Heartwood Page 8

V

  Chonrad decided not to blow out the lantern, now they had gone to the trouble of getting one lit. He didn’t think they would find any water warriors. They had got what they came for and retreated, he presumed, as soon as they had it, so he doubted there would be any left hanging around.

  Still, he and Fulco proceeded cautiously, keeping to the walls as they made their way around the right side of the colonnade.

  It was the first time he – and maybe, he thought, anyone but a Militis – had been inside the living area of Heartwood. He had known the Castellum was shaped like an oak leaf and he could see this layout now as he looked around at the buildings shimmering in the light of the Lamb Moon, high above them.

  The centre of the complex was a large lawn, slightly wider at the Temple end than the west end, reflecting the narrowing shape of the oak leaf plan. Flotsam and jetsam littered the lawn, and the beautiful flat grass had been gouged in many places. To either side, rounded buildings formed the lobes of the leaf. In front of these, a covered walkway with arches led through to the lawn. He suspected that usually it would have been a tranquil place, but now it looked deserted and forlorn, like a dog tied up and left for dead.

  He made his way around the northern walkway, Fulco following remarkably silently for such a big knight. They stopped outside the first room. Blood stained the floor and the door hung half open. Chonrad pushed it with his sword, waited in the doorway and lifted the lantern.

  It was a library, or had been, anyway. Books lay in sodden piles of parchment on the floor, the beautifully scrolled words blurred and smudged. Furniture piled up to the side, and broken pieces of wood, torn books and candles littered the floor.

  A body sprawled on the flagstones.

  Chonrad went in and bent over the body while Fulco stood in the doorway, keeping guard. The dead knight – an old man – hadn’t been wearing armour. His chest and stomach had been gouged out and spilled on the floor, where it had obviously mixed with the water, for there were bits and pieces of flesh and innards all over the place. Chonrad’s lips tightened. An elder did not deserve to die in such a way.

  He bent to pick up the body, intending to carry it out onto the lawn, and then he saw the faint light emanating from a hole in the corner of the room. He stood and walked over to the hole and looked through. A set of stone steps curved down and around, leading to somewhere he could not see, but the light and the slight shuffling sounds of movement meant someone was down there.

  He whistled to Fulco, indicating he was going down. “Stay here, unless I call you,” he directed. Fulco nodded, coming over and holding the lantern aloft while Chonrad descended the spiral stone staircase. He did his best to walk quietly, but the steps were covered with loose bits of wood and stone and his feet crunched so much he knew he had no hope of creeping up on anyone. Sure enough, his head was barely below ground level before someone demanded: “Who is that? Who goes there? Tell me who you are!” and a tall, slender youth appeared out of the gloom, sword held aloft.

  “Peace, friend,” said Chonrad in the language of Heartwood. Then, changing to Laxonian, he continued: “I am Chonrad, Lord of Barle. I mean you no harm.”

  The tip of the youth’s sword lowered to the ground. “I thought you were one of those… whatever they were.” He gave a ghost of a smile. “I am Nitesco. I help out – helped out – Caecus, the Libraris.”

  Holding up his lantern, Chonrad could see the young lad’s face looked white and drawn against his long blond hair, and blood marked his temple. “Are you hurt badly?” he asked, descending the last few steps.

  The youth touched his head. “No, the bleeding has stopped.” He glanced up the staircase. “What is going on up there? I think I have been down here a while.”

  “The Pectoris has been taken,” Chonrad told him. “There are many dead, including Dulcis, I am sorry to tell you.”

  Nitesco stared at him, shocked. “Arbor’s roots…” His mouth tightened. “What a terrible thing. The Pectoris gone… What will happen to the Arbor now?”

  “I do not know. We are meeting at sun-up to have a discussion. They are starting to clean up upstairs,” said Chonrad. “There are many dead, and there has been a lot of damage to the buildings.” He looked around the place. They were in some kind of underground cave. It was dark and airless, and not very big, but filled from floor to ceiling with books, maps and other pieces of parchment. In the middle stood a lectern, on which was spread out a slender book, pages brown with age. “Where are we?” He had never heard of an underground room beneath Heartwood.

