Heartwood (17 page)

Chonrad saw Beata swallow. However, as her horse twitched under her she quieted it immediately and smiled at the crowd waiting to say goodbye.

Gavius just looked excited, his palfrey sensing his eagerness and dancing beneath him. Gravis's expression was blank, and Chonrad could not read what he was thinking.

Valens, who had previously spoken to them all separately, now just put his left hand over his heart, revealing his oak leaf tattoo, and the others did the same. No more words needed to be said.

The parties ambled over the drawbridge, this time turning right on the road leading from the Wall into Laxony. They looked back just once more before the road curled around to the south and out of sight.

The people in the Porta filtered back into the Baillium, leaving Procella, Valens, Chonrad and Fulco.

Chonrad felt a strange nervousness in the pit of his stomach, a feeling of excitement mixed with fear.

Tears shone in Procella's eyes, but did not fall. She met Chonrad's glance and raised her chin. Silently, she walked past him and into the Baillium.

Valens watched her go. He gave one last look over his shoulder at the empty road, then turned and smiled wryly at Chonrad and Fulco.

“And so it begins,” he said.

Together, they walked back through the gatehouse, the drawbridge rising slowly behind them.

 

PART TWO

 

CHAPTER SIX
 

I

As the three Quest parties rounded the corner of the woodland and Heartwood disappeared behind the trees, Beata's heart sank and she bit her lip, trying to stop the tears streaming down her face. Pulling the hood of her riding cloak low over her head, she kicked her mare forward until she was at the head of the train and then settled in the seat, relieved no one could see her.

For a brief moment, she let the tears flow. Leaving Heartwood was like leaving a loved one; she felt again the homesickness and loneliness she'd experienced when first arriving at the Castellum at the age of seven. At least then she had understood she was being given a great honour, that she was moving on to something better than the nondescript life she would have led as the third daughter of a relatively poor knight, married off to some local landowner as soon as she was sixteen, condemned to live in a tiny castle in the middle of a field somewhere.

But this time, she did not feel that she was moving on to something better. She was leaving her home and all the people who meant something to her to travel across Anguis, a land filled with unrest and unknown dangers, and for what? To find a phantom, an idea, a dream she wasn't even sure was real.

Why had she volunteered? Valens wouldn't have thought twice if she had said she wanted to stay at Heartwood and help with the defences. He knew she had barely been a mile from the Castellum for years; he had in fact said to her that morning that if she wanted to change her mind, he would not think badly of her because of it. But although tempted to take him up on his offer, her pride would not let her do it.

She had volunteered to go on this Quest because she knew it might help save Heartwood. What was the point in staying in the Castellum with the sword of doom hanging above her head? Would she ever have been able to forgive herself if the Darkwater Lords invaded again and she had done nothing to try and stop them? She was not a person who could fool herself easily – she was completely aware of her faults and looked at herself honestly and openly. And she would not have been able to live with herself if she had not come on this Quest.

Also, unlike Procella, who fought to defend the stones and mortar of Heartwood and its people, Beata had a much deeper faith that had not been shaken by the revelations of Nitesco and the
Quercetum
. She had listened to the Libraris's words with interest and was not closed to the idea of elementals and a mystical place under the sea, as at least that would explain what had happened that afternoon in the Curia. But she had not had a crisis of faith. She did not see how it would change her love of Animus and her role in life to both worship and defend the Arbor. So what if the fantastic story was true and she wasn't flesh and bone but merely an elemental that had taken physical shape? How did that make the life she had spent pointless? How did it change her thoughts and feelings towards the tree? The answer was that it didn't, and therefore she knew she had to come on this Quest, and do her utmost to save the Arbor, though the journey may be long and the outcome, as yet, uncertain.

She sighed, her emotions calming. It was understandable, she thought, to feel upset and uneasy about leaving the place she had lived in for almost as long as she could remember. She should not judge herself too harshly for her moment of weakness.

Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, raising her head and beginning to look at her surroundings. This was an adventure, she thought, an opportunity to explore the world in which she lived, and although it had in fact been forced upon her, it should not dissuade her from getting as much out of the experience as she could.

For this first leg of the journey, she had to stay on the main road leading south until they reached Cherton. Turning slightly in her saddle, she could see behind her the formidable grey barrier of Isenbard's Wall following the line of the hills into the distance, marked by the occasional fortlet, and fronted to the north by the dark blue glitter of the Flumen.

Turning back to face south, on her left the low hills were divided by hedges into large fields, linked by lanes and roads that criss-crossed the region, giving the whole area the look of a giant patchwork quilt. Some fields were brown, newly ploughed and sown with wheat; others were green and dotted with sheep.

To her right reared the formidable Spina Mountains, capped with white in the far distance, grey and intimidating in the foreground. Trees smattered the slopes of the nearest peaks, multiplying at the base of the range, spilling onto the hills in a thick blanket known as the Forest of Blades, which reached out fingers to cut off the road down which they were heading.

She could skirt the forest but it would mean another day's journey to travel first east and then west again to get to Cherton, and it was a day they could ill afford to waste. Ahead, the earthen track disappeared into the woods as if swallowed whole, and she sighed, wishing their journey could have started with a more open and direct route. The Forest of Blades was so called because historically there had always been outlaws hiding in its leafy depths, ready to pounce on unsuspecting travellers. Heartwood periodically scoured the forest to clean it of raiders, but they always seemed to creep back once the holy knights had left.

She looked behind her, checking everyone was following. Gavius and Gravis were close behind, indicating, she thought, they too felt uneasy at straying so far from home. The Exercitus accompanying them, however, had spread out to either side, clearly more comfortable than their Heartwood companions at being out on the open road.

Her eyes flicked over the four of her companions who would be staying with her when the twins went their own ways. Peritus she knew well; they had been in the same Allectus and had grown up under the same Dean. He had eventually left Heartwood to join the Exercitus, but when Procella had brought him to her and told her he would be accompanying her on her journey, she had grasped his arm with pleasure, relieved to see a familiar face, one she knew was trustworthy, a placid and yet solid warrior.

Caelestis and Erubesco were both younger than her, but similar in stature and appearance: tall, slim, female Militis from Laxony, brown haired and lithe, Caelestis skilled with a bow, Erubesco a natural with both sword and dagger. Pleasant and affable, they were also accomplished fighters, and would, Beata thought, be congenial but useful companions.

The last of her group, Fortis, was at least twenty years older than her, and a close friend of Procella, although Beata had never spoken with him much. He was clearly from Wulfengar: sturdily built, rugged and silent, a natural warrior, with powerful muscles and the riding skills of a knight who had spent a lifetime in the saddle. He made Beata nervous. Not, she thought, because he had been particularly aggressive or unfriendly. But his field experience and the fact that he was so well travelled made her wonder if he would be Questioning decisions she made on the road, and whether he would challenge her authority. Still, Procella had placed him with her for a reason, and she hoped he would turn out to be the stalwart rock Procella had insisted he was.

Gavius and Gravis each had four Militis with them also, so there should be safety in numbers.

They were nearly at the forest's edge. Beata reined in her mare, and turned and addressed her companions. “The road narrows ahead,” she said, raising her voice to reach those at the back. “We will have to travel no more than two abreast. We must keep on the alert until we pass through this band of forest. This should take us about three hours.” She looked at Fortis, who was waiting patiently, his hands loose on the reins so his mount could nibble the grass at the edge of the road. “Perhaps you could bring up the rear,” she suggested, hoping he understood she had asked this of him because she trusted him and knew he would stay alert.

“Of course,” he said immediately, turning the horse using only his knees so the mount moved to the back of the party. She nodded. She had forgotten the Exercitus were an exceptionally well-trained army, taught to follow commands immediately with no Questions asked. That would undoubtedly come in handy on the journey!

