In the mirror, his eyes met those of his father. The huge water elemental’s face was impassive. Damaris looked at his impressive physique, at his hard features, and shivered. Heartwood did not stand a chance against an army of elementals like this. He wondered if Thalassinus could read what he was thinking, and whether he would be angry, but the High Lord just smiled.
Damaris looked at himself in the mirror again. He wished he could expel Dolosus from him, split himself into two, although he knew that was impossible: Dolosus could not be extracted without killing them both.
“What will happen when we arrive at Heartwood and leave the water?” he asked. “Will my water spirit will once again be engulfed by my earth one?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what happens to you?”
“Yes. We ingest an earth elemental and take its form.”
Damaris wondered who the earth elementals were the Darkwater Lords captured, but did not ask. He thought they were probably from the Gantlos Islands; after all, hadn’t Nitesco spoken about the mysterious disappearances of people from there?
“What will happen when my earth spirit takes over again?” he asked. “Will it not keep me out? Follow its own course?”
Thalassinus turned to look at him. His eyes were like emeralds in the glitter of his face. “No, not now. Damaris has been awakened, is in the ascendant. Dolosus’s sun is setting. He will no longer have a hold on you.”
Damaris thought of Heartwood, and of Valens, and wondered if that were true.
Thalassinus swam around him in a circle. “You look tired, my son,” he observed. “And I have chores to carry out. Why don’t you rest for a while, gather your strength? You are still getting used to your new form; it will take time to adjust. In the meantime, you should rest as much as you can. You will need every ounce of strength when we advance on Heartwood.”
Damaris nodded and watched his father swim out of his chambers. He went over to his bed and curled up on the mattress of soft ferns. Lying on his back, he held his two arms up before him, seeing the shimmering, almost-translucent hands before his face. He was whole again, complete. And in this world, he was the son of a king and heir to a whole kingdom – what did he have on Anguis? An adopted father, too old and injured now to be a warrior on the battlefield, and a dormitory he shared with twenty of his brothers and sisters. And just the one arm, his missing limb on his mind from the moment he awoke until he closed his eyes at night.
Did he really want to give up a whole kingdom, and a whole body, for that?
Exhausted, he closed his eyes and was soon fast asleep.
Dolosus dreamed. He was back in Heartwood. He saw himself walking through the door from the Temple into the Domus. Although he knew he must be dreaming, he felt as if he were actually there; he could hear the scuff of his boots on the flagstones; he could smell the loam from around the Arbor, and taste the bitter Acerbitas drink in his mouth.
He entered the corridor behind the Temple, but instead of walking through to the Domus, he found himself climbing the stairs to the upper level. It was dark, and he met no one on the stairs. When he got to the top, he walked silently through the dormitory. The beds were full of sleeping forms, but he could not distinguish between them.
He walked along the row of beds to the one at the furthest end. He knew whose bed this was without looking; this was where Valens slept. He walked over to the bed and looked down. The Imperator’s face was graceful in repose, his harsh features softened in sleep. Dolosus stared at the man he had thought of as his father until he met Thalassinus. He bent over. Valens stirred, then opened his eyes and looked at him. A smile appeared on his lips.
Dolosus stared at him for a moment, then raised his good right hand. To his shock, he saw it held a knife. His heart pounding, he tried to drop it, but he wasn’t in control of his body. He raised his hand and brought it down hard. He watched with horror as the blade punged into Valens’s body. Valens jerked, his eyes startled, filled with shock, disappointment and agony. Dolosus heard himself laugh.
Then his eyes flew open, and he realised he was still in Darkwater. It had just been a dream… Or had it? Maybe it was more than that: it was a portent, or a symbol, of what he had done. In defecting to Darkwater, he had caused Valens’s death as surely as if he had plunged the dagger in his heart.
Dolosus stood and swam over to the mirror. And suddenly, he realised he was thinking of himself as Dolosus – not Damaris. In sleep, the earth elemental had somehow gained control of the water elemental again.
