The clearing was overhung with a canopy of thick foliage and lit enchantingly by the Flames of the Firmament which flickered and danced, chiming softly. In the middle of the circle they created stood Darmud Coril. Around him had gathered the beasts of the Heartwood, each of them magical and each to bear witness.
Cyrus felt calm tracing through his body. His heartbeat slowed and his breathing deepened. He realised his eyes were open and he looked down at his hand buried deep in Solyana’s fur. Her serene face as she turned reassured him further.
Welcome to our family, Cyrus, the beasts said into his mind.
He wept with the joy of belonging.
Darmud Coril waited until the soldier had composed himself. When Cyrus found the courage to look into those soft eyes he no longer felt scared. He felt elated. Cyrus smiled and the god of the Heartwood returned it.
You have shed your blood amongst us, Kyt Cyrus. You are a brother to the creatures of the Heartwood and you are chosen by the goddess Lys as protector. Darmud Coril spoke quietly but clearly.
There was silence. Even the chiming flames had quietened. No leaf stirred.
Protector of what, Almighty One? Cyrus asked, his brow creasing.
Protector of whom, the god corrected gently. You will know more in time, my son. Know now only that you have been chosen. You are precious. For now, the Heartwood protects you.
Darmud Coril spoke to his creatures. Gather him to your hearts, my children.
Cyrus watched as the flames burned tall and more brightly than ever, their chimes ringing clearly again in the still night.
The creatures closed on the circle of light and Cyrus, his fingers still tightly gripping onto Solyana, was welcomed and absorbed into the Ring of the Heartwood. His last thought was one of comprehension.
Ah, Solyana, this is why you only spoke to Tor about our journey through the forest. I go no further.
Sadly no one heard his thought for he was not bonded…yet.
Tor awoke with a start. He remembered everything from the dream scenes Lys had shown him, including the chilling revelation about Merkhud. He shook his head with disbelief but knew it was useless. Lys had no reason to lie.
Cloot dropped to the ground in front of him. The bird looked dishevelled.
Cyrus has gone.
Tor glanced around. What do you mean, gone?
Gone. Departed. Absent. No longer here.
Gone where? Tor couldn’t help himself.
Tor, if I knew where, I would not have spent most of the hours since dawn flying all over the forest. Cyrus is no longer with us.
Tor pulled himself angrily to his feet. But that’s ridiculous. Why would he go? Why would he leave us without saying anything? Where would he go?
Indeed. All the same questions I’ve asked myself a hundred times already.
The truth was, the falcon could hardly believe it himself. Cloot was sure he had been alert for most of the night and his hearing was sharp; even if he had dozed he would have woken at the slightest sound.
Tor raked his hand through his hair and looked around helplessly, as though his anxiety alone could conjure Cyrus back to them.
It was timely that Solyana appeared. Her voice soothed their immediate barrage of questions.
Please don’t fret, Torkyn. Kyt Cyrus is safe now. He is where he belongs.
And where is that, pray? Cloot saw Tor glare at his sarcastic tone.
He belongs in the Heartwood, friend Cloot. Last night we welcomed him formally.
Tor bit his lip; tasted blood. Another friend lost to Lys. He was a fool. He should have sensed it from the Flames’ first greeting of them and Darmud Coril’s initial welcome.
Solyana, are you telling us that Cyrus will remain here? He will not journey further with us?
You are correct.
Anxiety coursed through his body. Why?
Because he must. Because Lys has chosen him. Because Darmud Coril welcomes him as a member of the Heartwood. Because, she said wistfully, it is his destiny.
Tor linked with Cloot, knowing Solyana could not hear him.
Cyrus spoke of this before we entered the forest. He was afraid. He said he sensed his own destiny.
Cloot flew to Tor’s shoulder. It felt safe to be touching one another. Then we must go on. If Lys has chosen this path for him, it is part of the complex web she spins.
How can you be so accepting of her, Cloot? He looked at Solyana who was patiently waiting for them.
