Chonrad was just the beat of a pulse behind her. In the pouring rain they ran to the central road and then turned towards the Temple. His heart thudded, and it was not just from the exertion of the run. Could it have been the Arbor the warriors were after?
Behind him he could hear the pounding of feet as everyone followed, but he and Procella were way ahead. Debris littered the road, bits of tent pole and food and animals and dead people, but there was no time to stop and assess the situation. Together they raced towards the Castellum, and part of him wanted to get there, and part of him didn’t.
The rain soon soaked him, but he paid little heed to the wetness on his face, welcoming the coolness. His worst fears were realised, however, as they neared the building and saw the oak doors were open, the entrance encumbered by the bodies of the two dead Custodes who usually guarded the doors. Procella didn’t stop, however; she leapt over the fallen knights and Chonrad followed, entering the darkness of the Temple.
He almost ran into her, and Fulco into him, neither realising the one in front had stopped. “What…” he began, his voice faltering as he took in the scene before him.
The place was littered with dead and wounded Militis. He heard Procella’s intake of breath as she looked around the room, taking in the number of fallen knights. Heartwood knights prided themselves on their military prowess, and they were a strong and fearless bunch. How many of the water warriors had attacked the Temple to cause such damage?
The waters had obviously risen in here too, because the wooden tiers had been damaged in places, and broken beams littered the floor. Their attention, however, was soon drawn to the tree that stood in the centre of the rings.
Procella walked forward, stopped, then walked forward again. Chonrad followed her slowly. He could not believe what his eyes were seeing.
The Arbor was split in half.
A dozen swords had hacked at the top of the trunk, severing some of the branches and carving a great gouge in the bark so they could get the blades in even deeper. He dreaded to think about the strength of the warriors who had caused such damage. Their continued carving had resulted in the trunk being divided almost to the ground.
Procella stopped and fell to her knees. Suddenly he realised who lay on the floor – it was Silva, and miraculously she was still alive. She was covered in blood though, and he guessed the water warriors had probably left her for dead not realising that in fact some small amount of lifeforce still existed inside her.
Procella cradled Silva’s head, brushing back some of the black hair. The disturbing golden eyes flickered and she looked up at the knight crouching over her. “I am sorry,” she said in a husky voice.
Procella half-laughed, half-cried as she said: “What do you have to be sorry about?”
“I let them take it,” said Silva. She turned her head and spat blood onto the floor before continuing. “I could not stop them. I let them take it, I am sorry.”
“Take what?” Chonrad asked, dropping to his knees beside her.
“The Pectoris.” Silva dissolved into tears. “The heart of the Arbor is gone!”
Chonrad’s eyes met Procella’s. Together they looked up at the old oak tree. Its heart taken, the Arbor sagged sadly.
But that wasn’t the worst thing of all somehow, in Chonrad’s mind.
The worst thing was that the Arbor’s leaves were starting to fall.
CHAPTER THREE
I
Nitesco came to his senses slowly, as if he were swimming to the surface from the bottom of a deep pond. He lay on his front, his cheek against the cold stone floor. Slowly, he lifted his head. It pounded as if someone were hitting him repeatedly with a hammer, and when he lifted his hand to touch his brow, it came away scarlet.
Carefully, he pushed himself to a sitting position. Beneath his mail, his padded tunic was soaked, and he shivered with the cold as a cool evening breeze swept through the gap in the Temple wall.
Gap? Nitesco did a double take as he stared at the wooden screen separating the Temple from the Domus. There was a huge hole in the middle. No wonder he could feel a draught.
He looked around, the fog of confusion clouding his thoughts. He sat on the flagstones of the path that ran around the centre Claustrum, the rectangle of grass inside the Domus. Debris littered the normally neat and tended lawn: bits and pieces of wood, occasional chunks of stone, and other items of furniture and personal belongings of the Militis. The lawn itself had been flattened and rent with great furrows from one end to the other, as if it had been clawed with giant fingers.
What had happened here? His brain felt slow and stupid. He had gone to the Veriditas and watched the ceremony, and then when the others had withdrawn for the Congressus, he and Caecus had gone back to the Armorium to continue the cataloguing of the library that they were about halfway through.
Caecus!
It all came back to him in a rush, as if the floodgates of his memory had been opened.
He stumbled through the archway of the covered arcade onto the outer path, tripped over a piece of wood, and fell heavily into the sodden grass, splashing and coughing. The last thing he remembered was a huge green figure standing above him, sword paused ready for the kill, his emerald eyes glowing like green fire from inside the visor of his golden helmet.
And yet, Nitesco puzzled, he wasn’t dead. What had happened? He touched the wound on his head again. There was slight swelling and some residual blood, but it wasn’t a sword cut, and had probably been caused, he thought, by bumping it on the stones. He looked around the place again, suddenly wary of being attacked, but it was definitely empty of both green warriors and Militis, and there were no shouts or sounds of clashing metal. Although the ground and his clothes were damp, the water had receded and the channel was tinkling away merrily as usual.
His head spun and it took him a moment to steady himself. Then, carefully, he walked into the Armorium.
