by Leo Carew
At the sight, Roper made a disbelieving noise and Gray spoke from his side. “This is the freyi?”
“Far superior to your horrible mountain camp,” said Keturah. She called up to the trees, declaring their presence and that they would need lodgings for the night. After a brief delay, the silhouetted figure in the central treehouse turned towards them.
“Well? Who are you?” demanded an imperious voice.
“We are the Black Lord, the Black Lady, Legate Tekoa Urielson, the Captain of the Sacred Guard and our three companions,” Keturah replied mildly. She exaggerated, being lady of nothing until she had borne the child she carried. However, Keturah was never one to undersell herself, and her words seemed to satisfy the figure, who disappeared momentarily. Huddled girls had begun to appear perilously close to the edges of all the nearby treehouses, staring down at them, until a stern voice barked out and they scrambled back from the edge.
A rope ladder unfurled from the underside of the treehouse and the woman came back into view, descending nimbly to the floor. Roper swung himself out of the saddle, the rest of the party following his example.
“There is space in this one,” the figure announced, beckoning to their party. The speaker was a startlingly lean, steel-haired woman whom Roper knew well: Frathi, the Chief Historian. She held the ladder steady as Keturah climbed, and Roper followed. The rungs were held in place by a central cord of twisted lime bark, and Roper found there was a technique to climbing it, with hands and feet moving as a pair. He accepted Keturah’s cool hand to help him onto the platform: a tightly woven mat of split willow, which squeaked and chirruped underfoot.
The treehouse was divided into alcoves by partitions that jutted out from the innermost wall. In each alcove was a shallow stone basin, raised slightly above the floor and cupping a fire that spilt light over the edges of the platform. Behind Roper, the Chief Historian had reappeared, and she crossed to into the neighbouring alcove, declaring tartly that they had interrupted her instruction.
Roper turned to look into the forest before he could be accused of anything further. Beneath him, the Skiritai were pushing the horses inside a bramble enclosure with a heavy lattice of blackthorn dragged over the entrance to seal it from the bears and wolves that teemed here. By the ancient and hard-fought pact between these beasts and the Anakim, the adults could walk the trees freely. But the girls of the freyi were a different matter, and vulnerable to attack. So they inhabited the trees, also learning fearlessness through everyday exposure to the vertiginous drop; hardiness in response to the winds that swirled through their unwalled quarters; skill with their hands to destroy and replenish the treehouses, and the organisation necessary to inhabit places of such limited space.
They ate the crayfish that Keturah had directed them to, roasted in front of the fire and accompanied by baked starchy rhizomes. Keturah kept peeling the crayfish bare-handed, straight off the fire, until Tekoa sternly instructed her to let them cool first. She still had no feeling in her fingers from the poisoning she had endured a few months before, and set her crayfish aside, tutting impatiently. It was only when Roper had finished and the forest was a deep, starlit blue that he realised one of their party was missing. “Has anyone seen Gray?”
“He said he was going to the ring,” said Pryce, extracting a steaming crayfish from its armour.
“The ring?”
“There is a stone ring nearby,” said Keturah, directing him towards it.
Roper descended into the forest, navigating through the dark by the asymmetrical silhouettes of the trees, and came upon a clearing, bordered by a circle of upright stones. There were dozens of them, each some nine feet of worn granite, and impressed with weathered handprints.
These circles were old, Roper knew. They pre-dated the trees. They pre-dated the Academy, and even the kingdom itself. It was said that they had been built by the ancient Anakim in the days when Albion was young and still shivered and crackled with magic. They marked the points where the fabric of the world was thin and the Otherworld close. To disturb them was to invite disastrous bad luck. To count them was pointless: Roper had never tried, but was told that it was impossible to come to the same number twice. Some of them were said to move spontaneously, keeping track of the shifting seams of the earth. And it was thought that prayers said within their boundaries were particularly conspicuous. If a prayer was worthy, then there could be no more powerful place to utter it. If it displayed the remotest self-interest, jealousy or malice, it might attract more malign attention.