Because of what I am. I was a crippled freak of a man. She turned me into this falcon. I believe in the enchantments of the Heartwood. It offers nothing but sanctuary and love to us. I trust it. If it welcomes Lys, we have nothing to fear from her. We must trust her…and we know Cyrus is safe.
The wolf spoke. Perhaps you would like to eat, she said politely, her eyes glancing at the food laid out on leaves nearby. And then we must continue our journey. It will be our last day of travelling together. Tonight you will reach Ildagarth.
19
Xantia
Alyssa stepped past Xantia as they left the dining hall of the Academie. As always, the noon meal was a noisy affair and she far preferred the sanctuary of the library.
‘Back to the crypt?’ Xantia called after her. ‘Too much sunlight?’
Alyssa looked back at the young woman who had become her tormentor. She knew Xantia and her sidekicks were just baiting her, yearning for the excuse to give her today’s nasty medicine.
She could not recall when or why their friendship had gone sour. They had made a glorious pair: Alyssa, golden-haired with soft green eyes and a reserved demeanour was the perfect foil to Xantia’s raven-haired, dark-skinned looks and fiery temper. Both had matured into beautiful women and before the curves of womanhood had settled on their bones they had been friends.
When Alyssa made her dramatic arrival on the rooftops of Caremboche five years previous, Xantia was an angry girl of similar age. She had no friends at the Academie and her loneliness fuelled a lofty attitude. That afternoon in the early autumn most of the women were in Ildagarth. Each Eighthday the Academie allowed its members to do their marketing and most took advantage of the freedom it provided. Xantia was rarely asked to accompany the others for it was accepted by all that she was generally of bad humour and destined to ruin a pleasant escape from strict routines. Strolling through the markets alone whilst the others enjoyed their day out together merely reinforced Xantia’s feeling of isolation and so she often chose to remain at Caremboche.
And so Xantia was one of the first to hear the commotion outside that day and easily the swiftest to get to the roof. She was joined there by a stranger, the visitor who had met with Elder Iris that morning. The old woman was distraught, babbling that her granddaughter Alyssa was trapped outside the Academie’s walls.
Others arrived, breathless but not fast enough to send the youngster away from the terrible scene below and so Xantia had witnessed the reviled Inquisitors and their despised leader torturing a helpless man. She learned from the grieving newcomer that he was Saxon Fox of Cirq Zorros and that he had been travelling with the old woman and her granddaughter as they fled the Inquisitors.
Many times during her years at the Academie Xantia had been accused of being cold; some would even whisper heartless. She hated her life of imprisonment—as she saw it—and the daily, uneventful routine and any change to it, bloody as it may be, was exciting. And so she watched Saxon being tortured, noticing how he made little sound save a low, animal-like growl, and she witnessed the murder of the boys. Their smiles of wonder at Alyssa’s enchanted acrobatics were still curiously evident when their lifeless bodies were dragged into the compound.
Everyone was shocked by the violence but the newcomer had remained that way for many weeks. Alyssa just stared straight ahead, glassy-eyed, and reacted to neither words nor touch. Even food seemed a trial. Nothing more than brochen—the thin porridge of the region—would she take and that had to be massaged down her throat. Xantia, who was fascinate
d by the strangers, was sure Alyssa would have died had Sorrel not persisted with such dedication.
It was only when the man the Inquisitors had left for dead had hobbled into Alyssa’s tiny room that she had returned to some normality, first trembling then weeping for hours.
Xantia had requested very early that she be allowed to assist these newcomers. The Elders had agreed, glad to see the young acolyte showing some compassion and interest in life outside of herself. And so she had spent many afternoons watching the Kloek and Alyssa. She sensed a bond between them yet no words were ever said. Xantia desperately wanted to know more.
