“Yeah, well, this is Dad’s specialty, not mine. But I grew up with this stuff. Anyway, the point is anything that has ever been in contact is connected,” Cass continued. “Which, when you think about it, is pretty much everything that has ever existed. If you care to trace it back far enough, back to the Big Bang and everything that followed, all matter in the universe is entangled—connected in some way.”
With these words, Kit again sensed the flash of revelation he had been granted in the vision of the smashing teapot. “Everything is connected,” he murmured. “Right—so . . . what’s that mean, exactly?”
“Well, maybe—and this is just a guess—the rare earth atoms in the Shadow Lamps interacted with the energy of the yew tree—it’s pretty fierce, right? So when your lamps burned out, the rare earth particles encoded that particular pattern.”
“Assuming all that is true,” said Kit, beginning to grasp the chain of events, “how on earth did the symbol get on the cloth in the first place? I don’t get it.”
Cass returned to her scrutiny of the cloth. “Ever see a bird fly into a plate glass window? One of the labs where I worked had a sliding glass door, and pigeons were forever bashing into it. When that happens, the bird leaves a faint, dusty shadow of itself on the glass. Sometimes you can even trace individual feathers. It’s a two-dimensional representation of a bird crash imprinted on the glass.”
“So what we see as a symbol on the cloth is a record of the crash.”
“Right,” she said. “If Dad were here, he’d say that the image on the cloth is a two-dimensional representation of the electromagnetic force field that created it.”
“Like an outline of the bird caught in mid-flight. Okay, but the thing is—the rare earth on the cloth came from Gustavus, remember. That powder was never anywhere near the yew tree.”
“But you were,” Cass countered. “You were holding the Shadow Lamp when it blew out. Also, don’t forget that the ruined lamp was in direct contact with the cloth while I was working on it. That’s probably how the connection was made.” She traced a symbol on the stone wall with a fingertip. “It doesn’t take much, but I’m guessing that any event strong enough to melt your Shadow Lamps was strong enough to entangle everything in the vicinity both then and subsequently. You were there, and that was enough.”
“I’m entangled?”
Cass smiled at Kit’s shocked expression. “We all are, pal. There’s no way around it. We’re all entangled with everything from cradle to grave—and beyond.” She regarded Kit hopefully. “Does that help?”
“I don’t know,” replied Kit. “Really, I don’t know.”
“Me neither—but it’s something to think about.”
At that moment, the second torch began hissing. “New torch, quick,” said Kit. He quickly kindled the last torch from the dying flame of the other and said, “We’d better start back while we still have some light.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than the newly lit torch flared, sputtered, and expired in a fizzling puff of smoke. Kit waved the still-smouldering wand in a vain attempt to rekindle the flame. Cass watched the small red glow waver, shrink, and finally blink out.
“No-o-o,” she moaned. A tendril of panic squirmed through her gut as darkness as thick and dense as the stone mountain around them crashed down so fast and heavy it seemed to suck the very air out of her lungs.
“What do we do now?” Her voice jumped a register. “Kit? What are we going to do? We’re trapped!”
“Calm down,” he soothed. “I got us in here, I’ll get us out. Trust me.”
“But what if it’s happening again? What if—”
“Get a grip, Cass. It’s not a reality blip. It’s only a torch that’s gone out.” He stretched a hand toward her voice. “Here, give me your hand.” He felt her fingers fumble and grab, then catch as she slid her hand into his. “Take a deep breath. We are not in a hurry,” he told her firmly. “We hurry and we get hurt. We go slow and we stay safe. Okay? One foot in front of the other. That’s all we have to do.”
Slowly, laboriously, like blind Siamese twins, they made their way back through the impenetrable darkness of the cave. Each and every faltering step had to be negotiated; each and every metre gained took on the quality of a minor victory. Kit did what he could to keep the mood upbeat by telling stories of his years with River City Clan. He told how he had been caught in a game trap by Dardok and how the clan took him in; he described being attacked by a bear and how he had been saved by the clansmen coming to his rescue by throwing rocks to drive the animal away; he described meeting En-Ul, and how the Ancient One taught him to communicate using a kind of sixth sense the clansmen possessed; he told about building the Bone House with the young hunters and then being invited inside to attend the Old One while he slept . . .
