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  As the gatehouse loomed, she slowed Mara and joined the half a dozen horses and carts making their way out of the town after a day at the market. The stone building passed over her head, casting her briefly into shadow, and as it did so it was as if it also cast a shadow over her heart. A shiver passed through her, and a strong feeling of foreboding arose within her that she would never again ride under this gateway and see her home town of Vichton.

  She mounted the horse and set off down the road. Usually the thought of escaping from what she had begun to view as a prison would have filled her with delight, but this time the fear that clawed at her made her turn in the saddle to look back over her shoulder at the city wall. Her father had been instrumental in converting the once-small settlement into a thriving fortified port. She knew her mother had found it difficult to adjust to living permanently in one place and still referred to Vichton as “your father’s home”, and Horada could understand why. The warm brown stones with which it was built personified him – solid, steady and strong, the wall encircling the town in a similar way to how his arms had once encircled her: protective and proud.

  Sadness overwhelmed her. She missed him so much. Although he had often been away from home, he had been a constant in her life, and his sudden death had been shocking and sobering. And now she felt empty, like a shelf that was once full of books but now sat dusty and bare.

  The road headed west across Anguis to the mountains, shadowing Isenbard’s Wall, which separated Wulfengar in the north from Laxony in the south. Taking the road would be the fastest route to Heartwood, but it would also be the easiest one for her family to follow her. She had no doubt that her mother would come after her and attempt to bring her back to Vichton. And therefore she had to avoid the road and take a more meandering but safer path.

  She took the left fork at the main crossing, parting from the Great West Road, travelled along the southern route for about an hour to the tiny hamlet of Farington, then took another fork onto a smaller lane, which headed west toward the forested hills. She knew the countryside as far west as Ransberg, where her half-sister lived, and she had hunted in the forest on many occasions, so she did not fear to enter it, even in the dark.

  Still, as the sun sank behind the hills to the west, she glanced frequently over her shoulder at the encroaching darkness and tried to ignore the apprehension that continued to rise like floodwater. Ever since she’d left the castle, she’d had the strange sensation of being followed, although she was certain it wasn’t a member of her family. Procella and Orsin would not have skulked in the shadows like thieves, and even Julen – despite his talent for making himself invisible – would not have frightened her thus. No, something else was tracking her, something that did not yet want to announce its presence to her.

  The trees ahead parted to accept the pathway, then gathered close around her, turning her away from the entrance and swallowing her up. She breathed a little easier at the presence of the oak and ash trees, and she lifted her chin in an attempt to raise her spirits.

  The Laxonian countryside consisted mainly of an eiderdown of fields of oats, wheat and barley, but thick woodland covered the higher hills. As a consequence, many Laxonians spent a lot of time in the forests and enjoyed the company of trees. Most peasants’ houses were built of wood, and longbows and crossbows were their main weapons.

  But Horada’s love of the forest went deeper than that. Although everyone in Anguis followed one of the branches of Animism which saw the Arbor as the manifestation of Animus’s love on earth, like Julen she shared a mysterious affinity with the woodland. They had never discussed it, and she had never talked about it with her parents, which she now regretted as she was sure her father may have been able to shed some light on it. She had once caught him watching her when she thought she was alone; she had been in the herb garden, her hands cupped around a dying rosemary stalk. The leaves had unfurled in her hands, the purple flowers blossoming, and she had straightened, content, only to find Chonrad’s startled blue eyes fixed on her. She had wondered if he would ask what she was doing, express delight, concern or even fear, but instead he hadn’t said anything about it at all. He’d gone on to talk about the location of a salve for one of his horses, and she hadn’t mentioned it again, not sure if he was angry with her or if he just didn’t want to be reminded of everything he had gone through. She knew he had suffered, and she didn’t want to be a constant reminder of his past, so she had kept her talents to herself and never spoken of it.