Saxon had clung to life through the tireless attentions of Sorrel and the Elders but the cost was immense. The Inquisitors’ attack had left him with neither eyes nor tongue; the latter had been hacked out and fed to the scavenger dogs. His smashed arms had healed awkwardly and no longer hung normally at his sides. His legs were so badly deformed by the beating that he could barely walk and even Xantia could see that his spine would never straighten again; he would hobble like an old man for the rest of his life. As for speech, rather than grunt he chose to remain silent, communicating with a nod or shake of his head, perhaps a shrug. That he worshipped Alyssa was clear, though, and this intrigued Xantia all the more.
The weeks lengthened from autumn to winter and as the newcomers showed no intention of leaving, the Elders suggested that Alyssa become a member of the Academie. They had spoken with Sorrel and learned that the girl was empowered. Only the Academie could offer a sentient woman absolute protection.
The old woman had accepted the gracious offer but on the proviso that Saxon be allowed to remain also. They had agreed but he was not allowed within the Academie’s hallowed halls. Instead, he tended the Academie’s animals and handled errands and odd tasks around the complex. He slept in the hay loft and ate his meals alone in one of the many small courtyards.
As she looked at Alyssa now, Xantia remembered how it had been only her dogged persistence that finally brought the girl out of her shell. Saxon may have kept Alyssa sane but it was Xantia who had retrieved her spirit. Five years on and you would hardly believe this to be the same timid creature; except for the odd moments when one could tell she carried scars. She refused to discuss her life and the very mention of Goth could stop her in her tracks.
Alyssa answered Xantia’s attack. ‘I’ve got a lot of work to complete in the archives.’
Xantia would not let her off as easily as that, especially with an audience of young, impressionable acolytes listening in.
‘Alyssa, are you soft in the head? Did you hear what Elder May announced? There’s a visitor from Tal arriving any day now. You heard the story of Queen Nyria’s illness and so neither she nor that handsome King of ours can attend.’
‘I’m really not that interested,’ Alyssa said.
Xantia nudged one of her friends. ‘You’re so pious. We know we can’t touch but we are still flesh and blood. We are allowed to…’ Searching for the right word, she settled on ‘lust’ and said it with her eyebrows arched.
As Xantia expected, it won the response she wanted from her two companions, who laughed.
Alyssa tried not to sound condescending but these days whenever she spoke with Xantia she felt like the eternal Miss Do Right. ‘You’re courting danger, you know that. Why torture yourself over a man when you will never be allowed to enjoy one?’
Xantia ignored the comment and grinned at her colleagues. For just a moment, Alyssa glimpsed the friend she used to adore.
‘You know they usually send us this ancient physic who is no fun at all. I know it’s not him this time because I’ve checked. It might be someone young, someone tall and devilishly handsome.’ Xantia pretended to swoon.
‘Yes, and it could also be someone middle-aged and podgy with nasty breath,’ one of her companions countered.
Even Alyssa had to smile at that but she still wanted to leave. Soon Xantia would feel compelled to twist the conversation back into a nasty dagger levelled against her and Alyssa did not want to wait around for it.
Xantia folded her arms theatrically. ‘It won’t be. Not this time. I refuse to believe it.’
‘What are you getting yourself into such a state for anyway?’ asked another girl.
‘Because it’s the only time in ten years we’ll be allowed to dance with a man, you fool. They relax rules for the Festival! And our Alyssa here…’
Here we go, Alyssa thought.
‘…is such a beauty who could resist dancing the night away with her?’
Alyssa fixed Xantia with a look of disdain. ‘You’d do well to keep your mind on your work and away from men. You do recall your status?’
She regretted her words instantly, knowing they were exactly the lead Xantia needed.
‘How can I ever forget?’ she spat. ‘I wish I’d never been brought here. I would rather have taken my chances against Goth.’
Xantia watched Alyssa’s controlled expression turn cold before she disappeared down the corridor. She shrugged, delighted that she had scored another cruel blow.
Xantia hated being a prisoner of the Academie. She was not scared of Goth, not even with the knowledge that her own sentient mother had been dealt with by the Inquisitors. If she ever found the well-meaning villagers who had delivered her into the hands of the Academie, she would destroy them with every ounce of her power. That old anger never waned in Xantia. She resented everything about the Academie: its pious attitude, its inflexible routines, its unnatural attitude towards men and especially its forced warding of each individual’s power. Unlike the majority of the other women there, she had not chosen Caremboche. Xantia knew she was far more powerful than her mother and would have preferred her freedom.
