Heartwood (38 page)

“Nitesco told us we should first of all tidy the site,” said Fionnghuala, keen to do anything that put off the business of actually activating the Node. “There are lots of boulders around, and grass on the stones; we should start with that.”

They all agreed. Lalage looked up at the Portal, which watched over them like a mother observing her children as they played near water. “I wonder what you actually have to do, though,” she said. “How do you activate the Node?”

“I was hoping it would become clear once we were ready,” said Fionnghuala. She gave the young Militis a smile. Lalage had been exceptionally quiet the last day or so, considering her near-constant chatter on the rest of the journey, and Fionnghuala was beginning to wonder if she was sickening for something. “I do not know how, but I have the feeling the way will become clear when the time comes.”

“That is probably just wishful thinking,” said Audax wryly. “Let us face the facts: we have no idea whatsoever what we are supposed to do.”

“Maybe not,” said Bearrach, “but I agree with Fionnghuala. It is pointless to worry about things that have not yet come to pass. Let us clear the site, and then we will consider the next step in the process.”

Fionnghuala smiled at him gratefully. She did not want a long conversation or an argument about the activation, and once again Bearrach had sensed her feelings.

It was growing dark, so they decided to turn in for the night. Fionnghuala was tired from the day's ride and dozed off quickly. She slept soundly and dreamlessly, and was surprised when she roused and sat up to see it was some hours later; the rain had eased and for once, the Light Moon had come out. It should have comforted her, for it had been days since they had last seen it, and in Salentaire she often passed time after Council matters had finished watching the evening skies. But tonight, it made her shiver, its pink crescent like the blade of a scythe cutting through the blackness of the night.

Then she realised what had awoken her. The baby was crying again. She clasped her arms around her knees and leaned her chin on them, puzzling over the sound. She looked across at Bearrach, wondering if, as usual, he was awake, but for once, he was not watching her but was sleeping quietly, facing away from her, and she did not want to disturb him.

Then she saw the small pile of blankets where Lalage had been lying. The Militis had left the shelter, which was unusual in itself because she of all of them usually slept the most soundly, and snored and talked in her sleep, and had to be woken in the morning. Fionnghuala slid out of her blankets and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders. Suddenly, the ceasing of the rain seemed menacing – why had the clouds now, of all times, chosen to part and reveal the icy moon? She rose and ducked under the roof covering and stood in the cool night. Everything glistened with the droplets of rain that still lay on plants and rocks alike. She scanned the countryside. There was no sign of Lalage.

She looked up the hill at the Portal, the stones of which shone almost white in the light of the moon. It looked ethereal, and she shuddered as she thought about the task that lay ahead. But she must not think about that; she must think about Lalage. Her instincts told her the knight had not just gone out for a stroll under the stars.

She frowned, her stomach stirring agitatedly. Should she wake the others? But that would be silly if indeed her instincts were wrong and Lalage
had
just gone out for a moonlit stroll.

She turned to walk down the valley, but then she heard the baby crying again. It seemed to come from behind her this time, and she turned instinctively to find the child, although she knew it to be only a phantom. And then she saw the sight that turned her blood to iced water in her veins.

For in the small pool in front of the horses' shelter floated the body of the Militis knight, face down, her hair spreading out from her head like the pad of a lily, her pale limbs like white branches on the surface.

 

IV

“No, thank you,” said Teague in reply to Beata's plea for him to help her save Anguis. He laughed and got to his feet. “I am no hero. I cannot save myself, let alone the world.”

Beata got up hurriedly and caught his arm. “You do not understand the power that you have. We need you, Teague. We are desperate.”

“Well, thanks,” he said with wry amusement. His gaze ran up and down her and his grin deepened.

She realised she must look quite a sight, hair all wild around her face and clad only in a thin linen tunic. She glared at him fiercely, unabashed by his open lechery, which was plainly trying to embarrass her. How could she be shy after years of undressing in communal barracks? “You do not understand. I have come halfway across Anguis to find you.”

“Me?” He frowned now. “Why me?”

“Because of your special abilities.”

“These tricks?” He laughed and threw his hands up, and a scattering of tiny petals floated down through the air. “How can such illusions save the world?”

“Because they are not illusions,” she said quietly, giving him a warning glance. “I told you, I know your real power. I have seen another with it; albeit not quite so strong as yours.”

“You have?” His eyes were suddenly wary. “Where?”

“In Heartwood.”

He stared at her, realisation suddenly dawning in his eyes. “You are a Militis?!”

“I am.” She showed him the oak leaf tattoo on her wrist. “They have heard about you in Heartwood, Teague. And they sent me to find you.”

She had thought flattery might persuade him, that the thought that the holiest knights in Anguis were searching for him would inflate his ego and make him agree to go back with her. But his face darkened like a cloud passing over the sun, and she realised it wasn't going to be that easy.

“You are mistaken,” he snapped. “I do not have the ability to do anything more than entertain people while they dine, and to delight bored children. I am happy here; I do not want to go traipsing across Anguis saving damsels in distress.”

She frowned. “It is so much more than that! The whole world is at stake here; do you not think you should do your utmost to help save it?”

“Why? What has it ever done for me?” he said fiercely. “I have been given nothing in life; cast out from my homeland, left for dead, a stranger in a strange land; I have had to hang on to my life with my fingernails and claw myself back up to a decent survival. Why should I suddenly declare that I wish to save this world that has abandoned me time and again?”

“It was not Anguis that abandoned you,” said Beata softly. “Nor Animus. Only people.”

“Animus!” he snorted. “Do not start talking to me about religion. I have had enough of this conversation.” And with that, he turned on his heel and marched out of the Hall.

