“You were married; presumably your wife fell in love with you?”
He thought about his wife. Memories of her stirred up feelings of duty and responsibility rather than affection. He had been sad when she died, but although he had worn a white tunic for the obligatory year, in his heart his mourning had passed long before that. “Minna was a difficult woman, and ours was a marriage of convenience. I am not sure love ever came into it at all.”
Procella said nothing, but her dark eyes studied him curiously. Perhaps she thought all marriages involved falling in love. The reality, in his experience, was very different.
They reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the large room that served as offices for the Watch where they co-ordinated the changing of the guard and the rota for the day. “On your feet!” she barked at the Custos who lounged in his chair, playing idly with a couple of dice. “Have you made your rounds yet?”
“Er, no Dux, sorry…” His face reddened as his eyes flicked from her to Chonrad and back again.
“It is nearly time for the Secundus Campana, so you had best be off.”
He scurried down the stairs in front of them, his scabbard clanging on the stone.
She grinned at Chonrad, and he laughed. “You are very scary.”
“It is all an act. I am a pussycat really.”
“That is not what I have heard.” Stories of the new Dux had become almost legend, even in the short time she had been in the role. Most of the knights in the Exercitus were scared of her, and he could understand why. He had also heard she was a sight to be seen in battle: skilled, fearless and experienced, fiercely loyal, someone her soldiers would fight to the death for.
Once again, his interest in her stirred, but he clamped it down firmly. Distract yourself, Chonrad. He thought about what she had said to the Custos. “What is the Secundus Campana?” She had spoken in the language of Heartwood, and he did not understand completely what she had said to the guard.
She looked at him with surprise, continuing in Laxonian, “I thought you spoke Heartwood’s language?”
“A little of course. But I did not… ah… pay as much attention to my studies as I probably should have.”
“You are referring to not being chosen at the Allectus?”
“Actually, no. I was just very bad at school.”
She laughed. “The Secundus Campana is the second bell. The Campana rings nine times while the sun is up, marking time for prayer, weapons exercise and meals.” She smiled. “I forget most people are unfamiliar with the ways here. I have known them for so long – they are all I can remember, really.” She began to descend the stairwell to the next floor.
Chonrad followed her, Fulco trailing behind like a shadow. “Where were you from originally?” he asked, wondering if it was anywhere near his home town.
She looked over her shoulder at him. There was an impish look in her eyes. “I do not know if I should tell you.”
“Why not?”
“It might… unnerve you.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I am from Wulfengar.”
He stopped dead on the steps and stared at her. She laughed, enjoying the effect her words had had on him, clearly not surprised to see his reaction. Her admission shocked him. In Wulfengar, women were not held in high regard, and it was unknown for them to enter the army, or indeed to sit on any council or hold any office in the land. They were forbidden to attend school or university. Wulfengar men regarded their women as brood mares, figures to satisfy their lust and produce their offspring, to cook their meals and look after them when they returned home at the end of the day.
Needless to say, Procella’s position was rather unusual.
“By the oak leaf,” said Chonrad. “How did you manage that?”
“My mother’s mother was from Laxony.” She carried on down the stairs. “My grandfather met her while on a raid across the Wall, and he carried her back with him as a spoil of victory.”
Chonrad said nothing. It was an increasing problem, one that angered him greatly.
“I do not think they were that unhappy. She grew to love him, in her way. But she brought up her daughter – my mother, to be strong and independent, and although my father did his best to control her, my mother managed to do the same for me. She was determined I escape the hold of Wulfengar, as she had not, and so, unknown to my father, she took me to Heartwood herself for the Allectus, and left me there when I was chosen.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was a long time ago,” was all she said.
Reaching the bottom of the steps, they entered the large Watchroom. Usually a large oak door closed it off from the corridor to the north tower. Today, because all shifts of the Custodes were on Watch, they had pushed the doors open. The room now stretched from one tower of the Porta to the other, spanning the length of the wide drawbridge and portcullis below. The place was filled with knights, some arming themselves from the stock of weapons to one side of the room, others checking on the rota sheet where they were supposed to be at specific times of the day. They parted respectfully to let Procella, Chonrad and Fulco through as they crossed to the other tower and descended the final staircase to the outside world.
“Busy today,” Chonrad commented, watching as a group of Hanaire visitors, distinguishable by their long fair hair, stopped at the gates to talk to the Custodes who ticked names off their list of invited guests.
“The busiest I have seen it for a long time,” Procella agreed. They slipped past the Hanaireans and walked into the Baillium, the large area inside Heartwood’s walls. The wide path led straight through the scatter of buildings and temporary tents to the Castellum.
“Everyone has come to see the show,” Chonrad murmured. He glanced aside at a large group of Wulfengar knights who sat in front of a tent, swilling ale. Instinctively, his hand fell to the pommel of his sword.
Procella nudged him. “Remember we are here today to talk peace.”
“Sorry.” He let his hand drop. “But it has been a long time since I stood in the same country as a Wulfengar, let alone the same room.”