  In the light of the lantern, Nitesco’s green eyes gleamed. “This is the Cavus. It is part of the old Temple, the one destroyed in the Great Quake.”

  “Did you know it was here?” Chonrad walked around the perimeter of the room, touching the books with his fingertips.

  “Not at all and, more importantly, neither did Caecus, as far as I know.” For a moment Nitesco looked forlorn at the memory of the sickening death of his mentor and friend. Obviously pushing that thought away, he continued: “And he knew everything about Heartwood.”

  “Why was it not damaged in the flood?” The books were all dry, Chonrad could see, and the floor remained thick with dust.

  “The hole was covered by a flagstone, which was also covered by a chest. I believe the waters moved the chest, and then heaped debris on top of the flagstone. It broke after the waters had receded from the weight of the damp debris.”

  Chonrad shrugged. This was mildly interesting, but he had more pressing matters on his mind. “We will come down here and investigate further when things are more settled upstairs,” he said.

  To his surprise, Nitesco shook his head. “No, you do not understand.” He indicated the books with his hand. “These all predate the Heartwood we know, the Castellum Temple and Domus. They all predate Oculus.”

  Chonrad frowned. He failed to see the reason for the excitement in Nitesco’s eyes. “I understand. I know we have very few documents of that time and therefore…”

  “No! We have no documents of that time!” urged Nitesco. “The earliest document we have is Oculus’s Rule and his Theories on the Arbor, which record the stories and oral traditions of his days. But this was written three hundred years after the Great Quake. As a historian I was taught that the truth can disappear in one generation.”

  Chonrad sighed impatiently. “I still do not understand. What are you trying to tell me?”

  “That Oculus was wrong!”

  “Wrong?”

  “Yes, wrong. Well, not completely. But he clearly misunderstood some of the basic concepts of our religion. I do not blame him; he could only piece together the stories he had; it is not his fault. But for a thousand years we have followed his writings – wars are being fought over them, for Arbor’s sake!”

  He walked over to the lectern and tapped the book that resided there with his long fingers. “This is the Quercetum. It was written by the Keepers of the Temple maybe two thousand years ago.”

  Chonrad nodded. “That is very impressive. And I understand that, as a librarian, these things are important to you.” He pointed up the stairs. “But we have just suffered an attack on Heartwood. Incredible beings just sprang from the water fully formed; I do not even know where to start to explain that. And they took the heart of the Arbor, Nitesco, they took the Pectoris. So you can see why a dusty old book holds little fascination for me at the moment.” Chonrad moved to walk past the youth up the stone stairs. To his surprise, however, Nitesco moved too, blocking his way.

  “You still do not understand,” he said firmly. He folded up the Quercetum and clutched it to his chest. “This book holds our history within its pages. It explains it all – who the water warriors are, the truth about the Veriditas, and why the land is failing.”

  He took the book in both hands and shook it in front of Chonrad’s face. “This has the answer to everything!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I

  Heartwood spent the dark hours
of the night dealing with the after-effects of the attack. Progress was slow, mainly because everyone was dealing with the shock of the fact that not only had a raid been carried out on such an important religious site, but that it had been successful.

  Oculus had created the Militis for both the worship and the protection of the Arbor. In a relatively unstable position between two warring countries, it had become clear that some form of defence would be necessary to keep the tree in neutral ground and avoid it being taken over by any other country to use as a tool of control over everyone else. To make the Arbor’s holy guardians also knights had therefore been a natural progression, and for a thousand years the Militis had trained the young to become fearless and skilled in battle, even as they took their holy vows.

  But the expected attack on Heartwood had never materialised. That was partly why the Exercitus had eventually become peacekeepers, spending more of their time out on Isenbard’s Wall and in the lands on either side than in Heartwood itself. The Militis had taken care to never become complacent and their military training was as extensive as ever, but still, an enemy had not set foot inside the Porta for over a thousand years.

