Heartwood

by Freya Robertson

  But it was a ridiculous notion. He sighed, his hand coming up to touch his bushy beard. He did not appear to have a trace of his grandmother’s blood in him – there was absolutely nothing about his appearance to suggest he was in any part Hanairean. Going to Hanaire would have just meant he would be an outcast in two lands – he would not have been able to settle there, to feel at home. No, he lived his life the only way he could – his body in Wulfengar, his mind in the clouds, free even if his physical self wasn’t.

  Karlgan must be close now, he thought, seeing the Spina Mountains rearing up before him, dusted with white. He looked to the south towards the Forest of Wings, the trees close and forbidding like a trained army. He had not been strictly truthful with Fionnghuala. There was a path through the forest from Redgar to Karlgan, and although it was narrow and fraught with obstacles, it would probably have cut off a day or two from their journey. But the forest held many dark memories for Grimbeald, and he had not travelled through it for years. He looked at the trees, at the dark spaces between them, which could hide a thousand pairs of eyes. He had the strange sensation of being watched.

  It was not the first time he had felt the presence of an invisible observer. That evening in Redgar, in the room with Fionnghuala, he had thought he saw a figure standing by the door, watching him. He had caught it out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned to look, there was nothing there. But now, staring at the forest, he was sure he could see a person, just visible within the trees. He blinked a few times and suddenly it was only a pattern cast by the branches, a scatter of light against dark, but still he shivered and kicked his heels into his steed, picking up the pace.

  They reached Karlgan at midday, or what felt like midday; there was still no sun to guide them.

  “I think we will continue on rather than stop here,” said Fionnghuala. “There are several huts along the Pass for travellers to stay.”

  Grimbeald nodded, knowing she felt uncomfortable in Wulfengar, and he did not blame her. “May your Quest be successful,” he said, giving her the Heartwood salute.

  She smiled and returned it. “And yours, too. Take care, Grimbeald.” Turning her horse, she led the party left at the crossroads towards the mountains.

  Grimbeald did not stay to watch her disappear into the Pass. He had a long journey still to undertake, and besides, he wished to put as much distance between himself and the Forest of Wings as possible. He cast one last look at it before turning his horse towards the road north. The forest glared at him, resenting him. The tree branches bent in the wind and formed the figure that watched him, waiting. Then they moved, and the figure was gone.

  Grimbeald turned in his seat to check his companions and saw one of the Heartwood knights studying him curiously. Her name was Tenera, and she was very young – maybe not even in her third decade, and shorter than most of the Laxonian female knights, with very long brown hair she wore in braids to her waist. Her snub nose covered with freckles somehow emphasised her youth. He had asked Procella why she had decided to send such a young Militis with him when he really needed strong and experienced warriors, but she had just smiled and said not to judge her knights by their appearance. Grimbeald had found out what she meant when during the brief exchange at the inn in Redgar: Tenera had been the first knight across the tables when the Wulfians all stood up to challenge them. She had disarmed one of them and pinned another to the wall with her sword before the rest of them had time to blink. What she lacked in height, she obviously made up for in agility, and she was clearly skilled in many forms of weaponry, as he could see from the bow she carried across her back.

  What took him by surprise now, though, was her searching gaze and quizzical expression. He said nothing, kicking his heels into the horse and guiding it onto the road north, but he was not to escape her curiosity.

  She manoeuvred her horse up to his and rode alongside him for a while. The rain had lightened to a steady drizzle, and she tipped back the hood of her cloak so the mist settled on her hair, making it glitter with droplets.

  Eventually he looked across at her and gave her his best scowl that would have cowed most Wulfian women. “Do you want something?”

  Instead of looking alarmed, however, she merely smiled. “I was wondering if I could ask you a few Questions. We have quite a journey and a big task to complete – it would be nice if I knew a little about you.”

  “You do not need to know me intimately to be able to complete the Quest.”

  “True,” she agreed. “But it is a long journey, and conversation would help to pass the time.”

  He turned away, looking ahead at the path that rose gently to meet the hills of the Farmines. He sighed. It was true, he had not been very good company since leaving Heartwood. His men were used to his morose moods, and spoke to him only when spoken to, but the Exercitus spent months, if not years, on the road and would be used to finding ways to pass long journeys.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “I am not used to spending much time with others.”

  She cocked her head at him. “That is a strange thing to say. I would have thought conversation and companionship were compulsory for a lord.”

  He shrugged. “I was not chosen for the role because of my social skills.”

  “You were chosen for the role?”

  “When my father died, I was the strongest candidate for succession and did not have any serious contenders.”

  “I bet your father would be very proud of you, if he could see you.”

  His smile faded and he returned his gaze to the road. “Maybe.”

  He said nothing for a while, and when she spoke she changed the subject, clearly picking up on his reluctance to talk about his father.

  “Are you married? I mean, I know Wulfians do not generally believe in marriage, but I have heard that some do get involved with a long-term partner.”

  “Yes. Well, I was. But my wife died several years ago, and she never bore me a child.”

  “Oh, I am sorry,” she said with sincerity.