  Similarly, she had never confessed to Julen what she could do. She knew he had a similar talent because she had watched him miraculously disappear before her eyes when they played in the woods as children, blending with the trees as if he himself had grown roots and leaves, but again for some reason they had never discussed it. It was a precious thing, Horada had always thought, a private thing that she did not want to share with anyone else. Now, however, she wished she had spoken to her father about it.

  But he was gone and dwelling on it would do her no good. She ducked under overhanging branches and guided Mara along the narrow track west through the trees, the light fading until she could barely see her hand in front of her face, and Mara was just a twitch of ears in the darkness below her.

  It had been a long while since she had ridden so far too, and already she felt stiff and sore from the saddle. She would have to stop to rest, even though she would rather ride through the night and get as far as she could from home.

  She slipped from the saddle – glad she had worn breeches – took Mara’s reins and headed her off the track and into the undergrowth. Once she was out of sight of the track, she sloped down towards the river and found a sheltered spot behind a large oak where the ground wasn’t too marshy.

  She rubbed Mara down and let her drink, fed her some oats, then tied her up loosely and settled down on the ground a few feet away. The forest had cooled and she was glad of the thick blanket she had brought with her, rolled up on the back of her saddlebag while she travelled.

  Tired and weary, she fell asleep quickly. And in her sleep, she dreamed.

  She stood beneath an oak tree so tall and with such a broad, leafy shelter that she knew it must be the Arbor. The trunk was so large it would take three people to put their arms around it and be able to link hands. The numerous leaves grew thick and lush, a beautiful deep green with not a hint of blight, and they shivered in the warm breeze that blew over her and caressed her skin.

  The side of the trunk facing her did not have the irregular rough bark of the rest of the tree. It looked like it had been carved then smoothed and polished to a high shine. She stepped closer and stared with awe at the carving. Two figures stood wrapped around each other. The woman wore armour, her hair tied in a knot at the nape of her neck, and her beautiful face looked up at the man holding her. His long hair was braided and clipped back with clasps, and he did not wear armour but only a simple tunic and breeches. The most startling thing about his carving, however, were his eyes – the wood of the pupils had been inlaid with gold leaf and they shone in the early morning sunlight.

  Her father had once described the figures of Beata and Teague to Horada, but she had never seen them for herself. The part of her mind that knew she was dreaming wondered if she were just imagining them, but she was certain she could never conjure up an image so real, so clear. She reached out a hand and brushed the wooden shoulder of the man and was shocked to find it warm. In fact the whole trunk of the tree was warm, and when she placed her palm over the clasped hands of the couple, she was certain she could feel the slow, steady beat of the Pectoris inside.

  Someone moved next to her, and she looked up to see a man standing there. At least she assumed it was a man, as he wore a long grey cloak, the hood drawn over his face. But his height and build suggested he was male. Leather bracers covered his lower arms, and leather straps crossed his body. Part of her wondered why she didn’t feel scared to see the stranger, but there was something about him that she found vagu
ely familiar, comforting even.

  He wore a beautiful pendant around his neck, similar to the one she herself wore, the same that most people in Anguis wore, made of wood in the shape of an oak leaf, although in the centre of his shone a bright orange stone.

  Horada turned back to the tree. “She is beautiful,” she said, tracing the face of the woman preserved forever in the Arbor like a fly in amber.

  The man didn’t reply; he just nodded. Perhaps he couldn’t speak in this vision – for she was now sure it was such. The air smelled too fresh, the wood felt too smooth, for it to be a dream. The sun grew warm on her body, and she turned her face up to it.

  It was only then that she realised it wasn’t the sun. It was fire, crackling and leaping in a ring all around them. Her eyes widened and panic roared through her.

  She turned wild eyes back to the man. He hadn’t moved, and now he turned the pendant on his chest, the stone in the centre catching her gaze like a butterfly in a net and holding it, refusing to let her look away. It blazed with the heat of the centre of a furnace, melting away her terror, tempering her fear.