  Valens took a moment in between his organising of the meeting to go up to the top of the Porta and look over Heartwood. He had been putting on a brave face for the others: slapping backs, congratulating those who had fought bravely against the water warriors, raising spirits and spreading a feeling of strength and resistance among his compatriots, but now, alone and surrounded by darkness, weariness and sadness swept over him.

  There were few who had not been injured in some way, and many had died of their wounds in the hours that had already passed since the attack. Those who were still alive were being treated in the Hospitium by the Hanairean High Council member, Fionnghuala, who was skilled in herbs and medicines.

  The dead had been taken to the Sepulchrum in front of the Arbor, and left there for the tree to take them in. It had done so, slowly, its roots creeping over the bodies, bringing them into its depths, and those gathered around it had taken some comfort at the fact that it seemed to rejuvenate a little, and maybe the remaining leaves seemed a little less limp afterwards. But Valens had not been able to take his eyes off the massive rent down the centre of the trunk, and the gaping hole in the middle. With its heart taken, how could the Arbor, and therefore the land, hope to survive?

  Standing now, looking down on the people moving slowly around the Baillium, despondency swept over him. His role as Imperator was to protect Heartwood and its people, and in this he had failed. He had failed Dulcis, who as Abbatis looked to him to keep Heartwood safe; he had failed Procella, his student, who looked up to him and who had believed him infallible; and he had failed himself, for he had always thought himself invincible, able to overcome any opponent, any army, any enemy, and he realised now he had grossly misjudged his ability.

  Footsteps sounded on the stone behind him and he spun, hand to his sword, but it was just Procella, and so he let his hand drop and turned back to look out at the view.

  She walked up beside him and leaned on the parapet, looking around at the walls. “I have sorted out the guard,” she said. “Thirteen Custodes are dead. I told a third of the remainder to snatch some sleep and stationed the others around the Baillium and in the Castellum. I have also pulled in some of the Exercitus to take the place of those who have fallen.”

  Valens nodded. He thought, but didn’t say, what was the point of guarding the Castellum now? The Arbor was crippled. Anything they did now was too late. The words “stable door” and “bolted” came to mind.

  He sighed and looked over at her. Her brown hair remained twisted in a knot at the base of her neck, but wisps had escaped and hung around her face in light curls. She looked tired but alert, and didn’t appear to have suffered any injuries in the battle. She was a good warrior, he thought; the best, a truly deserving heir to the Dux, and she had served him well. He felt ashamed he had failed her.

  She turned to meet his gaze, and for the first time she looked uncertain. Her brown eyes looked down hesitantly, then back up at him, beseeching. “I… I want to apologise, Imperator, for failing you. I should have been more prepared for something like this; I should have increased the guard on the Arbor. I truly thought the threat to be more between Wulfengar and Laxony – it did not enter my head there might be danger from outside Heartwood. But a Dux should always be ready for anything, and I was not. I am sorry for letting you down.”

  Valens stared at her. Her gaze was open and honest; she thought she had made a bad tactical decision, and she was ready to accept the consequences. He had taught her well.

  A wry smile twisted his lips. “It is I who has failed you,” he said softly. “Some leader I have been – allowing a major invasion in the very place I have sworn to protect – the heart of Heartwood!” He sighed. “In truth, I know, neither of us is to blame. This is not something we could have foreseen. Of course our attention was on the very proximity of the Laxony and Wulfengar visitors – why would it not have been? And the invaders obviously knew that would be the case. Why should we have prepared otherwise? How could we have guessed warriors were going to rise from the water?” He frowned, shaking his head. “How is that possible? I cannot go to the meeting, Procella, for I have no answers, nothing to say. How can I lead when I do not know from where the threat is coming?”