  He shrugged. “It is one of those things. Wulfian law states that the woman is barren if she cannot bear children, but I have taken my fair share of lovers both before and since my wife, and none has ever had a child.” He stopped talking. Why was he opening up like this? He had never spoken to anyone about his wife before.

  He looked over at her again. Perhaps it was the “trust me” look in her wide eyes, a dark grey-blue like the sky during a thunderstorm. Or her honest face, with its upturned nose. There was definitely something about her that intrigued him. He had spent most of his life with Wulfian women who, brought up to believe they were inferior beings, had failed to do anything other than satisfy his occasional sexual needs. Even his wife had not been a soulmate – he had always doubted such a thing existed, even though his heart told him the stories bards sang were true. Now, staring at Tenera, he found he could believe it – a woman such as this would be a just companion for him, someone he could finally open up to, and tell of all the fears and worries he had never before shared with anyone.

  He felt a stirring in his stomach, a surge of desire, which he quelled quickly, looking away. Even if she was twenty, which he doubted, he was still over fifteen years her senior. And she was Heartwood Militis, a holy knight, bound by vows of chastity and obedience to the Arbor, and she was talking to him now for no other reason than because she was inquisitive and wanted to pass the time.

  It was raining heavier now. He pulled the hood of his cloak over his head, trying to discourage further conversation, and he waited for her to do the same.

  But she had not finished with him yet. The droplets falling onto her face, she blinked them away from her lashes and said: “So why are you so frightened to go into the Forest of Wings? And who was the figure watching us at the edge of the trees?”

  V

  “I am going to pull the arrow out now,” Beata told Erubesco, whose white face was covered with a sheen of sweat. She leaned her left hand on the knight’s breast
bone, pushing down, and closed her right hand around the shaft. “Three, two…” Before she finished the countdown she pulled up sharply. Erubesco’s body bucked, but the arrow slid out neatly. Beata took the wad of linen from Peritus and pressed it onto the wound. “Lean down on this,” she instructed him. Sitting back, she examined the arrowhead. It was intact, the wood unsplintered, which meant none would have been left in the wound. The only problem would be if it had been poisoned in any way.

  Peritus had removed the wooden bar from Erubesco’s mouth, and Caelestis mopped the sweat from her forehead with some water from her container tipped onto another piece of cloth. Beata took some longer strips of linen from the bag. Taking Peritus’s place, she removed the bloodied wad and examined the wound. It looked clean, but it would take time before it was clear whether it had been infected. She opened the small bowl containing yarrow ointment, which was used to treat battlefield wounds. Smearing it thickly on the linen pad, she pressed it onto the wound again before binding it tightly to Erubesco’s arm.

  Finally she sat back on her heels and washed her hands with a little of the water from the container Caelestis held out to her.

  “She will not be able to continue the journey,” Fortis said from his position a little behind the others.

  “I think that is obvious,” Beata said sharply, pushing herself to her feet. “We must be nearing the end of the forest now. That means we are about three hours from Cherton.”

  “We should go back,” said Fortis. “She needs rest and treatment.”

  “No. We must keep going.”

  Fortis pushed forward through the others to stand before her. He towered over her, his whole manner imposing and authoritative. “She may die if we do not return.”

  Beata knew this was a key moment. If she buckled now and did as he suggested, he would think he was in charge of this Quest and would continue to confront her. She wondered whether to take him to one side and speak to him, but from her experience as Dean, she knew a public confrontation would be much more likely to make him realise she would not be pushed around, even if he embarrassed her in front of others.

  “And she may die if we go back,” she said quietly but forcefully. She indicated the rest of the company and said, “We all have a task to complete and we do not have much time. We cannot keep running home every time we meet misfortune.”

  His eyes narrowed. “‘Running home?’ Are you implying cowardice on my part?”

  “Of course not,” she said smoothly. She touched him lightly on the arm, relieved he didn’t pull away. “I know Procella thinks very highly of you, which is why she asked you to accompany me on my Quest.” Her use of the personal pronoun was not an accident. “I shall always appreciate your advice – you are a seasoned warrior – the most experienced of us all, I know, so do not think I do not know your worth. But we have to keep moving. Time is of the essence, and we are foolish if we do not think there will be casualties along the way.”

  He said nothing more, and did not continue to challenge her. She turned away and looked down at Erubesco. “We are going to continue to Cherton, and we shall find a place for you there where you can recover. And maybe eventually somebody travelling to Heartwood will be able to bring you back. Now we have to get you on your horse.” She went to motion to Peritus to help her, but Fortis bent and gently lifted up the wounded warrior in his arms. He walked up to her horse and carefully set her astride the saddle.

  She was white as milk and covered with sweat, but she smiled at them as she took the reins in her right hand. “I am all right; I can ride.”

  Beata nodded. “Just signal to whoever is riding beside you if you need to stop. We will ride for an hour and then take a rest.”

  She looked at Fortis and nodded her thanks to him. He nodded back and, turning, leapt easily astride his horse.