He looked across at the huge circular Curia, where the Congressus was due to take place after the Veriditas ceremony. It had been a noble effort, he thought, by Heartwood, to try to get as many leaders of the Seven Lands of Laxony, the five lands of Wulfengar, and the lords of Hanaire together to discuss the possibility of a pact. Relations had not been good for some years between the eastern Twelve Lands especially, and things only seemed to be escalating. Heartwood’s Exercitus was being called on more and more to try to keep things quiet on Isenbard’s Wall, and he knew how thin their resources were being stretched. This was a last ditch attempt on Heartwood’s part to try to make peace between the nations.
And he knew Procella was as certain as himself it would fail.
The blue Wulfengar banners waved in the early morning breeze like a flock of small birds hovering above the ground. Chonrad wondered if Procella felt disturbed by the close proximity of all the Laxony and Wulfengar lords. The invitation had specified they were not to bring large armies with them, but each lord had come accompanied by a small contingent of armed men. Having so many knights in such a small area was, he felt, inherently dangerous. He glanced across at Fulco, who pointed his thumb towards the ground with a grimace.
“Did you manage to get a look in the Castellum when you arrived last night?” Procella gestured at the building.
“No.” He fell into step beside her, dodging the swishing tail of a horse as the rider headed for the Porta. “It was dark and my knights were tired after the long journey. We set up the tent and went straight to sleep.” He did not tell her the main reason he had not visited the Temple – that part of him did not want to go in there, did not want to see the Arbor.
Procella gestured for him to follow her. “Come, I shall show you around the Temple.” As she spoke, the sound of a bell rang around the Baillium. Its chime was not hars
h on the ears, but it resonated throughout him, deep in his chest.
IV
“Is that the Veriditas beginning?” he asked.
For a moment she looked startled. Then she laughed. “It is odd but I have heard that bell for so many years that now I hardly hear it at all. No, it is not time for the ceremony quite yet. That will start with the Tertius Campana – the third bell.”
“Are you missing anything at the moment?” He was aware each bell marked a specific item in the day’s agenda.
“No.” She turned her face up to the sunshine as they walked. “Usually it would mark the Light Service, but all Services are postponed today for the Congressus.”
The Baillium bustled, filled with knights from the three countries and the Militis, but in spite of the commotion Chonrad found he could not draw his gaze away from the Castellum that reared above them, casting a shadow across a large portion of the grounds. He remembered seeing it so many years ago, this tall honey-coloured building, and he could also remember the fluttering in his stomach then, the excitement and anticipation of being chosen at the Allectus. He had been so certain they would choose him.
He could also recall walking away from the Temple after the ceremony and casting a glance back. He remembered the heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the burning sensation behind his eyelids. Heartwood hadn’t wanted him then; could it really have changed in all those years?
“I cannot take you inside the western part, of course,” said Procella. If she was aware his mood had darkened, she didn’t mention it. “That is for the Militis only. But I can show you around the Temple.”
He did not reply. Instead, he slowed his walk as the path went over a small bridge, and he leaned over the railings and looked down at the river that splashed merrily beneath. “This is not natural, is it?”
“No.” She leaned over next to him. “The channel was dug many years ago to divert water from the Flumen that runs from the mountains, just north of Isenbard’s Wall to the sea. Water is diverted here to feed the Arbor and for the use of the Militis. It runs right through the Castellum, out through the Temple and then down here and under the wall to the east of the Porta.”
The water shimmered on the stones at the bottom of the channel, momentarily blinding him. He blinked, and for a second thought he saw a shadow in the water, like a face next to his, staring up at him. He blinked again, however, and it vanished. Looking up, he saw a cloud covering the face of the sun and realised it must have been the reflection of this he had seen. More clouds lay hunched on the horizon, dark grey and ominous, and he wondered whether they were going to get rain before the day was out.
They continued walking up the road, picking their way through the piles left by the horses, to where the road met the Quad in front of the main entrance to the Castellum. The Quad was a large square of flagstones, used in pleasant weather for some meetings. But it was too small to hold the Congressus, which was going to take place in the more formal meeting place of the Curia, a large and circular ring of oak trees to one side of the Baillium. The Quad was currently full of people waiting for the start of the Veriditas. Procella pushed through them, heading for the large oak doors. At one point, Chonrad felt her warm, strong grip on his hand, as she made sure he followed.
The doors were closed while they prepared the Temple for the ceremony. But nobody closed the doors to the Dux.
“Come on.” She slipped through the gap as one of the Custodes opened the door for her.
“Are you sure?” He looked over his shoulder at the colours of many Wulfengar lords. “Does everyone get a personal tour such as this?”
“No. Only the really important people,” she said. “Well, and you, obviously.”
His retort vanished as he moved through the crack in the doors, which closed behind him, unfortunately leaving Fulco outside. Instantly, he felt as if he had stepped into another world.