Roper stopped outside to observe the figure kneeling within, head bowed to the east, mouth moving silently. When Gray at last straightened up, Roper crossed into the ring and came to join him, the two sharing the silence of the forest for a moment.
“You pray a lot, my friend,” said Roper.
“I do.”
There was another pause, disturbed by a sweeping of unseen wings as something flew overhead.
“What fills your prayers?”
“I’m not sure it matters,” said Gray softly. “When I pray, I am a quivering membrane away from the Almighty. How I appear before him is how I wish to appear before all people: as a servant. It is an exercise in being as I want to be.”
Roper had thought often about the night beside the fire, many months before, when Gray had imparted his quest to them: to transcend selfish motives and the desire for life itself, and live only as a servant. He rarely spoke of it but in his current mood, Roper wondered if he would say more. “Is this how you seek to conquer fear? And desire? By diminishing yourself before the Almighty?”
“Partly,” said Gray. “But I have started to believe that the state I seek gets easier with time. I have found that the more I have done; the more happy memories I have; the more contentment I feel with the life I have had, the less significant death seems to be. I have started to think that death, after a life well lived, is like sleep after a long day. It is easy.” He looked up at Roper, shrugged and smiled. “But I have not answered your question, lord.” He looked back into the forest. “I fear for the Black Kingdom. We have so many devious and powerful enemies. We are fewer, year on year. And Bellamus’s tactics on Harstathur, and at the battle on the flood plains, show that they’re finding ways to fight us. Along with my usual prayers for my loved ones, for perspective, faith, and thanksgiving for all that I have, I pray for our kingdom. I truly fear for her.”
“I do too,” said Roper. Conviction and self-doubt fought in his mind, his doubts remorselessly marshalled. Whether he had the skills to lead a campaign in foreign land. Whether he could defeat Bellamus, when his victory in their last encounter had had more than a touch of fortune to it. Whether there were enough of them to conquer Suthdal. But he had long since decided that if he feared whether or not he could do something, it was a sure sign that he should try.
“That is why we must finish this,” said Roper. “Before they have us worked out entirely. When I spoke to you and Keturah after Harstathur, about why we are going south: did you believe me? You knew I was serious, about subduing Suthdal forever? That is why we are going to go beyond the Abus, Gray, and why we are enlisting the help of the Unhieru. If we don’t finish this now, we leave that task to a generation that will have fewer soldiers with which to accomplish it, and more enemies to fight against. We are fighting to return this entire land to the wilds and secure the future of our people.” Perhaps I am a poor peacetime ruler, thought Roper. Speaking to Gray, it did not seem to matter. For his purpose, peacetime would have to wait.
Gray nodded. “Yes. I knew you meant it, lord. I know this is to be a mission of conquest.”
“And you are with me?”
Gray just stared at Roper. “How could I possibly be against you?” he said, very quietly. “Though I fear many shall be.”
“That is why it must remain a secret for now,” said Roper. “We will not reveal the full extent of our plans until the invasion is already underway. Until it is too late for the tribunes, councillo
rs and historians to stop us.”
Gray smiled. “You have developed a fine understanding of politics, Lord Roper.”
Roper was too pleased with this assumption to admit that he had developed no such understanding, and merely married someone who had.
They returned to the treehouse, where the party bade one another goodnight and retired to their separate alcoves. Roper and Keturah shared one and sat talking for a time. Roper dangled his legs off the edge of the treehouse, Keturah lying with her head in his lap, one hand flirting with the drop.
“You seem to like it here,” Keturah observed.
“It is restful,” Roper said. “I have not felt good recently, and being here seems to have eased that.”
“Not good, how?”
Roper hesitated. “Every morning I wake as though shocked from sleep by lightning. Even now my heart is galloping and my legs are buzzing like they’re filled with wasps. It is like nothing I have felt before. But maybe it is something to do with Helmec’s face, and with Numa. Or with our task in the south.”
