The knights around him nodded solemnly. Nitesco sighed. “I wish you all the best of luck. Now, let us get started.”
He spread the document on his lap and began to speak the words. The language was vaguely that of Heartwood, but the knights would not recognise the words; it was only he as a student of language who saw the words’ origins. He had no way of knowing if he was pronouncing everything right. Even as he spoke, he had to quash a feeling of helplessness that rose up inside of him. Help me, Animus, he thought as he continued to speak. Let me not fail these brave and noble knights.
The words spoke of water and the spirits within, teasing them from the links that held them in place inside the liquid. Nitesco read the passage and then repeated the words that formed the final spell. He closed his eyes, saying them over and over again. And thus it was only when he heard the gasps from those around him that he realised it had worked.
He opened his eyes. Some of the knights had instinctively drawn back from the cauldron; others leaned closer to get a better look. All of their faces held awe and fear.
Nitesco swallowed and looked into the cauldron. The surface of the seawater, warmed by the fire beneath the stand, swirled as if stirred by an unseen hand. Within it, he could see faces. He gasped. Sucked to the surface, they hung imprisoned in what looked like a silver web, their features constantly distorting and lengthening as they strained to get free.
He counted them – he had commanded seven to rise out of the water, and there were seven caught in the web. “Quickly,” he urged the knights, “before they break free. Stand by the water’s edge.”
The knights did as he asked, which surprised him. He had expected at least one to baulk once they realised he actually knew what he was doing and was truly going to carry it through. But of course, five of them were Militis, trained to obey on command, and picked for their bravery. Fulco would do whatever his master commanded. So perhaps Chonrad was the most admirable, he thought; neither Militis nor servant, he nevertheless did immediately as Nitesco said, and although his quick breathing showed his tension, on the surface he was calm and seemed prepared for what lay ahead.
Nitesco stood and held out his hands towards the cauldron. He began to speak the words he had memorised, the incantation commanding the water spirits to bind themselves to the earth ones before them, using a language as ancient as Animus and imbued with his power. The cauldron swirled before Nitesco, the faces contorting with rage and pain as their bonds were broken from the water around them.
Finally, he paused. The water pooled greasily as if a layer of oil lay on top of it, lit with rainbow colours. It was time.
“Ready?” he asked the knights.
Reluctantly, they all nodded. Nitesco took a deep breath. What if this didn’t work? What would he do? For a moment, he didn’t think he could bring himself to finish the incantation.
And then, unbelievably, he saw something completely unexpected. A Laxonian face appeared on the surface of the water, a face he knew very well. It was Gavius. He gasped involuntarily. Gavius’s brown eyes seemed to look deeply into his own, and the trust hidden deep within them gave him the sudden courage to do what he needed to do.
“Aqua fugit,” he yelled, spreading his arms wide.
Although what happened next must have taken merely seconds, Nitesco saw it all as if in slow motion. The water spirits in the cauldron churned and boiled, and for a moment a silvery thread reached out to attach itself to each of the knights. They all went rigid, and for a very brief second he thought it was going to work. A light emitted from the cauldron, momentarily blinding him. Something was happening! But before he could shout out his glee, the thread thinned and broke, and the knights were released and fell to their knees exhausted.
Nitesco cursed and slammed his hands on the cauldron. He had been so certain something had happened.
And then it suddenly struck him. There were six knights kneeling on the sand in front of him being soaked by the rain, not seven.
Dolosus was gone.
With a shout Nitesco, rushed to the edge of the sea and looked into its depths. He could see nothing, however, only the swirl of the seawater, stirring up the sand with its deep blue fingers.
“What happened?” Chonrad staggered to his feet and looked around. “Where is Dolosus?”
“Gone,” said Nitesco, returning to the cauldron.
Procella stared at him, pushing herself upright. “It worked?”
He looked down into the cauldron and then got his final shock of the morning. “No. It cannot be…”
“What?” Procella demanded, coming to look in the pot with him.
“There are still seven elementals within,” said Nitesco. He looked up at Procella, his mouth open. “Dolosus transformed into a water elemental without having to ingest one.”
“What does that mean?” she snapped.
“I do not know.” His eyes met Chonrad’s, and he saw the other knight’s wariness mirrored within them. “But somehow I do not think it is a good thing.”
II
There was a sound from behind Grimbeald in the entrance to the Tumulus, and he turned to see Tenera’s slim shape in the semi-darkness of the doorway. She was silent, and made no move to come down the steps.
“How long have you been there?” he asked hoarsely.
“Long enough.” Her voice was so quiet he almost missed the words.
He tried to think what he had said to his father that she might have overheard. Maegenheard had been trying to persuade him to change his ways, and he had asked: what about the Arbor? And Maegenheard had told him to forget about the tree, and the Highlands were all that mattered. Had Tenera overheard that?
“So you are going to abandon us?” she asked softly.
Clearly, she had heard him.
Grimbeald hesitated. Behind him, however, he felt the strong, forceful energy of his father. He remembered his father’s smile, the warmth that had flooded through him when he realised he finally had Maegenheard’s approval. “My first loyalty must be to my homeland,” he began.
