ARC: Sunstone

by Freya Robertson

  She bit down hard on his lip, then drew her head back the remaining inch or two left to her and smacked her forehead onto his nose as hard she could. The bone gave with a loud crack, and he bellowed and drew back.

  Procella moved away from the wall, conscious of being restricted, and tried to draw her sword, but Hunfrith threw his weight forward and before she could brace herself she fell back into the earth, him on top of her. He kissed her again, hard.

  She heaved up with her body, but he was too heavy, and once again he caught her hands and pinned them above her body.

  Procella yelled, aware of the shock value of a loud protest, kicked out with her legs and twisted beneath him, but all it did was make Hunfrith laugh and squirm on top of her, and she realised she was inflaming his desire by struggling. He lowered his head to her neck and sunk his teeth into her flesh, and she squealed, turning it into a bellow as anger overtook the pain.

  She was not going to be taken on the earth like an animal, especially by this ignorant, bumbling mule who thought he could have her now that her husband had died and she was alone. She was not weak and she was not an object for men to have their pleasure with whenever the mood took them.

  Blood dripped from his nose onto her face, and she spat as some of it found its way into her mouth. She ripped at his ear with her teeth, then managed to get enough leverage to swing one elbow into his face, where it struck him in the tender spot beneath the eye. She hit hard enough to make him gasp, and she seized the chance and reared up. He fell off to one side, and she leapt nimbly to her feet, drew her sword and backed up a few yards, intending to give herself time to steady her stance and prepare herself. Her neck throbbed where he had bit it and she realised he was going to be a hard foe to bring down, that he knew how to use his height and weight to his advantage. As he rolled to his feet, she shook her head to clear it and took a deep breath.

  It happened before she could react, before she could even draw a breath. She stood two feet from an oak tree, a small, rather weedy specimen, but in the blink of an eye it sent out half a dozen roots that wrapped themselves around her, encasing her in a cocoon of wood and leaves. One snaked across her mouth, stopping any oath that may have slipped from her lips, and the roots tightened so that within seconds she was immobile.

  Hunfrith steadied himself, drew his sword and turned. And stopped. His gaze scanned the space in front of him, combing from one end of the garden to the other. Procella blinked, certain he must be able to see her, but as he yelled a curse and strode down the garden, she realised that not only had the roots wrapped around her, they had somehow camouflaged her from his view.

  Hunfrith disappeared, still yelling. Procella’s chest rose and fell with her rapid breaths, but still the roots remained tight. Fury and confusion wrestled for prominence inside her. She wanted to march into the hall and tear the Wulfians apart with her bare hands. She would show them the Dux was not a woman to be trifled with.

  And then a voice murmured in her ear. “Sometimes a battle leader should know when to withdraw.”

  The root across her mouth withdrew. She gasped and glanced over her shoulder. The place was in shadow, but she could see a figure cloaked in grey, the hood pulled over his head. Leather bracers covered his lower arms, and she wondered if he were an archer.

  “Orsin must travel his own path,” the man said. “Here your fates divide, and you must follow your own course.”

  “I must go in,” she whispered furiously. “They need me.”

  “The battle has already been fought,” the man said, “and the Incendi have made their move. Returning there will be certain death. Follow your son, Procella. He knows well the benefit of subterfuge.”

  It took her a moment to realise he was speaking of Julen.

  “What of Orsin?” she said, her voice rough as she thought that the fire elementals might have somehow taken over the castle and were threatening her offspring. “Must I leave him to die?”

  “Take to the shadows,” the man urged. “Gather your followers. Trust your children to carry out their own destinies. And meet them at Heartwood. That is where you will be needed.”

  That was not Procella’s way, and she hesitated, hating the thought of abandoning Orsin to his fate.

  “Trust your children,” the man repeated. “They carry your and Chonrad’s blood in their veins. They are all strong in their own way. Trust that we will protect them.”

  We? She knew not of whom he spoke, and yet something within her trusted this stranger. She had taught her children well, she thought, even Horada. Maybe it was time to let them find their own futures.

  She nodded. The roots withdrew and, even before she turned, she knew she would find no one there.

  Procella sheathed her sword, glanced over at the castle then backed away and let the shadows swallow her up.

  II

  There were times when Tahir thought the journey would go on forever. For hours and hours, the only thing that existed was the lurch of the horse beneath him, the feel of wind or rain or sun on his face, and the scenery that rolled past him in a blur of greens, vibrant blues and oranges as the countryside displayed its best fancy clothes for the passing Selected.

  Before he had left, he had dreaded the thought of the journey with its lack of entertainment and its physical discomforts, but in truth he found himself fascinated by the panorama of hills to the east marked out by square fields of crops, the occasional river winding its way through them like a blue silk ribbon threaded into a patchwork quilt.

  He could see the battle occurring with the dense, verdant jungle to the west that crept ever closer, its pace almost visible to the naked eye as it crawled across and consumed the arable and pastoral Laxonian land. He could see that Demitto hated it, could tell by the disgust on the emissary’s face that he saw it as an invasion of his homeland.