Dolosus raised his hands in front of his face. He turned them backwards and forwards, then flexed his left arm. Yes, it was wonderful to be whole once again. His arm dropped to his side. But it wasn’t worth the price he had to pay. Being whole was more than physically having all your limbs. Whatever he thought of Heartwood and the Arbor and the rest of the Militis, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he caused Valens’s death.
He turned in the water, thinking he heard movement in the doorway, but there was nobody there. Suddenly, everything seemed alien and threatening. He thought of the Pectoris sitting on the display stand in the ceremonial room and knew what he had to do.
Quietly, Dolosus swam out of his chamber and along the tunnel that led deeper into the palace. He twisted and turned through the passageways, swimming silently, ducking behind walls and entrances each time he thought he heard someone coming the other way. Although there was no such thing as day or night in Darkwater, there were rest times, and many in the palace would be sleeping. And somehow, he didn’t think Thalassinus suspected he might give up being the heir to a vast city such as Darkwater. Dolosus almost laughed then. What was he doing? But his mind was made up.
As he approached the ceremonial room, he saw a guard standing sentry outside. He swam up to him slowly. The guard saw him and straightened, eyes ahead. Dolosus nodded and swam past him, then turned in the water. Drawing the dagger the High Lord had given him only hours before, he drew the blade swiftly across the sentry’s neck. The sentry went limp and floated to the floor slowly, dark green blood leaking from the jagged hole in his neck.
Dolosus entered the ceremonial room. To his relief, it was empty. He swam straight up to the Pectoris, which lay on its cushion, beating very slowly. He stared at it for a moment, then, carefully, he lifted the large object from its resting place. The Pectoris in his hands, he held his breath. Nothing happened. No alarms went off, and no one came running. The Darkwater Lords had not anticipated this at all; they clearly thought there was no way anyone could come down from Heartwood to rescue it, and they obviously thought there was no way he would turn his back on what they had offered him.
Ignoring the little voice inside him that screamed What are you doing? Dolosus reached for the bag he had slung across his back and placed the Pectoris in it. He pulled the handle of the bag over his head. It was heavy, heavier than he had anticipated. It would slow him down in the water, and he wasn’t as fast as the Darkwater Lords to begin with. Still, it was pointless for him to return to Heartwood without it.
Leaving the display room, he swam silently out of the door and past the sentry he had put out of action. Nobody had raised the alarm yet. He went along the corridors, keeping his head down when he passed the occasional servant still working, and then suddenly, he was outside the Palace and swimming through the loops and tunnels towards the cavern entrance.
The large green curtain that covered the entrance to Darkwater was in sight when he heard the first alarm – a giant bell ringing from somewhere deep in the palace, although how they could ring a bell underwater he didn’t know, but the clapper reverberated through the water, and he felt rather than heard the peals echoing throughout the city.
Well, this is it, he thought. He had got farther than he had hoped before the alarm was raised. There was no point in keeping quiet and trying not to be noticed now.
Dolosus increased his speed and shot towards the cavern entrance like an arrow released from a bow.
/> III
Down in the depths of the Cavum, the young Libraris, Nitesco, was oblivious to everything going on in the Castellum above his head. Since his return to Heartwood, following his failure to transform the knights into water elementals, Nitesco had not left the Cavum, spending the time with his head buried in the books and parchments, and even sleeping down there. Some small part of him felt if he discovered the location of the fifth Node, it might make him feel better about his failure to complete the transformation spell.
He had been determined he would not leave until he found some clue as to its whereabouts. Both Valens and Chonrad had visited him at various times to try to persuade him to return and help out with the fortifications, but Nitesco had refused, insisting he could be of more help in his searches. However, even he was beginning to feel it was useless, and his time would be better spent doing something with at least some guarantee of a result, such as helping to carry stones from one place to another.
