Sunstone

by Freya Robertson

  Horada raised her head to stare at him, while Procella looked up sharply. “Is this the outbreak of fires you were talking about last night?”

  “Connected with that, yes. But it is more than a reaction to a particularly hot and dry Shining.” Julen ran his hand through his dark hair. He seemed unsettled – a word Orsin would never normally have associated with his brother. “Over the past year, there has been an unusual scattering of deaths throughout the country. At first, we could see nothing to connect them and thought them random misfortunes. Lowborn and highborn people, rich and poor, men and women. From all four realms, rarely from the same towns.”

  “What made you think they were connected at all?” Orsin asked.

  “Just one thing. They all died in fire – burned to death.”

  Julen fell quiet for a moment. Then ran his hand through his hair again. “After the Darkwater Lords were defeated twenty-two years ago, the University of Ornestan began some serious research and investigation into the revelations that had come out of that event. Nitesco – the Libraris who discovered the location of the Nodes and the true meaning behind the Veriditas – joined the university and has led the philosophical debates. He has created a group called the Nox Aves. They are based in a group of buildings they call the Nest at Heartwood, consisting of men and women who are involved in carrying out studies into the Nodes and the energy channels in the land. Much has been uncovered, although the whys and wherefores are still under discussion, and therefore the news has been kept in the scholarly circles.”

  A prickle ran down Orsin’s spine. “What news?”

  Julen frowned. “The channels in the land that run from the roots of the Arbor do not just conduct energy. They also conduct time.”

  They all fell silent. Orsin tried to process that information.

  Eventually, he spoke. “Huh?”

  Procella, too, looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘conduct time’? I do not understand.”

  Julen leaned forward and linked his hands, smiling as Rua tried to push her nose into them. “As you well know, I am no scientist and no philosopher. But from what I understand, the roots of the Arbor connect its form in the past, the present and the future. The Arbor appears to experience all time simultaneously.”

  More silence.

  “Let us say, for argument’s sake, that it is so,” Orsin said finally. “What effect does it have on Anguis? On us?”

  “The scholars believe that the Arbor saw the rise of the Darkwater Lords. It cannot appear to change time, as such, but it can seem to influence it by influencing us.”

  “Huh?” Orsin said again.

  Julen’s lips quirked. “Nitesco explained it to me like this. You are watching a man walking on an icy river. You see a crack appear in the ice, but you are too far away for the man to hear if you shout a warning. You cannot stop the man falling into the river, but you can grab a rope and a hook to anchor yourself, and order the servants to get blankets and hot water as you run to his aid. The event itself is fixed in time. But everything else can be moulded like soft clay around it.”

  Orsin’s head hurt. “So how did the Arbor influence the land when it knew the Darkwater Lords were going to rise?”

  “Who knows? Its influence could have started hundreds of years ago, and ended with making sure our father was at the Congressus, and that those who attended on that fateful day were people who could help it in its time of need.”

  “I understand now,” Procella said. “A little. What else can you tell us?”

  “The scholars believe the Arbor has seen an event in its future – something terrible, maybe even more terrible than the rise of the Darkwater Lords.”

  A shiver ran down Orsin’s back. “What sort of event?”

  “It is connected with the fires,” Procella said softly.

  Julen nodded. “The scholars believe that due to the failure of the Veriditas for so long, the elements became wildly unbalanced. It is like preparing a stew for supper and adding too much salt. This can be alleviated by adding more water, but then the stew becomes watery and needs more meat. It is difficult to regain the right balance. This imbalance with the elements led to the rise of the Darkwater Lords. They were crushed, but the scholars think maybe the imbalance still exists.”

  “Meaning that one of the other elements is on the rise,” Orsin said slowly.

  Julen nodded again. “Fire.”

  Procella leaned back in her chair, her face registering shock. “So this is why there have been fires breaking out across the land?”