  He reached out and cupped her face.

  “Wake up,” he said.

  Horada opened her eyes. Her pulse raced and her chest rose and fell rapidly with her fast breaths.

  She lay in the forest, Mara calm nearby, and all was quiet, but still she knew something approached. And the man in grey had visited her dream to tell her.

  Soundlessly, she pushed herself to her feet, picked up her blanket and untied Mara. Some instinct made Horada lead the horse toward the nearby river. Mara – used to being ridden along the beach through the water – followed her into the shallows without hesitation, standing patiently as Horada brought her to a halt. The tumbling water covered the small noises the horse made as she tossed her head and moved her hooves against the pebbles on the riverbed.

  Horada reached out and took hold of a branch from a willow tree that grew near the water’s edge. Using the ability she had possessed all her life, she sent out a thought to the tree and asked for its help.

  The tree responded, arching over her head to cover the horse and her in a curtain of twigs and leaves. She had never been able to describe what happened when she did this – she could only think of it as if the tree reached out with its mind and wrapped itself around her.

  She put a hand on Mara’s long nose, and waited.

  For a short while, nothing happened. She began to wonder if she had imagined it. Maybe nobody was following her. Maybe she had fabricated this illusion of being chased out of some desperate need for validation.

  And then she heard it. Scrunching through the dead oak leaves and the dry bracken. She held her breath and willed Mara not to move or whinny. The horse nuzzled her hand, but remained still.

  To her surprise, a branch full of oak leaves whispered across her face, forcing her to close her eyes. She did so, aware that for whatever reason, the tree did not want her to see whatever was tracking her.

  The footsteps came closer. The person stood by her. Waited. Her skin felt warm, as if she stood too near a fire. A strange sound whispered through the undergrowth, crackling, like someone unfurling a scroll of ancient parchment. Her eyelids flickered, fear making her instinctively want to see who was tracking her. But she could see no figure, only the bright red-orange light of a blazing flame. Her heart pounded in her ears. Then the leaves pressed against her lids, forcing them shut.

  Mara twitched but remained still. The undergrowth crunched and rustled. And then the figure was gone. The tree lifted its branches. She opened her eyes to see the forest and the stream.

  Horada remained where she stood for a while, too scared to move, but eventually Mara pushed against her arm, and her frozen muscles relaxed.

  She led the horse out of the water and put her arms around Mara’s neck. Mara whinnied softly. Tears forced their way out of Horada’s eyes.

  What was that thing?

  And why was it hunting her?

  II

  The room was cool, the hour late, the bed soft and the blankets warm, but Tahir could not sleep.

  He lay with his eyes open, looking out of the windows in his room, up at the stars.

  Ten days. Possibly eleven, depending on the weather and circumstances of the journey. Ten days until he would give his life to the Arbor, a personal sacrifice for which his name would be recorded in history for evermore, written in the second book of the Quercetum that Nitesco the Libraris had begun after the Darkwater Lords invasion all those hundreds of years ago.

  Tahir had asked Demitto if the two Quercetum books sat in Heartwood’s palace, thinking he would feel comforted at the thought that the King would show all the visiting dignitaries the open pages, would read out his name and inform them what he had gone through for the whole of Anguis.

  Demitto had laughed at that and said, “I am not even sure the King can read.”

  Tahir had felt the blood drain from his face. His name would be forgotten. Soon nobody would even remember he had existed.

  Demitto’s harsh visage had softened. “Like an actor on a stage, the Arbor bears two faces, young prince. One is the public face – the one that the royal family wishes to show visitors. Look at our wondrous tree! Look at how powerful we are! The King has no interest in the sacrifices or in ritual. He attends the ceremonies because his presence is expected, but he leaves study of religion to the scholars.”

