed, seemingly content to be quiet and just look and walk. Gravis was glad; after asking her to go with him, he immediately regretted the impulse, as the last thing he was in the mood for was an inquisition. But her presence was strangely soothing, and after a few minutes he was pleased she had agreed to accompany him.

They walked down the high street, past a couple of other inns which were gradually getting busier, light spilling out onto the darkening road. At a crossroads Gravis stopped, then turned left as he saw a domed building in the distance. Aranea followed him down to the Temple. He stopped outside. It was not unlike the Temple at Heartwood, but on a much smaller scale, and was nothing like as grand. But he liked the familiarity of the large oak doors, the curving stone walls and high, domed roof, and he went inside, welcoming the echoing sound of his boots on the flagstones, and the recognisable smell of incense.