  “Yes.” Julen scratched his cheek, his finger rasping on stubble. “This bit I do not quite understand, but the scholars believe that, in the future, fire elementals have discovered a way to travel along the energy channels from the Arbor. These fire elementals have travelled back into the past – into our time, and maybe even further back. The Nox Aves think that the further the elementals travel back in time, the less power they have. But they do believe they are gradually eliminating the people that they believe the Arbor could call on to help it.”

  “By burning them to death,” Orsin whispered. “What a terrible way to die.” And what a glorious way, too.

  “Yes. The scholars call these elementals the Incendi. They do not know how they work – whether they, like the Darkwater Lords, can somehow take on our form, or whether they are operating in elemental form alone. But it seems as if they are real, and although at the moment they are few in number, they are gradually increasing as we near the catastrophe they suspect is coming.”

  “So what do they hope to achieve?” Procella asked. “If, as you say, events are fixed?”

  “For the Arbor, the events are fixed. For the Incendi? Who knows?”

  “You mean they could actually change time? Alter the way the future occurs?”

  Julen shrugged. “We do not know. But it is entirely possible. After all, the Arbor can see through time, but it cannot travel through it or alter it, as far as we know. If we return to the analogy of the man on the ice, maybe the Incendi have found a way to transport themselves from the moment they spot the man over to the moment they would reach his side instantaneously. It is then up to them whether they intervene and save him, or watch him die.”

  Procella touched her hand to her forehead. “This is too much for the likes of us. We do not have the brains of scholars. Chonrad may have enjoyed debating philosophy but I do not. How are we to make sense of all this? Why tell us at all?”

  “Because you have had the dreams,” Julen said. “The Arbor has tried to contact you, and Horada. Maybe it needs you. And in that case, the Incendi will know, and maybe they will come after you.”

  “Let them try,” Procella snarled.

  Julen banged on the table. “And how, pray, do you propose to defeat these nefarious elementals when we have no idea what form they take or how they appear?”

  Procella looked startled. Orsin had never heard his brother speak in that way to their mother. He must really be worried, Orsin thought; that very fact concerning him more than the news of the Incendi did.

  “What do you propose?” Procella said, her voice quiet.

  Julen took a deep breath and then blew it out slowly. “The Peacekeeper instructed me to fetch you both to Heartwood. I understand your reservations about this, but he feels we must answer the Arbor’s call.”

  “I think if Horada…” Procella’s words petered off as she looked along the table to where her daughter had been sitting. The seat was vacant. “Where did she go?”

  Orsin shook his head. He hadn’t seen his sister leave. “I do not know.”

  His mother pushed herself impatiently to her feet. “I will go and get her, and we shall talk about it.” She marched off toward the stairs to the bedchambers.

  Orsin met Julen’s dark gaze, and the two brothers smiled wryly.

  “I thought she would resist me more,” Julen said, leaning back and stroking his short beard.

  “I think she is scared,” Orsin said. �
�I would not have thought it of her, but then I suppose one is always scared for one’s children.”

  He looked into the flames that writhed atop the log like figures tortured and made to dance with hot pokers. Would he ever have children, know hearth and home like his father had done? Twice. Orsin’s half-brother and sister had lived with them for ten years or so until Rosamunda had married and moved away and Varin had answered the Peacekeeper’s call for a small personal army to accompany him on his travels across Anguis. Julen still caught up with him regularly, but Orsin had not seen him for a long time.

  Time moves on, he thought, like the stars wheeling in the heavens. How could time be changed? Surely it was as irreversible as the way the fire was currently consuming the log, turning the wood to ash. The ash couldn’t be turned back into wood – it just wasn’t possible. And he had thought the passage of time was the same.

  The log subsided in the grate, and a piece of kindling rolled towards the edge of the brick hearth. Orsin leaned forward and picked it up, watching the flame lick its way up the length of the twig towards his hand. So sensual; fluid, like a viscous liquid. He could just imagine what it would feel like to have it slide over him, stroking, caressing, and teasing him with its white-hot heat…

  “Orsin!”