He turned over the last page of a heavy book and, sighing, picked it up and put it to one side. He had already been through all the books in the room; this was his second search and so far was proving as fruitless as the first. But inside, he knew the answer was in the Cavum; he didn’t know how, but he just knew it.
He rubbed his eyes tiredly. The constant reading of such small writing in such bad lighting conditions had long been giving him a bad headache, but he had refused to give in – until now. He sighed again. Reaching to a bottle at his side, he took a long swig of the water that had been there since the morning and was now covered in a fine layer of dust. He coughed, then swigged again. He must remember to drink more often. He just forgot when he got lost in the books…
It was no good; he was too tired to read any more. Knowing it would be useless to continue reading because he wouldn’t be able to process the words, Nitesco curled up on the pallet he had brought down there and pulled the thin blanket over his legs. A short doze might refresh him enough to find something new, he thought.
Within seconds he was asleep.
For a while, he slept undisturbed, his tired young body resting and regenerating, his mind resting, too, with no thought to the work he had carried out in his waking hours. He was not aware of his surroundings; in fact, the whole Komis army could have run down the Cavum stairs and trampled over the books, and he probably wouldn’t have awoken.
Gradually, however, something roused him from the depths of slumber, as if he were a fish at the bottom of a deep pool, and someone had hooked him and was reeling him in. Slowly, he climbed to the light of consciousness, and as he came to, he opened his eyes and realised he was not alone in the room.
Someone was sitting on the lid of a chest, over in the shadows. The last mists of sleep still clouding his senses, Nitesco blinked several times and pushed himself upright. No warning signals sounded in his head – after all, if it had been an enemy, surely they wouldn’t be waiting for him to awake before they attacked him? The person sat leisurely, one ankle resting on the other knee, with leather boots and close-fitting leggings crossed with leather thongs, and he could see the standard-issue Militis mail on the lower body, although the upper was hidden in shadow. A hand came down to rest on the boot and Nitesco saw the distinctive oak leaf tattoo on the right wrist.
“Who are you?” he asked, his senses clearing and beginning to tell him something was not right.
The figure leaned forward as he said with a smile: “I think you know who I am, Libraris.” A lock of hair curled on his forehead, and as he realised which wrist the tattoo was on, Nitesco recognised who it was.
It was Gavius.
A smile formed on Nitesco’s face before the full realisation sank in, and he stood and stepped towards the knight before he caught himself. He stared, his smile fading. “But you are…” his voice trailed off.
“What?” Gavius prompted, teasing.
“Dead,” said Nitesco matter-of-factly.
Gavius shrugged. “Life is not black-and-white, Nitesco. One is not just alive or dead. It is a matter of degrees. You should understand that better than anyone.”
Nitesco did not understand, but he nodded anyway. His heart pounded, but he was afraid to move or say anything to express his alarm, in case the knight vanished. Eventually, he stated, “They said you activated the Node before…before…”
Gavius nodded. His eyes were a bright blue, like a piece of the sky that had been hidden for so long. “It was magnificent,” he breathed. “I saw the Green Giant – he rose up out of the earth and spoke to me. The energy, Nitesco, you would not believe the energy that flowed through me.”
Nitesco nodded, suddenly finding tears in his eyes. “What are you doing here?”
Gavius blinked. “I am here to help you.”
“Me?” Nitesco’s breathing quickened. “You mean with the fifth Node?”
“Yes.”
“You know where it is?”
“Yes.” Gavius smiled.
Nitesco opened his mouth to ask him a Question, but a movement in the shadows caught his attention, and the words melted in his mouth like soft pastry. Something was crawling across the floor. He stared as it writhed towards him, slow and insidious like a snake. Was it a snake? He couldn’t take his eyes off it, and he couldn’t move. His feet felt glued to the floor, his limbs frozen. He looked up at Gavius in alarm, but Gavius just continued to smile at him and did not rise to help.