She laid her right hand on the pommel of the sword hanging on her left hip, making sure it was loose in the scabbard, then nudged her horse forwards. Gavius fell in beside her, and Gravis behind him with Caelestis, the others following in a line, Fortis bringing up the rear. Together, the party crossed a ditch marking the boundary of the forest, and entered the canopy of trees.

Almost immediately Beata felt as if she had passed into a different world. She experienced a similar feeling to that when entering the Castellum from the sunny Quad in Heartwood. There she always noticed the coolness of the Temple and the immediate change in sounds, from the call of birds and clash of swords and general busyness of the Baillium, to the high-ceilinged quietness and echoing acoustics in the domed building.

Here, in the forest, she was immediately aware of how alive the place was; from the soft, rushing sound of leaves above her head, to the quiet murmur of the brook running to her left and the occasional rustle of a creature in the undergrowth. Like everyone else from Heartwood, she felt a distinct affinity with trees and there was nothing more familiar to her in the world – other than perhaps the weight of a sword in her hand – than the scratch of bark beneath her fingertips, or the rich smell of loam from the roots. But here was different; she almost felt as if she were inside a giant creature, an animal made from branches and twigs and leaves and bark, which sniffled and snuffled and rustled and twitched as she moved through it. She felt unsettled and nervous, and as the canopy of leaves closed over her head she began to pray fervently she would make it through to the other side.

 

II

The road running north of Isenbard's Wall from Heartwood swept a wide arc to the east to avoid the Forest of Wings. Fionnghuala knew there was no direct path through the forest, because she had travelled through Wulfengar on her way from Hanaire to Heartwood, and at the time she had been puzzled to find there was no way south other than by the circuitous route that added a good three days to the journey. Nobody at the time had been able to answer her Questions, but now she spurred her horse forwards to catch up with Grimbeald, and asked him why.

He looked to the west at the dark mass of the forest that seemed to watch them broodingly, clustered at the base of the Spina Mountains. “The trees grow too thick and close together,” he said, and shivered. “There are many tales of ghosts lurking in the shadows. I would not travel through the forest if you paid me.”

Fionnghuala raised her eyebrows, but said nothing as the Wulfian warrior hunched himself forward in his saddle and drew his travelling cloak close around him. She let the horse drop back a little until she rode behind him. He was an enigma to her; she did not understand him at all, and could not read his mood.

She sighed, wishing they were several days forward on their journey, and at the Neck Pass, close to Hanaire. She disliked the five lands of Wulfengar with a passion that was difficult to hide, which was one reason why she was certain Grimbeald resented her company. But she could not change the way she felt. She disliked the men of Wulfengar, so dark and hairy, arrogant and aggressive, domineering and dismissive of any women they encountered. She even disliked the countryside: Wulfengar was a land of rivers and swamps, and most of its travel and trade was conducted by boat. Its roads were under-developed, barely used and made riding a tedious business. And to top it all, because of the abundance of rivers and the swift transport of goods from the coast, fish was the Wulfians' main food, and there was a faint fishy smell about both the men and the land through which they passed.

She longed for Hanaire – a land of hills and dales, forests and streams, a place of balance and peace, where men and women lived as equals, children were a blessing and the extended family was the social unit that kept everyone caring for one another. She did not understand the Wulfian men's desire to oppress their women – in Hanaire the women's special skills such as intuition, empathy and compassion were considered as important as men's aggressiveness and leadership skills, and it was agreed the social unit could not function without a balance of each.

And yet, strangely, Grimbeald did not seem like a typical Wulfian, she thought, observing him where he sat on his horse. He certainly looked like one: squat and muscular with a full head of dark hair and a bushy brown beard, and the fierce expression that most Wulfian men seemed to wear. And yet he was not aggressive, and she knew he played the flute – not a hobby she could imagine would earn him much praise in Wulfian circles. She had also seen him writing on several occasions, and although she had not been able to see what he had written, she sensed the sheer ability to put pen to paper was more than most Wulfian men could – or wanted to – do.