He didn’t have time to finish the sentence, however, because before he could utter another word, she had closed the distance between them and had thrown herself at him, knocking him to the ground with sheer momentum. Instinctively, he rolled to pin her beneath him, but she threw him off with surprising strength, and before he could draw his sword, her dagger pricked against the vein in his neck. He stilled immediately, and his eyes rose to meet hers. He gasped at the anger blazing in their depths.
“I trusted you,” she seethed. “You promised me you would help us to activate the Node. You promised.”
Grimbeald said nothing as, behind her, he saw the form of his father standing watching him. There was a sneer on his face, and Grimbeald’s cheeks flamed at the thought that a woman currently held a knife to his throat. It made no difference to him, as he was well aware of the prowess of Heartwood women, but his father would see it as a dishonourable thing.
“Get off me,” he scowled, pushing out with his legs so he thrust her away. He twisted and shoved himself upright, drawing his own dagger and holding it before him, and they circled each other like animals.
Tenera spat at him. He would not have thought she was capable of some vitriolic anger. “You are like a puppy dog,” she taunted. “Waiting for the scraps he deigns to throw you.” With a thrust of her head she indicated the hovering shade, which pulsed malevolently.
Grimbeald’s insides rumbled with anger. “Why is it such a terrible thing to be loyal to one’s homeland?” he snapped. “Surely a Heartwood knight can understand that?”
“Our knights are loyal to Animus and the Arbor, not Heartwood itself,” she replied.
“Truly? And what of the Castellum? The Temple and the Domus? You have no loyalty to them?”
“That is different,” she said. “They are there for the protection of the Arbor.”
“That is a glib response. You will never convince me Heartwood knights do not feel a
need to protect their homeland. It is more than a religious need; it is a physical thing; a knight belongs to his castle and to his land, to the grass growing under his feet. In that sense, it is a religious need, too – we are all part of the same energy, are we not? Therefore, we are part of the land, one and the same, adjoined. You cannot tell me land does not matter.”
Tenera said nothing, but he sensed his words were getting to her. They continued to circle each other warily. Eventually, she continued, “Even if I were to agree with you, that does not excuse your abandonment of us. We trusted you, Grimbeald. I thought you were an honourable man.”
He felt as if she had plunged her dagger into his stomach and twisted it. To the Wulfians, honour was the most important thing in the world, and he could not bear for her to think he was dishonourable.
“I understand how you feel,” he said, ignoring her sarcastic huff. “I do. But my responsibility is to my land and to my people. As overlord of the Highlands, I cannot ignore that.”
“You are a good lord, Grimbeald. You are fair and kind and just.”
“That is not the definition of a Wulfian leader.”
“No, because Wulfian leaders have always been cruel and heartless and violent. I understand this is the Wulfian way, but that does not make it right.”
“Neither is Heartwood right all the time,” he snapped back. “Who are you to tell me how to run my own country? Wulfengar is a nation built on strength; it is what its citizens understand and what they expect.”
She threw her hands up in the air. “I cannot believe this is truly you talking! I know you do not believe this, and yet I hear the words coming out of your mouth.” She pointed to the hovering shade with her dagger. “That thing has planted these thoughts in your head and it spews from your lips like poison.”
“That is my father you are talking about,” he said angrily.
“Are you sure?”
Her words made him stop in his tracks uneasily. “What do you mean? You think I do not recognise my own father?”
“Just because he resemblances his appearance, it does not mean it is actually part of the person you knew. A cloud can form the shape of a goat – it doesn’t mean it is a goat.”
Grimbeald looked across at the spectre. It glared at him in exactly the same way his father used to, but suddenly he was not certain.
Maegenheard saw his indecision and his face darkened with anger. “Do not listen to what this pawes tells you,” he thundered, his form seeming to increase with size until it towered over Grimbeald. “There is one way to rule Wulfengar and one way only. You must learn to be a true Wulfian.”
Grimbeald opened his mouth but no words came out. Because as he did so, something happened. Before him and Tenera, and between them and Maegenheard, a ball of light appeared. The two knights watched, shocked, staring as it increased until in the centre it was too bright to look at, like a small sun. Maegenheard brought his arms up to cover his face, letting out a yell of anguish. In spite of the brightness, Grimbeald stared at the centre. He could make out the shape of a person. It was one of the twins from Heartwood – he would recognise that curl they had on their foreheads anywhere. As Grimbeald stared at him, he opened his eyes. Raising his arm, he held out his sword towards Grimbeald, as if offering him the blade. Before Grimbeald could say anything, the light brightened and then suddenly vanished.
Grimbeald gasped. “What was that?”
Tenera turned to face him. Tears streamed down her face, but she brushed them away. “It was a symbol,” she said. Her weapon lay on the floor, and she seemed to have forgotten it, her anger having dissipated with the light. “A sword means truth. Gavius was telling you to be true to yourself.”
“I… do not understand…”
She came up to him, ignoring the glowering form of Maegenheard, and grasped Grimbeald’s hands in her own. “It is time to let the past go,” she said urgently. “Grimbeald – you were never able to please your father, because you broke the mould – you are a new Wulfian, a new leader, one who realises violence is not the answer to everything. Times change, and we have to change with them, and maybe you are the light that is to guide Wulfengar into a new age.”
