Oak And Mist (The Ambeth Chronicles Book 1) (19 page)

‘Thanks,’ she said. It was only one word, but it held a world of meaning.

Caleb smiled back. ’You’re welcome.’

She held his gaze a moment longer, then straightened up. Looking down into the pine valley she felt a sense of déjà vu roll over her. There was the track running through the centre of the woods, the tall pines of the Gate visible to the far left. But it was in the woods to the right of the track that she had seen the strange light and so she focused her search there, trying to figure it out. All at once it was as though she were ten years old again, standing there with her hair in her eyes, straining to see into the dark under the trees. She tensed for a moment, expecting a scream to rise up as before, but there was nothing, only the expectant group on the track below and beside her the warm comforting presence of Caleb. Narrowing her eyes, she tried to remember where she had been standing that day.

***

The messenger knocked cautiously at the door of Lord Denoris’ study, for the Dark Lord could be notoriously testy when disturbed. Still, this was a matter of great importance. A group had been seen, heading to the closed Gate. Lord Denoris would be pleased with this information, would perhaps even pay for it, if delivered in a timely fashion. Hearing a voice bid him enter, the messenger slowly opened the heavy wooden door and walked forward to stand before the large desk, which was wondrously carved with dragons. Behind it sat Lord Denoris, his blonde head bent forward, pen scratching on paper as the fire crackled in the fireplace. A clock on the wall above marked out the hours. The messenger, his boots sinking into the rich carpet, waited for the Dark Lord to finish what he was doing, clearing his throat in preparation of the news he had to deliver. This was, perhaps, a mistake. The golden brows drew together and Lord Denoris slowly raised his head from his papers, turning the full force of his famously green eyes on the now terrified messenger. Hastily, he presented his news in a garbled fashion, relaxing slightly only when he saw the expression on the handsome face change from murderous to thoughtful. Tapping the fingers of one hand on the leather blotter, Lord Denoris seemed to be considering his options. The messenger hoped fervently to himself that they did not involve him. Finally, Denoris spoke, his voice curt.

‘Bring me my son,’ he said, waving a hand to dismiss the near-to-fainting messenger. Bowing, sweating, he backed out of the study, grateful to be leaving with all his limbs intact. Outside, the door closed behind him, the messenger sank down with trembling knees onto a wooden bench seemingly placed there for the purpose and wondered, not for the first time, whether another profession might be less stressful. But he could not linger long – Lord Denoris had asked for his son, and so the message had to be delivered. With a sigh he stood, straightening his tunic and wiping his damp brow before setting off to the gardens where he had last seen Lord Deryck.

***

Moving a little further to the right, Alma sighted a gap between the pines and it all fell into place.

‘That’s the place, I’m sure of it,’ she said, turning to Caleb.

‘You’re positive?’ he said, his face slightly awed. Alma scowled at him and he grinned, raising his unwounded arm to indicate to the watching Elders that they had marked the spot. Treading carefully so as not to slip, the two made their way back down the slope, dislodging small stones that rattled down below. Thorion and the others had already left the dusty track, moving around the edge of the wood to meet up with Alma and Caleb at the gap in the pines.

As the small group moved slowly among the trees, Caleb turned to Thorion, his genial face perturbed. ‘Lord Thorion,’ he asked, his voice quiet, ‘I do not understand. Surely others would have been here, and could have taken the Sword?’

‘It is a good question, Caleb,’ he said in his deep voice. ‘In a normal forest, that would certainly have been the case. But this, as you may already be aware, is no ordinary woodland.’

‘Ah,’ said Caleb, realisation dawning on him. ‘Yes, my Lord, I see what you mean. Because this place moves so much between the worlds, it’s unlikely to have had any other visitors since Lord Gwion came through.’

‘Yes. That is what we are hoping for, anyway,’ smiled Thorion, obviously pleased by Caleb’s answer. ‘And are you quite recovered?’ he went on, reaching out his hand as if to touch Caleb’s arm, though he didn’t make contact.

‘Er, yes, my Lord, thank you,’ said Caleb, his cheeks going red. ‘Lord Artos was very helpful.’