  “That is one reason I came up to find you.” She laid her hand lightly on his arm. “I have just seen Chonrad – he and Nitesco have found a cave underneath the Armorium. Nitesco has uncovered an old document, so old it predates Oculus. And he says it holds many of the answers, not only to what has happened today, but to what has been happening to the land.”

  “Truly?” Hope stirred within his chest. He looked down at the Baillium. The clean-up crews were doing a good job; much of the debris – the broken pieces of wood, ripped tents, broken plates and damaged food – had been removed and the bodies had been taken in to the Temple. People were now heading towards the Castellum, and word had obviously spread that there was news, for he could see their pace had quickened, and their faces had lightened.

  He breathed in deeply, looking up to see the Lamb Moon hovering above the horizon, the Dark Moon now high in the sky and fading in the early morning sunlight. “I fear for the future, Procella,” he admitted. It was not something he would have confessed to anyone else.

  She tipped her head, studying him. “Why so?”

  He shivered, an early morning breeze ruffling his grey hair. “We are poised on the knife edge of change. I am…” He could not bring himself to say “frightened”. “Concerned,” he chose eventually. “Though wars come and go, there are certain things that remain stable, that you can rely on.” He slapped his hand on the parapet. “This is rock; it is hard; it will not yield to my hand. And water is water, it is liquid, it takes only the form of that in which it is placed, like a bowl. How can it take the shape of a warrior?”

  Procella shrugged. “I am no philosopher; I do not understand these things. But you have just said that water takes the form of its container; maybe these beings can temporarily acquire bodies, and their watery form takes their shape.” She smiled and held out her hand. “Come, Valens. We shall do no good debating the issue up here. We need to speak to those who are skilled in such matters; we need great thinkers, and people to help us plan what to do next.”

  “People like Lord Barle?” Valens said impishly. He laughed as she turned her startled gaze on him. “He is a good man. I have known him for some time; he came and fought with us during the Raids of the Falling, five years ago. He is strong, and clever, and kind.”

  “And I am Militis,” she said sharply. “We should not be talking thus.”

  “As you wish.” He bowed his head as she walked away to the stairs. He half regretted his words; he had not meant to make her uncomfortable. It was harder for female Militis, he thought. Most male Militis had sexual encounters throughout their life, but it was easy to r
emain detached. But women had the risk of becoming pregnant, which would mean they would have to leave Heartwood. And Heartwood was in Procella’s blood – she was a knight, she was Militis through and through. He recalled the look on her face when they had found the tree split in half, its heart gone. She was not made for hearth and home, and he knew she would not succumb to mere physical attraction.

  II

  The meeting was to be held in the Capitulum. They could have gone to the Curia again, but for the Militis the Capitulum was comforting and familiar.

  Chonrad watched everyone enter the room. First in were the twins, Gravis and Gavius. They had been moving the bodies to the Arbor all night. Chonrad had averted his eyes when he walked through the Temple to the Capitulum. There was something that disturbed him about the tree when it was feeding.

  After the twins came the two Council members of Hanaire that were left – Fionnghuala, who had been busy in the Hospitium, tending to the wounded, and a man, Bearrach, both of them tall with shoulder-length blond hair, their movements elegant and graceful. They nodded to Chonrad before taking their seats on the stone steps around the edge. Chonrad had spoken to them briefly when he returned from the Domus. They had been considering returning to Hanaire before the meeting, eager to sort out their domestic affairs now two other Council members were dead. Chonrad had dissuaded them from leaving, however, convincing them this was not just a Heartwood matter, and not just an eastern matter either; the loss of the Pectoris would have lasting consequences on all four lands, and they would want to be a part of the decision of how to deal with matters. In the end they had agreed, if somewhat reluctantly, and now took their places along with the others.

  From Wulfengar, only Grimbeald had survived out of the original five lords, as Raedwald had died during the night. He came in hesitantly, with a couple of his followers, clearly conscious they were the only Wulfians in the place. At least he had come, thought Chonrad, and he admired the lord’s courage at walking into a room full of what he had probably been brought up to believe were all enemies.