Grimbeald could not tear his gaze away from the spectre who resembled his father. “Even if this is so,” he said softly, “and this is not my father… I still cannot bear the thought that I failed him. I was never the son he wanted me to be.”
“It is not our place to tell our children who they should be,” said Tenera. “It is their role to find out for themselves. You found your place in the world – you are a musician, a painter, a creator of things, not a destroyer. And it is time you accepted who you truly are, and put the shade of your father behind you once and for all.”
Grimbeald finally looked down at the knight who had travelled at his side since leaving Heartwood. The anger had faded from her deep blue eyes, leaving them soft as a twilight sky. He could not help himself, but bent his head and kissed her lips. He did not know why he did it; it wasn’t a kiss of passion, although he did have feelings towards her. It was a kiss of beauty, of thanks, like the nuzzling of two animals looking for nothing more than the comfort one gets from the closeness of a friend.
Behind them, Maegenheard roared, but this time, Grimbeald did not tremble at the sound. For the first time, maybe in his life, he felt as you feel when you have been carrying a heavy weight, and someone offers to take it from you: so light he could almost drift off into space. The disapproval of his father had been hanging around his neck like a physical thing, dragging him down through the years, and although he had thought temporarily that doing as his father wanted might alleviate the weight, in actual fact all it would have done was turned the weight into a yoke, for he would have been little more than his father’s pet, trained to do his bidding.
For the first time ever, he felt free. Letting go of Tenera’s hands, he stood in the centre of the Tumulus where the light had appeared. Before him, Maegenheard spat and twisted, but Grimbeald was not afraid. Now he saw the spectre for what it really was – a shadow of his own fear, sent to test him, to make him discover what was truly important to him, and to make him realise what sort of person he was meant to be.
“You are not my father,” he said.
Immediately, the figure before him vanished. The ghostly shape remained, however, a grey shadow, writhing like smoke. “You are partly correct,” the shadow said. “I exist because of the thousands of Wulfians who have died and who lie in this tomb. Each of them gave a little bit of themselves to form me. They guard this land and all who pass through it. And they will answer only to the one true lord – he who is true to himself and who will rule over his people with a just and fair hand.”
Something moved out of the corner of his eye. Grimbeald turned as Tenera gasped, and saw with shock the bones that had been piled on the shelves on either side of the chamber were moving. Gradually, they tipped off the shelves and onto the floor, piling themselves up and slowly forming skeletal shapes that sent shivers down his spine. Slowly, however, the figures fleshed themselves out, and soon he was surrounded by lines of people dressed in the same dull brown burial shrouds, who all watched him with the same dark, serious eyes.
He could not see Tenera, and wondered if she had fled outside. He could not blame her if she had; he was tempted to run himself. But he held his ground and watched as the figures all raised their arms, touching the fingers of those standing opposite and forming a long alleyway of people down which he was obviously expected to walk.
Closing his eyes so he could not see the dull flesh of the living dead beside him, Grimbeald walked forwards and into the alleyway. He felt the presence of those around him, felt their hopes and dreams, wishes and desires, the people of Wulfengar – the spirit of Wulfengar itself.
In the middle, he stopped and raised his hands to join with those above him. His fingers touched those of his ancestors, and immediately he felt himself spiralling, his head spinning. He could see back int
o the past, his parents, his grandparents, great-grandparents and so on, back and back, each linked by invisible threads that joined them all together, and soon he began to see Wulfians linked with Laxonians, linked with Hanaireans, linked with Komis; they were all one people, one element, and finally he understood why there was no need for separatism, and why everyone was the same.
And then suddenly the only thing that existed was light, and the ground shuddered beneath him, and with joy he realised the Node was activating, energy shooting in rivulets through the land. It shot through him, too, like lightning, and he could feel it sparking out of his fingertips and the ends of his hair, and he was a part of it, pure energy. He held the whole of Anguis in the palm of his hand.
Then, just as suddenly, the light vanished, and he stood back in the Tumulus. All was dark, the bodies just a pile of bones lining the shelves, the ground packed earth beneath his feet. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
And the crumpled form of Tenera lay motionless on the ground.
III
Fionnghuala stood on one side of the Portal, looking through to the quiet hillside beyond. It was growing dark, the deepening gloom intensified by the still-falling rain.
It had been a busy couple of days. Following Lalage’s mysterious death, the Quest party had withdrawn into grief, tinged with no small amount of fear. It was the first time, she thought, they all realised the seriousness of the task they had been set; the mystical powers they were dealing with had the ability to influence life and death, and if the light-hearted Lalage could be driven to take her own life, then none of them was safe.
Privately, Fionnghuala wondered whether it was the crying baby that had lured the knight to her death. Though she had been quieter over the previous few days, she had not seemed particularly depressed, and certainly not badly enough to end it all. But Fionnghuala didn’t share this with the rest of the group, because if she did so, she would have to explain the presence of the phantom child, and she didn’t think she could bear that.
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