“Is it unpleasant?” asked Keturah, frowning.
“Yes. But I don’t wish to dwell on it. Not in myself, and not with you. We do not have much time left together and I’d rather spend it talking about more pleasant things.” He rested his hand on her forehead.
“It’s good to tell me your troubles,” she persisted.
He smiled again. “Do you tell me the things that truly bother you? Do you speak to me about your mother, or anything that has passed in your life?”
“No,” she said cheerfully. Roper raised his eyebrows as though no more needed saying, and they were silent until chirruping footfalls alerted them to an approaching figure. It was the Chief Historian. She stepped into their alcove and regarded them for a moment, eyes so piercing that if cold had a colour, it would have been this blue.
“Why are you here, Lord Roper?” she asked.
Roper felt Keturah’s neck stiffen against his leg. “Merely visiting the freyi, my lady,” he said mildly.
“Indeed. You, two Sacred Guardsmen, a legate, two Skiritai and your wife all came for this errand?”
Roper smiled. “We shall be heading south tomorrow, once a final companion has joined us.”
“Where?”
Roper paused. He was conscious both that he must keep secret their plans of invasion, and that this woman, guardian of the Academy’s huge store of knowledge, might have information that could help their task. “Unhierea,” he admitted. Her blue eyes wore at him. “I believe they could make useful allies.”
She came a little further beyond the partition, observing the pair of them steadily. “No doubt. But do you think you are likely to survive such a mission?”
“Perhaps you could tell me,” said Roper.
“You are not,” she said.
“Explain,” Keturah commanded. “If it please you, my lady,” she added, in response to the Chief Historian’s expressionless glare.
“The Academy remembers a little of their kind, from the days when we shared Albion. We were such horrible enemies that neither of us wanted to fight the other ever again. They took the low places and the high ones: the valleys and the mountains. We had the rest, and we left one another alone. When our kind heard the howl of the Unhieru, we simply walked back the way we had come.”
“The howl?” asked Roper.
“They call their mastery over a piece of land. They say in Suthdal that sometimes you can hear it at night, far away. But no Sutherner goes near the border. The Unhieru hunt them like game.”
Foreboding settled on Roper. “Will we be able to communicate?”
“You should have come to me at the Academy, Lord Roper. I could have directed you to the right cell, who would have more specific information,” replied the Historian. “But certainly they talk. We know their names correspond to colours in the sky. Gogmagoc, I hear, is their word for colour at the top of the rainbow. We know they describe time as a mountain, and measure it subjectively, rather than precisely.”
“They see time as a mountain?”
“It gets thinner as you climb. That is why your life speeds up the longer you live it: you near the summit, and time grows narrow. Which raises another problem. Though they speak, even if you understand their words, they may make no sense to you.”
Keturah sat up abruptly and Roper laid a hand on her shoulder. “Is there anything else we know?” he asked.
“Little. Even if you find the right historian, the information is thousands of years old and things may have changed considerably. Their tools are stone, or they were when we lived side by side. We know they kept sheep, and planted apple trees.” She raised her eyebrows briefly. “If you come back, I shall be interested to hear your account. Perhaps you would report to me, when you are done?”
“I will, my lady,” said Roper.
She nodded, evidently having satisfied her purpose here. “Good luck, Lord Roper.” She turned and squeaked out of their alcove.
Keturah sank slowly back into his lap, a frown on her face. “Take care of yourself in Unhierea, Husband,” she said.
“I’ll be safe,” said Roper, brusquely. “Think who I’m going with.”
“Most of my precious family members,” she said. “Take care of them too. I have faith in you all, but I’m not sure this task is worth the risk. It seems your chance of success is low. Your chance of death…” She trailed off.
“We just have to try.” He looked down at her. “You are to act as regent in my absence. Your chance to show everyone the talents you often speak of. Perhaps you might take control of the kingdom when we invade as well? Almighty knows someone will need to manage the reactions of those back home when they discover our plans.”
Keturah opened her mouth to reply.