He felt ashamed to admit he wasn’t sure what upset him the most: the sight of Caecus lying on the floor, his mangled body spilled across the flagstones, or the fact that the library had been almost completely destroyed. He stood in the doorway, his stomach knotting as he took in the scene before him.
Most of the wooden bookshelves around the room had collapsed from the force of the water. Their contents had fallen onto the floor and, after being soaked and then dashed against the stone walls, they now formed a large heap of sodden parchment, much of the writing indistinguishable, the beautiful calligraphy – copied down patiently over years by previous Libraris – blurred and smeared into obscurity.
Hot tears poured down his face. He went over to the crumpled body lying in the middle of the floor and knelt beside it. His stomach churned as his eyes passed quickly over the split abdomen, the innards torn and bloated by water and debris. Caecus’s nearly-blind eyes were open, the distorted left pupil somehow grotesque in the failing light, and so Nitesco closed the lids gently with his fingertips, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so.
He stood, intending to pick up the body and carry it out to the Arbor, where the tree would welcome the old Militis and swallow his energy, but even as he bent to slide an arm under Caecus’s neck, he paused, something catching his eye.
He frowned, squinting at the dark shape on the floor, on the opposite side of the room furthest from the door. What was that? Usually a heavy wooden chest resided there, and had done, he thought, since he had first come to Heartwood. The chest was still there, but it had been lifted by the force of the water and moved a few feet to one side, and now sat askew.
He lay Caecus’s head back down gently and stood. The sun had set and it was growing dark in the Claustrum, and he needed light. Where was he to find dry tinder after the flood? But then he saw that by chance the top shelf above where he had been working earlier that afternoon was still intact, and a lamp and tinder box sat upon it. Reaching for the lamp, he quickly lit the wick of the candle. With a shaking hand, he moved cautiously over to the back of the room,
stepping over the bent and soggy books and scraps of wood.
It was a hole. Nitesco stared at it, mouth open. The chest had covered part of the paving that Caecus had once speculated had been part of the old Temple destroyed by the Great Quake, as they knew Oculus had built the new Temple on the foundations of the old. The paving had cracked under the weight of either the water or other debris, and it had broken in the middle.
Nitesco bent down next to it and carefully removed the bit of stone sticking up and some of the other pieces of rubble. Instead of an earthen floor beneath, a set of stone steps led downwards into the darkness.
His mouth went dry, and he wet his lips nervously, looking over his shoulder at the darkened doorway. He really should go and get help; it would be ridiculous to go down there on his own. Anything could be down there – animals, even more of those warriors, or, more likely, the steps could be dangerous, and he might slip and fall.
But even though all these thoughts flickered through his mind like the flame that danced at the top of the candle, and even though courage was not one of his best features, Nitesco’s heart pounded. He knew, of course, of the stories about documents and other treasures that had been hidden when the old Temple fell. And the thought of marvellous historical mysteries being secreted down there was just too great for his scholarly mind to ignore.
Quickly, he walked back outside and found his sword lying where he had left it, pinned under his body when he fell. Sheathing the blade and holding the light out in front of him, he moved to the edge of the steps and started to descend.
II
Procella seemed unable to move. Chonrad watched her for a while from the shadows, where he sat on a piece of broken bench that had floated against the wall. Fulco cleaned his sword quietly beside him. The others had followed them into the Temple, and most of them stood around the edge of the Arbor now, mouths open in shock, their faces filled with defeat and hopelessness.
Procella’s face was composed but pale, and her cheeks were wet, although she did not seem to make any effort to cry; large tears just slid down her face, and he supposed that, soaked from the sweat of battle, the splashing around in the rising waters and the heavy rain, she didn’t even notice them.
She had fought valiantly in the battle, and he was full of admiration for the way she handled a sword – better than any other knight he had ever seen, he thought, bar maybe Valens on a good day. She was obviously fearless, courageous, aggressive, commanding and skilled, a true knight, and yet now she seemed lost, like a child at a fair who can’t find her mother and, after searching the crowd, decides there is no hope of her being found, and sits forlornly on the floor in despair.
He wanted to understand what she was feeling, but he had had a very different upbringing to hers. And the way he had been rejected at the Allectus had definitely had an impact on his religious views as an adult.
For Chonrad, religion was for other people: for the Militis who served Heartwood; for the scholars who made a living out of debating Animus and the Arbor in the universities; and for the local priests who taught Oculus’s Theories in the village temples and carried out rituals to comfort the people.
But underlying his basic belief was the resentment that he had grown up with that Heartwood had, basically, rejected him. And that had mentally made him keep his distance from his religion. It was something he wore, like the traditional wooden oak leaf symbol around his neck that could be discarded conveniently and hung around the bedpost when he tired of it.
The same was obviously not true for Procella. She seemed crushed, shattered, as if the sword that had split the tree had also carved through her heart. Religion was a completely different thing to her, he realised; it was as much a part of her as her physical body; it grew within her as mistletoe does within an apple tree, like a parasite, consuming its host, and sometimes killing it.
He wondered what it must be like to have your faith be so big a part of your life it influenced everything you said, everything you did. For the first time, he began to understand the passion behind the work of the Exercitus, and the reasons they had called the Congressus to discuss the failing of the land.