  Startled, he dropped the branch into the grate. “What?”

  Julen grabbed his hand and turned it over, examining his skin. “The fire covered your hand!”

  “No, it did not.”

  Julen frowned. His eyes met his brother’s, and a cold sliver of fear embedded itself in Orsin’s stomach.

  The moment was broken, however, by the rapid scuff of boots on stone, and then their mother appeared, running along the hall, clearly agitated.

  “She has gone!”

  The brothers stood, Rua circling them nervously. “Gone where?” Julen demanded.

  “I do not know.” Procella yelled the words. “One of the servants saw her leave only a short time ago with her travel bag. She assumed Horada was going to stay with Rosamunda, but…” Her voice trailed off.

  Horada travelled the short distance to stay with her half-sister on a frequent basis. But Orsin knew that was not the case this time.

  “She has gone to Heartwood,” Julen murmured.

  Procella’s cheeks went red as if her head was going to explode.

  “I should have foreseen this,” Julen said through gritted teeth. He was already buckling on his scabbard. “Yesterday she spoke of her frustration. I know how stubborn she is – I should have guessed she would leave on her own.”

  “It is not your fault.” Procella gripped the back of the chair, her knuckles white. “I drove her to it.”

  “It is too late for recriminations. We must go after her.” Orsin beckoned to a nearby page and told him to go and saddle three horses.

  But Julen shook his head. “It is nearly dark and she will not take the main road. She is a good horsewoman and will not fear to travel in the woods. Like me, she has the ability to make herself invisible in the trees. I will follow her – I will be able to travel more quickly on my own and I know the secrets of the shadows whereas you do not.”

  “What can I do?” Procella reached automatically for the sword at her side, only to find it missing where she wore her casual clothes, and she cursed.

  “Go to Heartwood,” Julen said. “Take the main road, and gather men on the way from the Wall. We do not know what form the Incendi invasion will take or when it will occur. Spread the word and garner support. Let it be known that we are not going to be taken down lightly.” He rested his hand on her arm. “And Mother? Take care. You, too, have received the dreams. The Incendi may be after you also.”

  He ruffled the fur on Rua’s head. “You must stay here, old girl.” He bent and kissed her nose. “I do not want you getting into trouble at your age.”

  He turned to his brother and they clasped hands in the age-old gesture of soldier to soldier. “Travel safe,” Julen said. His voice held sincerity, but his eyes were cool. When he turned and walked off without another word, he left Orsin with a vague sense of foreboding and a bitter taste in his mouth, as if he had drunk the oak-leaf tea, acerbitas, reminding him of the bitterness of life without the Arbor’s love.

  II

  Catena hovered in the doorway of the house and leaned against the doorjamb. As always, whenever she visited her childhood home, a sensation of weariness and defeat crept over her, and she had to force a smile onto her face as her mother looked up and saw her.

  “Cat!” Imma pushed herself tiredly to her feet and came over to welcome her daughter, kissing her on the cheek. “It is so good to see you.”

  “And you, Mother.” Catena directed her back to the chair. “Please, sit. Do not tire yourself out.”

  Imma lowered herself back down, already looking worn out by the movement. “It is true, I do feel tired today.”

  You are always tired, Catena thought, although she didn’t voice the words. And no wonder. The noise outside was making her head ache, and she had only been there five minutes. She walked through the small house to the back yard, caught the two boys playing at swords by the scruff of their necks and marched them out of the garden and down to the river. “You can yell all you like down here,” she told her brothers sharply. “Give Mother’s ears a rest.”

  The boys continued their play as if nothing had happened, and she walked back through the yard slowly. The vegetables in their rows needed weeding, and the midden at the bottom should have been cleared days ago, the smell making her nose wrinkle. She entered the dark building, noting the way the rough tapestry on the wall that her mother had been so proud of when they had completed it together had faded and was covered in a fine sheen of metallic dust. Half a dozen of the pots on the shelves had been broken and then mended – badly in most cases. Imma still wore the dress Catena could remember her wearing when her daughter had been appointed Captain of the Guard seven years ago, although it had been patched with so many other pieces of cloth that it was barely recognisable.