The Temple was vast, much bigger than he remembered. With walls constructed from the amber mountain stone, the Temple had a high ceiling that soared above his head in a huge dome. He craned his neck to look up at the roof. The dome was inlaid with thousands of tiny panes of coloured glass that cast sunlight onto the floor in coloured shapes, as if someone had spilled a basket of jewels across the flagstones.
The Temple floor was divided into a series of concentric rings. The outer ring, the one closest to the thick stone walls, was fronted by a wooden screen with shutters, some of which were open to reveal small cubicles, each with a seat, a prayer cushion and a small table. The whole outer ring was formed from a series of these cubicles, presumably, he guessed, where the Militis spent time between the services if they wish to take private prayer or study.
At the moment, however, access to the cubicles was blocked because in the next ring, the widest one, a series of temporary wooden tiers had been erected to form a circle of seats for the ceremony, like an amphitheatre. Usually, he realised, the Temple must seem even bigger without the seating, and he vaguely remembered the wide-open space from the Allectus. This ring was for visitors, and a low wooden fence at waist height hemmed the inner edge of it, to discourage people from going into the central layers.
He followed Procella across the floor to the fence. The small gate that usually stopped visitors from going any farther lay open, so he followed her through it. The next ring was filled with water, and he realised this was the same stream he had crossed outside. The water was obviously fed into the Temple, where it circled the centre and then continued in a small channel outside.
Procella smiled at him and led him across the bridge.
The second-to-last ring was usually for Militis only. It was obviously much smaller than the huge outer circle and littered with cushions, to save the sore knees of those who came to pray. And the object of their prayers stood in the centre circle, lit by the light of the rising sun.
Chonrad stopped, letting Procella walk forward on her own. She touched her fingers to her heart, lips and forehead in a gesture of veneration. His heart pounded. It had been thirty-five years since he had last set foot in the Temple. But immediately he was taken back to the moment he had stood before the Arbor, and the wonder that had filled him then.
The Arbor was an oak tree, the oak tree: the one tree whose roots reached to the centre of the world, and which fed the land with its energy. It was formed, he knew, from the tears of the god Animus, who had cried when he realised he was alone in the universe, and his tears had fallen onto the land and hardened, and formed the Pectoris – the heart of all creation. And the Pectoris had fed the land with Animus’s love, and around the Pectoris grew the Arbor. And since time had begun, the Arbor had protected the land, and because the land and the people were one, the Arbor and the people were one.
He could remember his mother telling the story in front of the fire in the cold winter evenings before he went to the Allectus. He remembered lying on his front, listening to his mother’s soft voice, and he would stare into the flames and imagine what this wonderful tree was like.
Someone touched his arm, and a soft voice said, “What do you think?”
He cleared his throat. “It is smaller than I remember.” He turned and only then realised it wasn’t Procella standing next to him but a smaller knight, with long black hair, brown skin and disturbing eyes the colour of beaten gold.
“This is Silva,” Procella said, indicating the dark-haired knight. “She is the Keeper of the Arbor. Silva, this is Chonrad of Vichton, Lord of Barle.”
“A pleasure,” Silva said, although she didn’t smile, and her golden eyes glinted.
“I apologise if I insulted the Arbor.” He hoped he hadn’t caused an international incident. “I was merely… I mean I remember… The last time I came, it seemed bigger… But then I was a child…”
“Calm yourself,” Silva said in her strange sing-song voice. “There is no offence taken. In fact you are correct – the Arbor would have been bigger when you were a child, you are not mistaken.”
/> “Is that right? Why?”
Silva arched an eyebrow. “That Question requires a very long and complicated answer.”
Procella looked up into its branches. She’d wrapped her arms around her body in a strangely defensive gesture, looking for all the world, he thought, as if she were frightened, although he couldn’t imagine the brave Dux ever feeling that emotion.
“From what we understand,” Silva said, “the Arbor has been shrinking steadily over the past thousand years. Oculus’s records state the height of the tree as being a good third taller than it is now.” She sighed heavily. “We think it is because of our disconnection with the land.”
“Disconnection?”
“We are taught the land and the Arbor are one, and therefore the people and the Arbor are one, are we not? Well, over the past few hundred years, we have hardly been at one with each other. There has been war after war, followed by floods and famines, and we think this has resulted in a lack of understanding of how to connect with the land, and therefore how to connect to the Arbor.”
Chonrad studied the tree as he thought about her words. Oculus, the writer of the Militis’s Rule and the founder of the stone Temple that eventually became the Castellum, explained in his writings that three hundred years before his birth – over thirteen hundred years before Chonrad was born – there had been a great earthquake, which had caused the old Temple to collapse. He had written in his Memoria that oral tradition stated that early literature had been hidden beneath the rubble, and that maybe important information about how to look after the Arbor had been lost. Oculus had tried to find it, but had not been successful. Was it possible the truth had been buried along with the ancient writings?
He looked over at the two knights who watched him patiently but attentively. “Is that why you called the Congressus?” he asked. “You think the Arbor will continue to shrink unless we finally have peace?”
Procella shrugged. “We do not know. But it is worth a try, do you not think?”
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