It was almost completely dark in the Temple now, and although there were some quiet murmurings among the visitors, the Militis seemed fixated on the mutilated tree, as if its defacement had somehow sapped their energy. Someone needed to take charge, and at the moment both Valens and Procella were unable to do it.
Chonrad stood and cleared his throat, which sounded very loud in the silence of the room. Faces turned towards him, and he waited until he had their attention before he began.
“My friends,” he said, holding out his hands towards them, “this is a terrible time and I beg your forgiveness for interrupting you in your time of grief. But we have much to do and it is nearly dark. We do not know if the water warriors are planning to return, and therefore I think we need to make some preparations before we lose the last threads of light.
“I suggest we form three working parties; Procella, your first aim must be to cut off the river channel at its source and stop the water flowing through Heartwood. Secondly, you must organise a review of the fortifications – are there any weaknesses in the walls; has the Porta withstood the floods? Gather together as many Custodes as you can find and apportion them as you see fit. We must protect ourselves against another attack.”
The Dux stood as he spoke and wiped her face clear of tears. She was still pale, but he could see she was grateful someone had taken charge, and she was relieved to have something to do. She nodded, and he turned his attention to Valens.
“I suggest, Imperator, you co-ordinate the gathering of those visitors who have made it through the attack. We need to organise the remaining lords and the closest followers of those who have died for a discussion on what has happened and what has to be done. You need to find a suitable venue and get it cleared and ready for the meeting, by sun-up, if possible.”
Valens nodded, taking a deep breath and releasing it slowly. He, too, looked relieved at having a task to which he could turn his attention.
Chonrad turned to the Militis twins, who had been listening and talking amongst themselves at the end of the circle. “The third group has the least enjoyable task, I am afraid,” he said, seeing by their faces they knew what was coming. “The dead must be collected and brought here, to the Sepulchrum.” He pointed to the large area in front of the Arbor. “The wounded must also be brought together. I suggest maybe in the Hospitium rather than the Infirmaria as there will be more room, and we need to find people with knowledge of herbs and medicines to tend their wounds.”
“I can do that,” said the female Hanairean High Council member who had been at the Congressus. “I have knowledge of healing.”
Chonrad nodded, glad to see everyone pulling together. He had feared the other countries would immediately withdraw to their own lands and leave Heartwood shattered and torn, unable to defend itself against future attacks.
Procella looked at the huge hole in the screen separating the Temple from the Domus. “The Domus needs to be searched,” she said hoarsely. “I have not yet been in there, I do not know who… what…”
“I can do that,” said Chonrad, “if I am permitted to enter.”
Valens smiled wryly. “I think restricted access is the last thing we need to worry about at the moment.” He came over and clasped Chonrad’s hand. “And anyway, if there is anyone who should have been a Militis and was not, it is you, Chonrad. I know that probably does not mean much to you after Heartwood turned you away, but Dulcis admitted to me on several occasions she wished her predecessor had not done so.”
Chonrad smiled. “That is good praise from a knight such as yourself and I thank you for your words.”
Beside them, the Militis that Chonrad had not yet met, the knight with one arm who had been present at the podiums in the Curia, stepped forward. “I will help search the Domus if you wish,” he said, in his low, gruff voice.
“Th
is is Dolosus,” said Valens, “One of the Deans of Heartwood.”
Chonrad shook the knight’s remaining hand. He was heavyset and dark-haired, and probably from Wulfengar originally, Chonrad thought. He had eyes so dark brown they were almost black, making him look as if he had no pupils. “I will be glad of your help.” Chonrad stifled his wariness. This was not the time to worry about personal opinions.
Beata came up to him. “I will help too,” she offered. She had a cut on her cheek and the top of her undyed padded tunic was dark with blood, but the bleeding appeared to have stopped and apart from this she looked fresh and determined.
“The first thing we need is light,” said Chonrad. “Where can we get dry lamps?”
“The cupboards at the sides are where we store the candles,” said Beata.
They walked over to them, picking their way amongst the rubble. One cupboard was completely destroyed. The doors hung on their hinges and the shelves inside had collapsed, throwing the candles into the water. Chonrad’s heart sank as he saw the other cupboard in much the same condition, but when he pulled open a sagging door the very top shelf was still intact. He lifted down the contents. There were six glass lanterns – two had some of the panes broken, but were usable, and there were about a dozen candles.
“That will have to do.” Chonrad took down the tinder box. He struck the flint against the steel, igniting the small pile of straw inside, and then lit six of the candles from the resulting flame. Beata placed the candles inside the lanterns and closed the doors.
“Right,” said Chonrad, “let us get to work.”
Valens, Procella and the twins began to call people to them to ask them to help out in their tasks. Meanwhile, Chonrad, Dolosus and Beata, and Fulco, who had insisted on coming, made their way around the back of the Arbor ring. It was not easy going: the damage here was more extensive as this was where the diverted Flumen channel had run, and rubbish was piled up on either side. Slowly they heaped the broken wooden boards, bits of glass, kneeling cushions, candles, prayer books and other detritus to one side of the Temple, leaving the path to the doorway through to the Domus clear.
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