Beata sighed and watched him go. She could see she had a battle on her hands. But she was not ready to give up yet.

For the rest of the morning, he disappeared, presumably down to the town, she thought, but eventually, he returned as the midday meal was served, and she wandered over to sit beside him at the table as the bread and meat were laid out before them.

He sighed as he looked up to see her. “I am having lunch,” he stated firmly, ruling out any Question of a discussion.

“So am I,” she stated back, filling her plate and proceeding to eat. He did the same, but she could see him repeatedly casting glances at her, and eventually he put down his knife with exasperation.

“I cannot sit here and eat with you waiting like a hungry wolf at my side.”

She stared at him innocently. “I do not know what you mean.”

He snorted. “You are not as innocent as you make out, so you can drop that act.”

Beata said nothing. Eventually, he sighed. “I am sorry; I did not mean to be rude.”

“I am getting used to it.”

To her surprise, he grinned. “I know it takes a while, but most people come around to liking me eventually.”

Her lips twitched. “You do not make it easy. But I am determined that you will listen to my plea.”

He studied her with his golden eyes. They unnerved her; there was clearly nothing wrong with his vision, but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was blind, and she was certain she was going to do something foolish under the impression he could not see her.

He sighed. “I give in. Explain why my returning to Heartwood is so important to you.”

She did not have to be told twice to convince him. She told him all about the Darkwater attack, explaining what had happened in detail so he really understood how the water lords had faded away into the channel at the end. Then she told him about the information that Nitesco had discovered, about the Nodes, and how the Veriditas was supposed to make the Arbor grow. “But none of us has the gift,” she said. “Well, except for Silva, and even her power is not enough to give the tree back its life.” She watched his brow furrow as he thought over what she had said. “Do you think you could help?”

For a while he said nothing. Then, eventually, he said, “I will think about it.”

“I can ask for nothing more.”

They did not speak about it for the rest of the afternoon. Teague spent some time preparing his entertainment that night, practicing his songs on his lyre, while Beata and Peritus went into Henton to get some supplies ready for the return journey. By the time they got back, the court was preparing for the evening meal, and the day was darkening, although there was still no sign of the sun.

Beata purposefully sat away from Teague for the first part of the meal, hoping her words would gradually sink into his brain like stones into a vat of honey. Sure enough, as the evening wore on, he glanced over at her more and more, and she knew he was thinking about what she had said earlier.

Convinced he was coming round to the idea of accompanying her back to Heartwood, for the first time in days her spirits began to brighten, and she finally relaxed, enjoying the food and drink and the company around her. Her tankard was filled with ale repeatedly, and as it was warm in the Hall she kept drinking, only realising when her vision began to blur that she was on the way to being drunk.

Part of her was also aware that she should be angry with herself for becoming drunk, but somehow she wasn't, and somehow it didn't seem to matter. All there was in the world were Teague's fascinating gold eyes like two bright buttons fixed on her no matter where she was, or who she was talking to.

She watched him as he did his evening performance, and caught her breath when he glanced over at her, his hands casting strange patterns in the air, causing petals to float from the ceiling and land on her hair like jewels threaded through her braids.

When he had finished, he lingered for a while talking to the lord and some of the visitors to the court, but he kept casting glances over at her, and each time he did, her stomach fluttered. She was excited about the thought of him returning to Heartwood, she told herself. Of course that was the reason.

Eventually he came over and dropped to her side on the bench.

“Did you enjoy the performance?” he said, pulling a tankard of ale towards him and drinking it down thirstily.

“It was very good,” she said primly, unwilling to give him too much encouragement, aware that his ego was probably big enough already.

He laughed. “Now I know you are jesting. I was on
fire
tonight!”

She smiled, unable to resist his infectious good spirits. “Yes, you were. Now do you believe in the importance of your gift?”

He gave her a look that said, Oh, not that again, and poured himself another tankard of ale. Looking at her empty cup, he poured her one too.

“No more,” she protested, her vision succumbing to the effects of the drink.

“Go on,” he said, and to encourage her, he traced a ring around the top of the cup, and a flourish of flowers appeared, the same colour as her dress.

Beata sighed. Who could resist such an extravagant gesture?

“Tell me more about your life at Heartwood,” he said, speaking softly and moving closer to her, as he knew she didn't want anyone else in the castle to know her true identity. “How long have you been there?”

“I was chosen for the Allectus at seven,” she said.

“Were you an only child?”

“Yes. It cost my parents dearly to send me away from them. Emotionally, you understand, not in coin. I was much loved, and they could not have any other children. But they said that from an early age, I had stated that I wished to go to Heartwood, and where I come from, it is a very great honour to be a Militis, and so they decided to send me, in spite of the loss they would feel.”

“And did you miss your parents?” he said. She smiled, and he sighed. “Stupid Question. I shall rephrase it. Are you glad that the decision to send you was made?”

“Oh, very. I cannot imagine myself to be anything else.”

He considered her thoughtfully. “You would have made a good actress.”

She laughed heartily at that, thinking of the absurdity of such a profession and how meaningless her life would have been had she trod the boards and not served the Arbor. “I do not think so,” she said, sipping her ale. “I was born to be a knight, and nothing else would have been right.”

He cocked his head at her, studying her carefully. “Can you tell me about your vows?”

She shrugged. “They are sacred. We are not supposed to discuss them outside Heartwood.”

He chewed thoughtfully on a wooden toothpick. “I think I am a little envious.”

“Envious?”

“Yes, of your conviction, your dedication, your passion. I have none of those things.”

She tried to think how her life would be without the qualities he had mentioned, and failed. “But then, you have had a difficult life. You have shown different qualities in order to come through the hard times – resolution, courage and the ability to depend on yourself where others learn only to depend on each other.”