Kit might have gone on telling his stories, but he glimpsed a faint sheen coating the rock walls up ahead, and a few metres later they were standing in the forechamber of the cave looking out at a late-afternoon sky. After the suffocating darkness of the cave, the pale yellow sky seemed a scintillating display of light.
“Hallelujah!” gasped Cass, relief making her voice tremble. Her jaw ached, and she realised she had been grinding her teeth. She closed her eyes and breathed a silent, Thank You, God, then turned to Kit and hugged him tight. “Well done, Kit. You did it.”
“We both did it.” He puffed out his cheeks and exhaled a long sigh, then inhaled fresh air deep into his lungs. “But that was a little close.”
They stepped to the cave opening and looked out at the river and gorge now falling into shadow. “What do we do now?” asked Cass.
“Back to the ley line—and let’s hope Wilhelmina is waiting for us.”
CHAPTER 13
In Which Persimmons Are the Bitterest Fruit
Emperor Leo stood beneath a sky-blue canopy waiting for the arrival of his guests. Beside him stood his young wife, Empress Zoë—on her head a golden diadem, on her face a scowl that could have curdled milk. Her smooth brows lowered, her eyes squinted into thin, malicious slits; she was the very image of a woman forced to do something very much against her will and determined that the rest of the world should feel her displeasure. Around the royal couple clustered a bevy of court officials, priests, and assorted noblemen; a phalanx of scholari spilled across the plaza. These last wore silver-plated armour, highly polished and gleaming in the sun; their weapons, also ceremonial, were nevertheless sharp and functional.
The conquering khan and his entourage entered the narrow street leading to the Bronze Gate. The drummers at the front of the procession quickened their tempo. The booming sound reverberated off the walls all around, the echoes multiplying until it sounded as if an army of ten thousand had conquered the city. The Byzantines lined the street and leaned from the upper windows and balconies of the nearby buildings to see the procession pass. There were no signs of welcome—no rain of rose water and flower petals, no festive garlands, no cheering, no waving. Instead, the dark-eyed citizens of the capital watched with a sullen, cautious wariness.
“They are doubting of the khan,” Haven observed to Giles, leaning close to make herself heard over the tumult of the drums.
“They have little reason to love him, I warrant,” Giles replied. “Nor do I blame them. No one likes to lose a war.”
As the conquerors moved toward the entrance to the palace yard, the jeering began—a few shouts at first, mere noises drowned by the thundering drums. When this failed to stir any response from the invaders, the more aggressive onlookers began throwing horse dung; eggs and rotten fruit followed, sailing over the heads of the crowd to smash into the visiting delegation. Khan Simeon took no notice of the growing commotion; fully regal from crown to foot, he was above such petty disturbances, though his soldiers marked who the troublemakers were and what they were doing.
All might yet have ended well if it had ended there, but it did not.
Upon reaching the Bronze Gate, a gang of young p
rotestors broke from cover and, armed with rotting fruit, proceeded to pelt the khan and his body servants with the stinking, slimy missiles at closer range; many found their mark among those in the forward ranks, but the insult was ignored.
Then Khan Simeon was struck. An overripe persimmon arced through the air, striking the side of his face and exploding in a crimson splash. The king stopped, turned around, glimpsed the perpetrators scuttling away in hasty retreat, and slowly resumed his triumphal march. The regal khan came to stand before the emperor, his face dripping, his fine clothes besmeared with foul-smelling muck.
Emperor Leo, aghast that this should happen and fearful of toppling the delicately balanced peace they had negotiated, flicked a silent command to the captain of the scholari, and six soldiers broke rank and raced away. Turning to the khan, he bowed his head and the two exchanged words. The empress, mortified, her face white with embarrassment, fairly quivered with rage. The entire plaza seemed to hold its breath and tremble.