‘Good,’ said the King. ‘Make sure Marlin looks at it when we get back.’

‘I will, my Lord,’ replied Caleb.

Thorion nodded then moved forward to catch up with Meredan, who was scanning the woods as he walked. The group moved further into the chill dank of the wood, their feet disturbing small puffs of dust from the forest floor, mist swirling around them. Then Meredan stopped, raising his hand. ‘I have it,’ he said, his voice low. Pointing ahead, he indicated an area where the ground had been disturbed, although some time ago, judging from the fine dust lying on the ridges and furrows scored in the earth. The marks bore witness to some terrible struggle. Footprints dug into the soil interspersed with terrible clawed grooves, while ominous darker patches still stained the pine needles that covered the forest floor. The wood lay silent and heavy as the group moved to stand at the patch of ground with its silent message of violence past. Adara, especially, seemed affected – slowly she walked around the battle site, stopping finally at a depression in the soil where it seemed something heavy had fallen and lain. One hand to her mouth, she bent and picked up something small from the displaced earth. Her expression anguished, she turned to Alma, who was closest to her.

‘I gave this to him.’ She opened her hand to show Alma a small charm, a silver flower, still with a scrap of blue ribbon attached. Alma could only look back at her, speechless in the face of such sorrow. ‘A forget-me-not,’ she continued, her voice breaking so Alma could barely hear her. Closing her hand, she stepped away from Alma and the rest of the group. She stood under the trees with her back to them, her shoulders hunched and arms wrapped around herself. His own face full of pain, Thorion went to her, gently placing his hand on her shoulder. She turned to him, stepping into his arms and weeping against his shoulder as he sought to comfort her.

‘
Heart’s love the Sword will lay down
,’ whispered Alma to Caleb. ‘So now we know who the first heart was. Oh, this place is so sad.’ He only nodded, his blue eyes shifting to the grey of a stormy sea. ‘I still can’t believe this is real. It’s so strange to be here again.’ She wanted to keep talking, to somehow ward off the bad feelings the place aroused in her. Meredan moved past them both, his red cloak swirling around him as he tracked the last movements of Gwion in his battle with the Galardin.

‘He was ambushed here,’ he said, his voice a low rumble in the chill mist. ‘It would have been quick – he fought hard, but had already taken a fatal blow.’ Lord Artos looked at him, his face impassive. Alma bit her lip. ‘He fell here,’ Meredan went on, indicating the hollow in the ground. His eyes narrowed as he knelt down, moving his hands to trace the shapes in the earth. ‘He hit hard – it may be because he was struck again. Then the Galardin stood over him.’ He frowned. ‘It looks as though the creature left suddenly – I don’t know why.’ Laying his hands on the soil he closed his eyes to focus, breathing deeply. Alma frowned at Caleb and he leaned in, lips close to her ear, his breath warm as he whispered to her. ‘He’s trying to access the moment Gwion’s soul passed to the Realms of Light.’

Alma’s eyes went wide and she turned to Caleb but he put his finger to his lips, jerking his head in Meredan’s direction. She turned to see the Lord still kneeling, his focus absolute, while Artos stood nearby with arms folded, his expression unreadable. Watching in awe, she saw Meredan move his hands away from where Gwion had lain, as though following a trail no one else could see. A little to the right of the depression he stopped, his hands hovering several inches above the ground.

‘It is here.’

‘The Sword?’ said Caleb, startled into speech.

Meredan, opening his eyes slightly to look at him, nodded. ‘The Sword.’

***

‘Why have you not yet brought me the girl?’ The words sliced through the air as Deryck stood before his father’s desk in the same place as the messenger before him, though with quite a different attitude.

‘You told me I could do this my own way. So leave me to do it!’

Lord Denoris stood, both fists clenched as he regarded his son. ‘They are on their way, even now, to the Closed Gate of Penwyth Gawr,’ he said softly. ‘Do I need to remind you what that means?’