She touched the archalyt disc on her forehead. She never stopped thinking about how to remove it but it was impossible. She had tried everything. It was an impregnable shield. As a youngster, she had frequently drawn blood trying to prise it off. On each occasion the Elders had sombrely reminded her that once an archalyt stone is touched to the forehead of a sentient girl it attaches for eternity.
‘There is no power in the Kingdom, brute strength or enchanted, which is potent enough to remove it. Consider it part of you, my girl,’ Elder Iris had counselled.
Xantia would never get used to it though and grew obsessed with the idea of escaping the life of an acolyte.
Then, about twelve moons ago, after Helene died, it was announced that a new Elder would be appointed from the senior acolytes. Xantia could hardly believe it. There had been no Elder status awarded since she had come to the Academie seventeen winters previous. This was her chance. Finally, the opportunity to break the shackles; achieve some measure of freedom, status, authority. Even the chance to travel the Kingdom.
Xantia began to daydream. She could see herself in the future as Chief Elder; now that was something to aim for. The idea of power appealed to her so strongly that she began to think of nothing else. Before long she had convinced herself that there was no one better for the position. She had been at the Academie the longest of all the acolytes; she was extremely intelligent—that was acknowledged by even her greatest critics. Most importantly, her specialty was a subject no one else cared to study. She had made the Dark Arts her own domain and no one could hold a candle to her for her understanding of these powers or their history. Her writings on the Dark Arts had no equal in the land.
And then the blow had fallen. Taking a short cut through the gardens one bright spring morning she overheard two of the most respected Elders chatting. They were discussing the most likely choice from the four candidates under consideration for the new Elder position. To Xantia’s despair both had resoundingly supported Alyssa. She knew their voices had weight in the Circle of Elders. If Alyssa was getting their vote, then her own chances were seriously damaged. Worse, she was well aware that the Chief Elder held nothing but admiration for Alyssa.
Without meaning for it to happen, during that spring, Xantia
had gradually turned against her close friend. At first it had manifested in petulance and the ever-patient Alyssa had put up with it. By summer’s arrival it had deepened into Xantia finding fault with almost every aspect of their friendship.
Her latest strategy was to look for ways to make Alyssa look bad in front of her peers. So far, however, none of the mud had stuck; Alyssa always managed to come out of it clean. Then, one day at the beginning of Deadleaf, Alyssa’s tolerance had snapped. She accused Xantia of scheming and lying. Xantia turned on Alyssa, suggesting she was suffering from a sad case of self-persecution.
At that point Alyssa gave up and accepted there was no friendship left for them. And now, for the past three moons, she had maintained a distant politeness whilst Xantia seized every chance she could to needle her.
Which was where Xantia found herself this morning.
She did not even like the two younger girls who were hanging around her but they made her look popular and they laughed when she needed them to. Suddenly tired of the twittering novices, she asked them to leave her. They had served their purpose.
She walked aimlessly down the exquisitely hand-painted corridors of the Academie. She saw none of it. Her mind was elsewhere and her gaze blank. When she brought herself back to the present she was in the grandly arched entry hall. Marble throughout, it never failed to impress visitors. Xantia had spent most of her life surrounded by such beauty but she rarely paid it a scrap of attention.
Her attention was caught by Saxon who was hobbling across the front courtyard towards the gates. What was the blind fool up to? It was not one of the delivery days and, besides, stores were usually received through the back gates. She watched him pull back the catch on the peephole and put his ear to it. Hearing was all he had left she thought cruelly. He listened then opened a very small door to receive a roll of parchment. It was not sealed and it fell open.
Xantia’s sharp vision glimpsed the royal crest in wax. She saw Saxon touch it, his fingers travelling over its distinctive pattern.
Betrayal Page 29