No sooner had they vanished through the open Bronze Gate than the scholari returned, dragging two of the dissenters with them. Even from a distance Haven could see that the youths were dressed in paupers’ rags. Barefoot, dishevelled, and dirty, they were clearly part of the rabble that had so rudely greeted the conquering khan. The two—brothers by the look of them—were hauled kicking and scratching into the plaza and thrust down at the feet of the emperor, held there by two soldiers.
“They are little more than boys,” observed Haven, dread creeping over her.
“Young they may be,” agreed Giles, “but unthinking fools all the same.”
Leo pointed at the two cowering before him and asked Khan Simeon a question. Simeon nodded in response, then beckoned his lumbering giant of a champion to him. There was a flurry of activity in the ranks of the scholari, and after a moment a soldier appeared bearing a battle ax. At the emperor’s nod, the soldier presented the weapon to Simeon’s bodyguard, who took it, hefted it, swung it a few times, then barked an order to the two guards holding the boys.
The first boy was dragged forward, forced onto his knees, and bent double. One soldier held the boy’s hands gripped tightly behind his back and another took a handful of hair and pulled his head forward, stretching out the lad’s neck. The youth began writhing and wailing, pleading for his life. The khan’s bodyguard took up a position a little to one side and lofted the ax.
“Dear God in Heaven!” gasped Haven. “They mean to kill him before our very eyes!” Seizing Giles by the arm, she urged him forward. “We cannot stand aside and watch this. We must do something.”
Haven leapt forward with Giles at her shoulder. Together they pushed through the khan’s courtiers; before anyone could reach out to prevent them, Haven threw herself upon the sobbing boy, and Giles placed himself between the boy and his ax-wielding executioner.
“Desisto! Desisto!” Haven cried. “Stop! For the love of God, please stop.”
The emperor stepped back in surprise, and the khan, frowning mightily, stooped and took her roughly by the arm. “Wait! Wait but a moment, my lord,” said Haven.
“What do you mean by this?” demanded Simeon. “Come away from there. Come away before you are hurt.”
Two of his bodyguards put hands on Giles to pull him away. Giles resisted, clinging to the boy.
“A moment, my lord. Hear me, I beg you.”
Khan Simeon glanced at the emperor, who merely stood looking on, unwilling to intervene. Simeon released Haven and straightened. “Speak.”
“Would you tarnish the lustre of this day with the blood of this unfortunate? If you cannot spare this wretch’s life, then spare a thought for your majesty and honour, my lord.”
Poor though the Latin might have been, the words had an effect on the khan. He turned to the soldiers who had managed to wrest Giles away from the condemned boy. “Release him,” he commanded. They did as they were told, and Giles resumed his stand over the boy once more.
“My lord, any low thug may steal a life, but it is only the truly powerful who can restore it,” Haven continued, rising slowly to stand before him. “Are you not mightier than this ragged street ruffian? Show yourself greater than those who would belittle you. Let your strength unite with mercy, that your glory may shine the brighter.”
Khan Simeon understood the logic of Haven’s intercession and hesitated. Silence descended over the crowd; both Byzantines and Bulgars stood with breath abated, waiting to see what the king would decide. Simeon inclined his head in a slight bow of acceptance. He stepped forward and took the boy by the arm and raised him to his feet. “A cloth,” he said, holding out his hand. Empress Zoë removed her girdle, a length of peerless brocaded cloth worked in emerald green and azure; she passed it to the king, who handed it to the boy.
Then, kneeling before the quivering miscreant, the Great Khan said simply, “Clean me.”
The lad, still shaking and snivelling, began dabbing at the stain on the kneeling monarch’s head and shoulder. But the boy was shaking so badly, he could hardly make his hand obey. Patiently, the Great Khan of the Bulgar took the young fellow’s hand in his own and wiped away the filth.