And there came the sound of galloping hooves from below. Roper looked down to see a lone rider canter through the mist, looking between the treehouses above him. “Lord Roper!” he called. “Lord Roper!”
“Up here,” said Roper, keeping his voice low so as not to wake the others. It was Vigtyr. He had arrived, and they would cross the river next morning.
To Unhierea.
Roper and his party left at dawn, leaving Keturah, Hafdis and Gray at the freyi. They stood beneath the central treehouse and shared a farewell. Roper gave Hafdis a kind embrace and then shared one more vehement with Gray. “Farewell, my brother.” When he came to Keturah, he just looked at her, wearing an odd expression. His hand rested on her hip and then moved to cover her stomach, resting on the baby. They shared a look for a moment. She smiled at him, and he turned away as though he could not bear it.
Tekoa came to her next with a more expected farewell. “Goodbye, sweet grass-snake.”
Next to her, Pryce and Gray shared an embrace, the sprinter breaking free and noticing Keturah looking wryly at him. He gave her a rare nod, “Cousin,” and turned away. She watched as the party mounted and kicked their horses forward. Roper twisted in his saddle, sharing one last look with her before turning back to the road.
“Godspeed and good luck to you all!” she called after them.
“Goodbye, my dear friends,” came Gray’s quiet voice from beside Keturah.
Keturah turned to smile at the captain. She tried to say: They’ll be back. But found she could not. So she just turned back to watch the six companions disappear between the trees. It was not far to that dark canal, and then a narrow strip of Suthdal was all that lay between them, and the unmapped mountains of Unhierea.
Pryce let out a sudden roar and spurred out before the others. His long ponytail bounced behind him and he raised a clenched fist into the air, beginning a distant, manic declamation. “Say goodbye to your home, men of the north! Say goodbye to friends, to comfort, music and safety; we are crossing the dark water! By this chosen company; by you, will the Unhieru know our race. Every heartsick step you take, you have ten thousand heroes standing behind you! Every word you utter will be met with a baying cheer from our wat
ching peers in heaven! Your life will have no moment more significant than this, so take it, you bastards! Do not concede, do not relax, do not fail, for nothing but your best will do! To Unhierea! To Unhierea!”
6
Unhierea
“I have heard that bats sleep upside down,” said Pryce.
Tekoa, riding next to him, gave him a resigned look. “What?”
“They sleep stuck to the ceiling, upside down.”
“No they don’t, Pryce.”
“They do,” said Pryce. “I met one of last year’s refugees. She had to shelter in a cave after the Sutherners burnt her home. She said she saw the bats sleeping upside down on the ceiling.”
Tekoa laughed gleefully. “And you believed this bullshit?”
“It’s true,” insisted Pryce. “It’s because they cannot walk upright. They are not built for it.”
Tekoa turned to the Skiritai behind him. “This is good. Are you listening? How do they give birth, then?” asked Tekoa, turning back to Pryce. “Do they splat their offspring onto the ceiling, like a sneeze?”
“I want to know how they piss,” said Gilius, one of the Skiritai who knew Pryce from his own days as a ranger. “Is it always on themselves?”
“They sleep upside down,” said Pryce, curtly.
Vigtyr was smiling wryly, and Tekoa quite tickled. “Wait, wait, Pryce, we’re not done,” he said in between gleeful cackles. “What are they attached to? When they hang off the stone ceiling.”
Pryce was now staring loftily ahead.
“They have sticky feet?” suggested the Skiritai.
“But then how would they let go?” said Vigtyr.
“Do bats sometimes end up in a huge sticky ball, feet together at the centre?”
“When they fart, do they propel themselves off the ceiling?”
“And you believed this!” said Tekoa delightedly. “It’s lucky you have other skills, Pryce.”
“Maybe Pryce isn’t quite as brave as we all believe,” said Vigtyr. “He’s just been oblivious, all this time.” Everyone laughed bar Pryce, whose face was now gathered into a thunderous frown.