The thing on the floor crawled closer, and suddenly Nitesco realised it wasn’t a snake. It did not appear to be animal at all. It was something from a plant, like a creeper, or a tree root…
The root crept up to him and wrapped itself around his legs. Frozen as he was, he could only watch as it curled up his calves, then his knees, then around his thighs. It reached his waist, and then, suddenly, it tugged.
It took him by surprise and he lost his balance. He fell backwards onto the floor. The root tightened and contracted, and he clawed at the floor as he was dragged towards Gavius. The knight was still smiling, but Nitesco was suddenly frightened, and he scrabbled for a hold on the floor, his fingers clawing earth and loose stones, but he could not get a grip. Slowly, he slid across towards the Militis. The root dragged him all the way to Gavius’s feet. Nitesco lay there like a dog, panting, looking up at the knight in confusion. Why was Gavius not helping him? Why was he just sitting there, that cool, curious smile on his face?
Then, suddenly, he felt himself sink into the earth.
“No!” Finally finding his voice, he yelled at Gavius, but the knight did not move to help him. His sky-blue eyes fixed on Nitesco and just watched as the Libraris was sucked slowly into the earthen floor. Nitesco felt as if he were stuck in quicksand. No matter how much he struggled, he could not seem to break free. His alarm was growing now, and no longer did he believe he was in no danger. His arms flailed to either side as he tried to find something to grab onto, but there were only books and pieces of parchment on the floor.
Finally Gavius leaned forward. His blue eyes looked deeply into Nitesco’s. “Let it take you,” he breathed.
Nitesco stared at him. So this was all part of the plan? It went against all his instincts to not struggle, but, believing in Gavius, he took a deep breath, closed his eyes and let the ground suck him down.
Eventually, the sinking sensation stopped. He lay there for a minute, afraid to open his eyes, but lifted the lids slowly. Astonished, he sat up. He was still in the Cavum, and both Gavius and the tree root had gone. He was sitting on the floor, books scattered around him, and there was no hole, nowhere through which he could sink.
He pushed himself to his feet and stood, staring down at the chest where Gavius had been sitting. Had it just been a dream? It had seemed so real. But then, how could it be real? Gavius was dead! He rubbed his eyes tiredly. He was overworked and had had too little sleep. His brain was playing tricks on him.
Then his eyes alighted on the chest. He remembered the way the coffer in the Armorium had covered the entrance to
the Cavum. His heart began to pound as he went across to it and began to pull on one of the handles. It was heavy, filled with books, but he was too impatient to take them all out. Putting all his weight behind it, he dragged it slowly away from the wall.
When it was a few feet away, he went around the back and stared at the floor. He brushed away the centuries-old dirt covering it. There was a large piece of board fitted into the floor. He bent down and began to scrape away the dirt at the edges, trying to get his fingers beneath the sides. After a while his fingers bled and his nails broke, but he carried on and eventually lifted the board, heaving it up against the wall. Then he looked down again.
There was a hole in the floor.
His head spun. It had been a vision; Gavius really had appeared to show him the way.
He retrieved the lantern from the table where he had been reading and brought it over to the hole. Looking down, he could see steps leading into the darkness. The air smelled musty but not bad. He wondered whether he should go and get one of the other Militis to go with him, but his curiosity overrode his caution.
His booted feet treading uneasily on the earthen steps, he descended into the darkness. The steps curled around and down, and he walked slowly, afraid of slipping and falling. He counted the steps as he descended. After twenty, he raised his lantern and tried to peer further down, but the darkness was like thick, soft mud, dense and sticky, and the light seemed unable to break through it.
After fifty steps, his foot found flat ground and he stumbled, putting his hands out to steady himself. He raised the lantern. He was in a small chamber, neater than a cave, with strange, archaic etchings on the walls in a language he did not recognise. They looked old, very old.
On the opposite side of the chamber was a wooden door. It was plain with an iron handle. Nitesco drew his sword. He was impulsive but not stupid. Swallowing, he walked over, turned the handle and opened it.
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