Deryck did not need reminding, nor was he fooled by the softness in his father’s voice. He had heard about the Gate, what they might find and what they hoped to find on the other side. What he could not understand was how Alma had known to take them there. He still remembered the nightmarish sight of the blood-smeared Galardin returning to his father’s estate from the Gate some years past. Twelve years old he had been, supposed to be sleeping but instead peering through his bedroom window at the commotion in the yard below. His father had strode out to meet the hulking creature, cloak billowing behind him in the fitful light of the torches, and forced the Galardin to kneel, holding it by the hair as it relayed its news. Once finished, Denoris had run the monster through with his sword and Deryck could still hear the strangled cry it had let out, whether in pain or release, he was never sure. He’d had bad dreams for some weeks after, waking screaming from sleep to find either his valet or, on rare occasions, his mother there to comfort him.

‘I left another Galardin there,’ said Denoris, cutting into his thoughts. Deryck stared at his father, unable to conceal his shock. Denoris came out from behind his desk, one hand stroking his chin as he paced, green eyes fixed on his son. ‘So it will not be easy for them… Still, their numbers are enough. They will protect the girl, of course.’

Deryck pulled himself together and nodded, adopting what he hoped was a serious expression. But, a Galardin! Thinking fast, he spoke. ‘I almost had her the other day. She will be mine before too much longer. Just let me do it, sir, I know I can succeed.’

‘Almost isn’t good enough,’ his father shot back. ‘If they find the Sword today...’

‘You couldn’t find it!’ Deryck blurted. Seeing his father’s expression, he backpedalled hastily. ‘What I mean, sir, is that if they find it, then we will get the Cup and the Crown!’ he went on, his face earnest. ‘With two thirds of the Regalia in our hands, the balance of power will still lie with the Dark.’

Lord Denoris looked at him a moment, his expression calculating. Pursing his lips, he blew a breath out through his nose. ‘Fine. You may have your way in this. But only for so long, Deryck. Time is of the essence.’ Staring hard at the boy, his eyes narrowed, he waited until Deryck bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘You may leave,’ Denoris said, with a hint of a smile. ‘But make sure you are there to greet her when they return. If they return.’

He waited, studying his son and Deryck nodded. He bowed to his father and left the study, closing the door behind. Sinking down on the same wooden bench so recently vacated by the hapless messenger, he leaned forward, resting his head in his hands. He knew that he owed it to his father and the assembled Dark to use every wile he possessed to bring Alma to their cause. The problem was that there was a large part of him that no longer wished to do so. He wished to have Alma on her own terms, to be with her because she wanted to be with him, not because he had tricked her in any way. He regretted ever coming up with his plan to seduce Alma, for he knew his father would expect him to succeed. And now all he could do was hope that she would make it back into Ambeth in one piece. Standing, he made his way slowly to his rooms to get changed. There was nothing else he could do and, if he was to meet Alma on her return he wanted to make a good impression, to at least give her the chance to make up her own mind. 

***

Meredan knelt down, holding out his hands over a patch of ground. Alma realised that if she squinted she could see something like a faint shimmer in the air. She looked up as Thorion came to stand next to her. ‘You are sure, Meredan?’ His tone betrayed his excitement.

‘Yes, Thorion,’ he replied. ‘I can feel its presence, even through the concealment spell he laid on it.’

‘It must have been the last thing he did,’ said Adara, her voice thick with tears. ‘I wonder how…’ She trailed off, but her question was obvious. How had Gwion, wounded and under attack, found the time to shape a spell? Then Alma spoke, in a voice of wonder.

‘I think it was me.’

All eyes turned to her. ‘What do you mean?’ Thorion asked, a curious expression on his face.

‘I-I can’t explain it, really. I just remember feeling, somehow, drawn to what was happening under the trees. It was as though everything stopped when I stood here. I’m sorry, I can’t explain it any more than that.’

‘I can,’ said Artos unexpectedly. ‘It was your presence that stopped the creature.’

‘Artos,’ said Thorion sharply, a warning tone in his voice.

‘But, how is that possible?’ said Alma. She was still unsure of Lord Artos, though she liked the Elder and he was always kind to her.

Lord Artos looked at the High King. ‘Thorion, it must be told!’