  Demitto rode on his right most of the time, Catena on his left, Atavus ran at his feet, and the four Heartwood guards rode behind them, talking quietly amongst themselves. Something had happened the night they had spent in the hamlet, Tahir was certain of it. He had risen the next day and the atmosphere had been slightly frosty, and since then his chief of guard had kept her distance from the ambassador, although Tahir often caught her studying Demitto thoughtfully when he wasn’t looking.

  He puzzled over it for a while, but she refused to tell him what had happened and he didn’t dare ask Demitto, and after a while he forgot about it, his attention caught by the tales that Demitto wove as their horses plodded along.

  The emissary told him all about Laxony – indeed about all the four lands, both in the present and past. Tahir learned more in a day than he had ever learned from his tutors at home. Demitto explained how the warmer southern country had always been renowned for its crops, for its oats, barley and wheat, and for the magnificent ales and whiskeys the expert brewers had learned to create. He went into great detail about how the rivers in Santerle soaked through the peat-heavy land, and this lent the whiskey a strong medicinal flavour that was an acquired taste but exquisite to those with a trained palate. Tahir thought the ambassador seemed to know a little too much about the various beverages available, but still he found him fascinating to listen to.

  Demitto spoke of everything with great enthusiasm, carrying the Prince along on his passionate tales. He related the old troubles in the north and the way Isenbard’s Wall – long since decayed, the stone carried off for building by the locals – had once threaded all the way across the land from Heartwood to the sea, and Heartwood’s army had manned it, trying to keep the peace. He spoke with glowing eyes of the glorious University of Ornestan, of its pointed arches and sweeping buttresses and amazing stained-glass windows, of the knowledge that hung in the air like smoke. He described the way the fact that the Wulfians were mainly a fishing people, and this had found its way into their art: it was common to find paintings and sculptures of fish and the sea, and their clothing often had silver fish shapes woven into the fabric.

 
; He told of the quiet lands of Hanaire, of its gentle and serious people who placed family above all else, of the large groups of happy children who wove ribbons around the oak trees on the day of the Veriditas ceremony. He seemed to bring to life the high plains that looked over the vast expanse of the northern seas, and their cool winds, and again he seemed angry and saddened by the fact that the jungle had crept up from the Spina Mountains and clawed its way almost up to the Portal – the Node that still had to be maintained for the Veriditas to work.

  And Demitto told Tahir about Komis, his own mother’s land, about which Tahir knew very little. His mother had never spoken of it, and as its people kept themselves to themselves for the most part, there had never been anyone else to tell him about it either. But Demitto spoke of the land as still mostly covered in forest, of the way the trees surrounding the Green Giant Node transformed in The Falling, coating the ground in a layer of gold and red that made it feel as if you were walking through fire. He told the Prince how the Komis people had never really recovered from the devastation of the Darkwater Invasion, when the vast army that had descended on Heartwood had been drowned. The remaining population had lived quietly ever since, driven mainly by women in the absence of the men who had died, and their society had evolved into a much more peaceful one that focussed on strengthening their own culture rather than taking over others. Their carpenters were the best in all four lands, Demitto explained, and their cities still existed in the treetops, formed by trees carved into the shapes of animals and linked together by rope bridges, with houses built over vast platforms, which stretched from one side of the forest to the other.

  Demitto’s voice had a kind of soporific quality, Tahir thought as he fought to stay awake while the ambassador debated which country served the best food. The Prince was not bored, but his eyelids kept drooping almost as if he were in a trance. Maybe it was the rhythmic plodding of the horse, or maybe he had eaten too much at dinner, but gradually his eyes closed, and while he slept, he dreamed.

  The Arbor called to him. Its voice – or maybe it was the thousands of voices of all the Selected who had joined it over the years – reached out to him, wrapped around him with velvety arms. I need you, said the tree, and deep within himself, Tahir felt a longing he had never experienced before, a belonging, in fact, as if that was where he was meant to be, as if that had been his destiny since even before he was born.

  All his life he had thought of his role as one decided by financial means. He knew he had been Selected because the King of Amerle had been able to offer the biggest “contribution” to the King of Heartwood. He had never viewed his role as holy, or indeed anything but unfortunate.

  And yet now, it seemed as if he could see his part in the history of Anguis as if from a distance, as if he were a tiny cog in the mechanism of life, just one star in the billions in the sky, and yet without him the world would stop turning and everything would grind to a halt.

  I need you, said the Arbor, and around it, fire flared.

  Tahir’s breath caught in his throat. The air was filled with ash and smoke, and everything around him was burning. The tree screamed, and Tahir’s heart nearly shuddered to a halt. The Arbor was frightened, could see its imminent death. Leaves flared, crisped, turned to dust, and flames licked up its branches causing it to contort in agony. The heat was unbearable, and Tahir could feel his skin burning as the flames licked towards him. The fire was going to consume him along with the tree. He twisted and turned, but he could not escape. He was going to die…

  A fist caught hold of the back of his tunic and wrenched him out of his trance, and he blinked, confused by the sudden raised voices and yells echoing around him, the twist of bodies and flailing of hooves. It was nearly dark, and ahead he could see the lights of what he assumed was Realberg Castle, but before they had reached the safety of the town walls, they had been ambushed.