When the royal visage and robes had been restored, Simeon rose and, retrieving the brocaded cloth, carefully folded it lengthwise and, stooping, tied it around the lad’s waist as a belt to his stained and ratty tunic. Turning to the second boy, the king summoned him to stand beside the other. They stood together, frightened still, but with hope beginning to rise in their grubby young faces. Simeon placed his hands, one on each shoulder, and regarded them with a stern but fatherly look. “Go now—and think on what has happened here today. While you are thinking, remember that your lives were forfeit for your transgression, but this woman”—he indicated Haven standing to one side—“interceded for you and appealed to a higher law. Rejoice that your lives have been saved today, and remember this next time you are tempted to sin.”
Releasing the boys, he commanded two of his bodyguards to usher them from the imperial precinct. He then bowed to the emperor and thanked Leo for allowing him to render judgement in this matter.
“That was well done,” Leo told him. “Let it be a sign and a touchstone for our two houses—that the path of mercy and compassion is ever before us. We have but to choose it. It would be well to remember this always.”
The only person who remained unhappy with the outcome of the incident was Empress Zoë, who had lost a highly prized piece of her wardrobe. But the khan, quick to guess the meaning behind the frosty expression on her elegant face, gallantly removed his golden sash and presented it to her in replacement of her emerald girdle. Considering the value of the sash, she came out of the exchange much the richer.
Relations between the two warring monarchs became much freer and more open, Haven considered. She and Giles fell back to their places, and it seemed as if the incident would be forgotten as the celebration commenced and the royal retinues of both monarchs moved to the palace where the festivities would be held in the Accubita, the great Hall of the Nineteen Couches. Some little time later, however, as the guests were sitting down to eat the first of the twenty or so courses they would be served throughout the day and deep into the night, Emperor Leo, feeling friendlier toward his former adversary, leaned close and asked, “That woman of your retinue—the one who spoke with such passion for those street ruffians—whose is she?”
Khan Simeon glanced down among the lower tables where the lesser-ranking members of his party were seated. “Her?” said Simeon, though there was only one person in the entire hall the emperor could have meant. “She is a foreigner—a wayward traveller it would seem—she and her stalwart companion.”
“They are not of your people?” wondered Leo, holding up his cup to be filled. The best wine of the empire flowed through the emperor’s vats, and he did not stint.
“No, indeed, Lord Emperor, they are not,” replied Simeon. The liberal application of sweet, dark Greek wine was making him expansive and generous of sp
irit. “Lost in the southern plains when we came upon them—no food, water, nothing. Very strange.”
“I have never seen anyone like her for spirit,” observed Leo. “The man with her seems able too.”
“They tell me they are of the Saxon race from the Isle of Prytannia,” Simeon explained. “Have you heard of this place?”
“It is known to me.” Leo regarded Haven from his couch at the high table. “A very striking creature, to be sure. I wonder if all her kind are possessed of such noble bearing.”
Discerning the hint hidden in these words, Simeon pointed out, “We have yet to discuss the arrangements for fosterage and the exchange of chattels and hostages. Allow me to offer a token of goodwill for our pending negotiations.” Nodding toward where Haven and Giles were sitting, he said, “Imperial Majesty, please accept the Saxon foreigners as a gift and pledge toward the present peace and future harmony of our kingdoms.”
CHAPTER 14
In Which Justice Must Be Seen to Be Served
There was a knock on the door, and the magistrate’s secretary put his head into the room. “I am sorry to disturb you, Herr Richter.”
“What is it, Pavel?” asked the magistrate without bothering to look up from the papers in his hand.
“It is that man—he is here again.”
“Which man, Pavel? More specificity is expected in this office.”
“The baker,” replied the secretary. “The one from the kaffeehaus on the square.”
The chief magistrate felt his heart sink. “Oh, him.” He raised his head and glanced at his secretary. “What is it now—six times he has been here? Seven?”
“Nine, Herr Richter. This is the ninth time he has asked to see you.”
“Well, send him away.” He snapped the papers in his hand with a flick of his fingers. “Can you not see that I am busy? Tell him to go away.”
“Of course, Chief Magistrate,” replied Pavel. “I will certainly do as you command.”
The Fatal Tree Page 11