  Demitto had tipped his head, his eyes glowing with that mysterious magnetism that Tahir found so fascinating. “The other face,” the emissary continued, “is its private one. Once the actor has finished his performance, he leaves the stage and removes his costume and his rouge, revealing the real man beneath. And so it is with the Arbor. Once the doors have closed, the tourists vacated, the sun has set and the city is quiet, the scholars come out. They call themselves the Nox Aves – it means the Night Birds. They adjust their body clocks so they rest through the day and study when the world is asleep. There is a small college not far from the Arbor. The King is unaware of it – or at least, it is small and insignificant enough to avoid his attention. That is where the serious men and women go, those who wish to know more about the Veriditas.”

  Something struck Tahir. “Did you study there?” he asked, remembering that the ambassador had said he had visited the university at Ornestan and debated with the great scholars. Had he been a student then?

  Demitto considered the question, his blue eyes thoughtful, as if wondering whether to divulge the truth. “Yes,” he answered eventually.

  “You are one of the Nox Aves?”

  “I am many things.” Demitto’s lips curved. “But it is in the college that the Quercetum are kept. They rest in a cabinet with a glass door, kept out of the sun so its rays do not fade the pages.”

  “So nobody sees it?” Disappointment left a bitter taste in Tahir’s mouth.

  Demitto shook his head. “It is not for tourists to paw over, for sticky, dirty fingers to touch.” He leaned forward, eyes intense. “The royal family have made the ceremonies a public show. But do not be fooled, young prince. Your sacrifice should not be something for the foolish and unwitting to watch like a puppet show. Your gift is a deep, noble thing. When you are there, you must shut out the crowd and concentrate on the Arbor. When you are embracing the trunk and laying your cheek against the bark, it is just you and the tree. You will become a part of this land – you will exist forever.”

  A shooting star blazed briefly across the night sky, and Tahir turned onto his side and shivered. The emissary fascinated and repelled him in equal measure. It was as if someone had taken a common rough-as-rats mercenary, an intelligent scholar and a magician, and forged them into one soul. Knight or holy man? Warrior or scholar? Tahir wasn’t sure, but he felt certain that Demitto kept enough information to himself to fill an ocean. It was as if he refused to divulge details willingly and would only answer the right questions – and then only if he felt like it.

  If he were ho
nest with himself, Tahir supposed he could understand why the ambassador wouldn’t give a lengthy, detailed description of what was going to happen in the ceremony. What person wanted to know exactly how they were going to die? And yet Tahir burned to know. Would it be painful? Would it be slow? How dignified would it be – was he likely to scream, to cry like a baby in front of all those people? The thought filled him with horror.

  He had known since he was nine that this would be his destiny, and he had tried to prepare himself for it all these years. He had gone over it many times in his head, trying to imagine how he would walk up to the tree, how he would lift his head, act noble and unafraid, so that for years afterwards, people would talk about his courage.

  But deep inside he harboured a fear that when the time came, panic would overwhelm him, and he would bring shame to his family. It had happened before, when he had accompanied the King and some visiting nobles on a hunt. It was his first, and he had been excited to show his new sword skill. He had dreamed of it the night before, imagining how he would be the one to thrust the killing blow. The King would smear the stag’s blood across his cheeks and he would bear it like a battle wound, returning triumphant to the cheers of the people.

  The reality had been quite different. It had taken hours to hunt down the stag, and by then he had been tired and sore from the saddle, his hands covered in blisters from sawing at the reins and his thighs aching. One of the other nobles had landed the stag, and Tahir had been invited to finish it off. He had approached with his sword, heart thudding, shocked to see the noble creature thrashing on the ground, its eyes wide with fear. He had not been able to bring himself to kill it.

  Embarrassed by his weak son, his father had dragged him close to the beast, placed his hand over his son’s on the pommel and forced the blade into the stag’s heart. Tahir had cried, and then when the blood was smeared across his face, warm and smelling strongly of iron, he had vomited and had to be taken to the stream to have it washed off.