  It had been Catena who had grabbed his tunic, and now she dragged him unceremoniously from his horse onto her own.

  “What is going on?” he said, breathless, seeing figures appear out of the night cloaked in black, swords drawn.

  “I do not know.” She drew her own sword, brought it down on a hand that reached up for the Prince. “They have come for you.”

  “For me?” He looked down as another figure reached up for him. He was used to seeing his mother’s eyes, golden like his own, and did not find them as startling as most people, who often found it difficult to tear their gaze from him. But this man’s eyes were filled with dancing flames, and once again his dream flared, the memory of burning.

  He kicked out, and the man grabbed his foot, but again Catena was there to save him, hacking down with her sword until their assailant fell back with a squeal. Next to them, Atavus leapt up at the arm of another man, who howled with pain. All around them sounded the clash of blades as the Heartwood knights fought to defend the Prince, and his heart pounded at the sudden realisation that they may not get to Realberg Castle at all.

  One of the men reached up to Demitto and grabbed him by his belt, but Demitto kicked his heels into his horse and it reared. His belt broke and the man fell, and the horse’s hooves came crashing down onto him with an almighty crack.

  I need you! the Arbor whispered in Tahir’s ear.

  Demitto turned, grabbed Catena’s reins and yanked the horse around. Without another word, he set off towards the castle at breakneck pace, and Catena kicked her heels into the horse’s side and leaned into the saddle, holding Tahir tightly.

  The horses thundered along the path and Tahir didn’t dare look behind them to see if they were being followed. He glanced down at the ground rushing past, relieved to see Atavus racing alongside them.

  “Should we not head for the woods?” Catena yelled across to Demitto.

  “They will not follow us into the city,” he yelled back.

  They closed the distance quicker than Tahir had expected, and Catena had to saw at the reins to get the horse to skid to a halt before the gatehouse. Demitto leapt out of the saddle, the horse still moving, and ran to the gate to talk to the guard. He relayed something urgently and showed him the seal of the ambassador of Heartwood he carried in his pocket. The guard nodded and opened the doors, and as the three of them entered, so Tahir saw half a dozen knights mounting horses, ready to go and see if they could help the Heartwood knights.

  “Should you help them?” he said to Demitto, who was now leading both horses into the city.

  “You are my first priority,” Demitto said, glancing over his shoulder and up at the boy. He leaned across and gripped Tahir’s hand hard. “I will not let them take you.”

  Already half in love with the mysterious, irreverent knight, Tahir felt a sweep of relief at the thought that he had both Demitto and Catena there to protect him. The chief of guard’s arm was still tight around his waist, her sword still drawn. She had leapt to his defence immediately, he thought, the notion making him glow inside.

  “Who were they?” he whispered as the ambassador turned off the main road and headed east, soon losing them in a maze of streets. Tall buildings towered over them and cast the roads into shadow, but people spilled out of the alehouses and some shops were still open, and gradually Tahir’s panic faded. Atavus stopped for a quick drink in a puddle, then ran up to join them again.

  Demitto glanced up at him. “They were Incendi,” he murmured.

  Catena stiffened behind the Prince.

  “Who?” Tahir asked, puzzled.

  Catena ignored the question. “How did they know he would be there?”

  “He connected with the Arbor,” Demitto said. “I could not stop him. He fell into a trance and accessed the energy channels that run through its roots. The Incendi monitor them and use them to gain information. They knew immediately where he was.”

  Tahir did not understand, but he did get one thing from the ambassador’s words. “It was not a dream?”

  Demitto smiled wryly. “No, young prince. The Arbor spoke to you.”r />
  Tahir wavered in the saddle. “How… why…?”

  “First we get you something to eat,” Demitto said firmly. “Then we will talk.”

  III

  The days ticked by slowly. Sarra seemed to spend every waking moment breathless, desperate for the time to come when they could finally be free and there would no longer be all this waiting.

  The Select were a constant presence, even in the evenings, and other people even began to remark on it, so Sarra knew it wasn’t her imagination. The reason might still be unclear, but Comminor was keeping an eye on her. She felt his gaze on her whenever she circled the Great Lake, and no matter where she went now, she would only have to look over her shoulder and a Select would be standing there.

  But she went about her daily life as usual, trying to keep calm. Hunted salamanders by the river. Ate her dinner in the food hall. Went to the Primus evening entertainments where the tradespeople sang or played musical instruments, or where people danced, trying to ease the drudgery of the day with movement and song. She liked dancing, and the baby was not so big yet that it altered her natural flowing steps. Dancing cheered her, and she joined in most evenings. Sometimes she paired with another, sometimes she just danced on her own, but always she left the hall with spirits lifted and a smile on her lips, her fate temporarily put to the back of her mind.

  It was one such night that she walked down from the dance hall, singing to a particularly entrancing melody one of the lute players had come up with, that she bumped straight into a Select. The tall woman, distinct in her gold sash, did not apologise for getting in her way, just looked – rather curiously – at her, and arched an eyebrow.

  “You are to come with me,” she stated, and turned and walked away.