  Catena sat opposite her mother and took her hands. There was little flesh on them, the skin lying over the bones like finest linen draped over thin wooden sticks. Like most mothers, Catena supposed, Imma had given everything she had to her husband and the six children who had been born alive. As the eldest, Catena had watched Imma’s body expand and retract over the years until her firm muscles had turned soft like kneaded dough, and the once-bright light of passion and enthusiasm had faded from her eyes to leave them dull and flat like muddy puddles.

  So many times Catena had tried to help – with time, with encouragement, even with money once she began to earn her own wage at the castle. But it was never enough. Other babies came from the womb without a breath, and three of her siblings had died in the mines. Sickness and hunger ravaged a house that did not have the food and energy to fight it, and sometimes she felt as if a veil of grief and regret hung over a home that should have been vibrant with the energies of the children inside.

  “I suppose you are going,” Imma said, looking down at their linked hands. Her once-brown hair hung in a grey curtain, glittering with shining threads like the veins of silver that ran through the castle rock. “I wish you would stay here.”

  “I know.” Catena longed to wrench her hands free from the cold, grey sparrow’s feet she held and run out into the bright sunshine, but she forced herself to sit still. “I will be back,” she murmured, leaning forward to plant a kiss on Imma’s crown.

  “Will you?” Imma whispered. “I do not think so, somehow.”

  After they had said their goodbyes, Catena mused on those words as she mounted her horse and rode away. The house lay on the outskirts of Harlton, and she skirted the town via the coastal road, then re-entered through the southern gatehouse and dismounted on the cobbled street. It was market day and a good majority of the town’s inhabitants were in the central square plying their trades. The roads were busy with traffic from Prampton, Quillington and Widd
ington as carts brought sheep fleeces and hides, sacks of oats, barley and flour, barrels of apples and flagons of wine to exchange for the silver, gold, iron ore and precious gems that the Harlton folk mined from the hills in the west, as well as the superior armour their blacksmiths made.

  As she followed the road east, however, the traffic thinned and the day grew quieter. She slowed the horse to a walk and breathed in the salty southerly breeze. Here the city seemed less polluted by the noxious fumes from the blacksmiths, and the jungle thinned, giving way to flowered borders and the occasional village green with its pond, complete with ducks.

  She supposed she should have trawled through the taverns to find her father to say goodbye, but she didn’t think he would miss her. Her fingers rose to trace the faint scar on her right cheek, caused by a blow from his belt buckle when she was younger. He’d always been a cruel man, and he resented her position at the castle. She would not waste her time tracking him down only to have him shower her with sarcastic comments.

  The lane turned south and she dismounted and tied the horse to a beech tree outside the Temple wall. Then she turned the handle on the wooden door and went through.

  Catena paused as the path forked, wondering which to take. To the right stood the old stone Temple that had once encased the town’s primary oak tree, which had been moved stone by stone thirty feet to the right at the beginning of the Second Era. The Temple still housed plaques to the dead and places to light candles and pray, but the tree to her left now grew exposed to the elements.

  It stood in a ring of grass, surrounded by half a dozen wooden benches for people to sit in quiet contemplation, although now the place was empty; she made her way to one and sat. The sun filtered through the oak leaves, casting a pattern on the grass below that moved and shimmered in the slight breeze like a flock of butterflies.

  She released a long, slow breath, not conscious of the tension she had been holding in her body until that moment. She was leaving. Finally leaving. Her heart rate increased at the thought. It would be a long journey to Heartwood, probably at least eleven days, taking into account that the Prince did not ride often and would be saddle-sore within a day or two. Eleven days! She had never travelled further than Prampton, a journey that had taken a day and a half and had required a stop at an inn on the way.