  She glanced around at the bodies of the outlaws. There seemed little sense in burying them. Already they had sunk into the undergrowth and were partially covered by the leaves and plants that had sprung back over them.

  Sighing, she went back to the mare that stood patiently with the twins and the other horses, and climbed into the saddle. Reaching up, she grabbed a large leaf and, withdrawing her sword, cleaned the blade. Throwing the leaf away, she sheathed the sword. “Eyes and ears,” she called to them all. Then, tapping her feet into the mare’s sides, she began the journey again.

  They were closer to the edge of the wood than they had realised. Within minutes the trees thinned, and soon they emerged into the rainy Hannon landscape. They pulled the hoods of their travelling cloaks over their heads and set off along the mud road, heading south along the edge of the forest.

  In the end it took well over four hours to reach the town. They had to stop frequently, for Erubesco grew increasingly unwell, and at one point almost fell from the saddle. From then on Beata put Erubesco on the front of her mare and kept tight arms around her as they rode, but it was slow going, and by the time they arrived at Cherton, everyone was tired.

  It was just starting to get dark as the little town loomed out of the rain, nestled at the foot of the hill on top of which was Ogier’s castle – the Lord of Hannon who had attended the Congressus at Heartwood. He had left the day after the attack on the Curia, so Beata knew it was likely he would be home. She led the party through the main street of the town, which in spite of the late hour was still busy with carts travelling to and from Hicton to the south and Setbourg to the east, and people going about their daily business.

  In the castle, they were met by Ogier himself. “Welcome,” he said, clasping her hand with his right and her forearm with his left. “It is good – although rather unusual – to have you visit. Please, come into the Hall, and you can dine and rest while you tell me your story.”

  The Hall was huge, much bigger than the rooms in Heartwood’s Castellum. The ceiling was high and the walls were hung with giant, colourful tapestries depicting scenes of battle and romantic stories. At right angles to the wall between the tapestries were long banners on poles embroidered with the Hannon coat of arms, which fluttered in the breeze as the doors opened and closed. In the centre of the Hall was a large fireplace, the smoke spiralling up to the blackened rafters. Around the Hall were long wooden tables and benches, with a larger table along the raised dais at the end of the hall, the elaborate chairs indicating this was where Ogier and his family usually sat.

  Now he took them to the tables around the fire, however, and gestured to the servants to bring food and wine. The party sank gratefully onto the benches, warming themselves in front of the flames. Servants took their cloaks as they unpinned them, and spread them out on the unused tables to dry. Ogier carefully lay Erubesco in front of the fire and called for his wife to come and tend her. Skilled in the arts of herbs and medicines, his wife began work on removing the dressing and cleaning the wound.

  As Beata began to tell him about the purpose of the Quests, the servants came out carrying trays of sliced meat, bowls of stew, and bread with pats of butter, and the hungry party helped themselves as the servants poured wine into their goblets. Beata told Ogier all as she ate, not realising how hungry she was until the smell of the roasted meat filled her nostrils.

  When she had finished speaking, she felt her eyelids grow heavy. Ogier continued to talk for some time, speaking about the Darkwater Lords and the strange way they had risen out of the water, but eventually he saw she was nearly asleep and laughed, beckoning to the servants to bring blankets. The travellers rolled themselves in them in front of the fire, and most of them were soon asleep.

  In spite of her tiredness, however, Beata found herself looking up at the smoke that curled in the rafters. She felt embarrassed and foolish as she thought about how she had pictured herself heading a noble rescue party, riding into a town somewhere and confronting this Virimage, and triumphantly bringing him back to Heartwood to save the day. She had been naïve and idiotic to think the long journey across Laxony would be safe and trouble-free, and coul
d not believe the party had been attacked less than half a day’s ride from Heartwood. Luckily, they had been large in number at the time; what would happen when the parties split, and she travelled with the now only three remaining Militis in her group, one of whom would obviously take every chance to Question her authority?

  For the first time since the attack in the Curia, the thought entered her head that they might not win this fight. Until now she had assumed they would find and activate the five Nodes; that she would find the Virimage and persuade him to return; Procella and her party would slip into Darkwater and spirit away the Pectoris, and in a few months’ time they would look back on this period as a lesson to teach them about being overconfident and that they must always be on their guard.

  Now, however, she entertained the possibility actually all four Quests for the Nodes might fail and she might never find the Virimage – if in fact he even existed or was able to help at all – and for the first time she realised just how impossible the descent into Darkwater was, let alone the rescue of an object from the clutches of those powerful and frightening warriors.

  And if they could not complete the Quests? She thought about the water warriors overrunning Heartwood, smashing down the walls, tearing apart the Temple and, worse, completely destroying the Arbor. A pain grew deep in her stomach and she rolled over onto her side, away from the others so they could not see the tears glimmering in her eyes.

  After a few moments of self-pity, however, her natural resolute character began to reassert itself. She could do nothing more than try to achieve the Quest she had taken on, to the best of her abilities. And she had to trust in the others to do the same.

  Sleep finally swept over her, and the last thing she remembered was the acrid smell of the smoke from the fire in her nostrils, and the warm glow of the flames on her back.