Although trade relations in Anguis had improved a hundredfold over the five hundred years since the historic Darkwater attack, and Komis men and women had integrated with Laxonians to a certain extent, there was still something exotic about them that fascinated Demitto. He knew King Gairovald had married a Komis, and supposedly their son – Prince Tahir, soon to be that year’s sacrifice to the Arbor – had a very Komis look about him, but Demitto had yet to meet him.
Come to think of it, Catena herself probably had Komis blood in her, Demitto thought, watching her direct the household to secure the rest of the horses of the Heartwood party. Although she didn’t have the distinctive golden Komis eyes, her black hair and swarthy complexion suggested an ancestor of that description somewhere in her heritage.
“Come with me.” She jerked her head at him, and, removing his helmet, he followed her through the gatehouse into the castle proper.
Like the outside, the castle interior consisted of an intriguing blend of cultures. Demitto recognised the layout: the large central hall, the jumble of rooms, cool out of the heat of the sun. But the large tapestries on the walls depicted geometric shapes rather than the usual landscapes and battle scenes he was used to. Some he recognised as faces and animals and objects like trees, but they were composed of circles and squares, filled in with tiny colourful dots in the Komis fashion. He found them slightly disturbing, like something out of a dream.
Harlton kings had grown rich on the ores mined from the quarries to the west. Thick jungle now hampered the mining operations, but it would be a long while before the wealth they had accumulated vanished. Even in the castle, Demitto could smell the blacksmiths’ fires on the air, overriding the usual castle smells of cooking food and ash from the fire, and a strange tang of metal in his mouth set his teeth on edge.
Catena walked forward, gesturing for him to follow, and led him toward the dais. The King and Queen of Amerle sat in elaborate chairs side by side and watched him. Next to them, in a smaller chair, sat a young man who looked down his nose at the Heartwood party. Like his mother, the thirteen year-old Selected had raven hair braided back off his face with gold and jewelled clasps, dark brown skin, and eyes that – even from a distance – were a startling, bright gold. A large hunting dog sat by his side, and the Prince’s hand was clenched in its fur, the only sign that maybe he wasn’t as relaxed as he appeared.
Demitto approached the dais, stopped a few feet away and bowed. He closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated, remembering his purpose for being there, thinking of the Arbor, the way its leaves rustled when there was no wind, the soft beat of its heart beneath the bark. Then he opened his eyes and stood to face his curious audience. “Greetings from Heartwood.”
The King stood and gave him a soldier’s salute. Demitto returned it, then stepped forward and the two men grasped wrists and rested a hand on each other’s shoulder.
“You are most welcome,” Gairovald said. He looked relieved. That puzzled Demitto. “And we are sorry to have kept you waiting. My son was keen to look his best for the Heartwood party.”
Demitto’s gaze slid to the Prince. He didn’t look as if impressing his guests was of particular importance to him. He looked bored and impatient, as if this was all a huge waste of his time. An interesting attitude for a person who was about to dedicate his life to a holy cause.
Demitto glanced at Catena. Undisguised impatience flitted across her face before she caught him looking at her and wiped her expression clear. He filed that look away to think about later.
The formalities continued. Gairovald introduced him to the Queen, then to other members of the court. There were lots of them, people having travelled from far and wide to see the Heartwood party and to say their last goodbyes to the Prince – officially, at least. Demitto noted that nobody paid any interest to the Prince at all. He sat to one side, flipping through the pages of a book, seemingly removed from the festivities.
After the introductions, they all sat down to eat, Demitto and the rest of the Heartwood followers at the high table, everyone else on benches that ran the length of the hall. Servants placed elaborate dishes of stuffed swans resplendent in their feathers, whole roasted pigs and hundreds of cooked chickens on the tables, along with pitchers of ale and large bowls of fruit.
Demitto had a headache after sitting too long in the sun and was desperate to remove his armour and have a long soak in a bath, but he ate politely, made conversation and watched the entertainers, conscious all the while of Tahir’s bored and detached demeanour, his superior manner to those around him. Demitto looked longingly at the ale, but purposely steered clear, wanting to keep his wits about him, at least until he had performed his official duties.
Finally the meal ended. Tahir tossed a half-eaten chicken leg onto his plate, got up and walked off behind the dais to the upstairs rooms without a word to anyone, his dog close behind him, earning him a glare from his father, who nevertheless did not rise to go after him. Catena – who’d eaten sparingly at the end of the table near Demitto and answered any questions asked of her in monosyllables – watched the Prince go, then stood and said, “It has been a long day for the party from Heartwood, my liege. They have travelled far and we have to start a long journey soon too. Perhaps we should excuse them for now?”
Gairovald waved a hand, clearly as relieved as his captain of the guard that the day was over. “Yes, yes, of course. Please, show our guests to their chambers.”
Demitto rose, bowed and followed Catena out of the hall.
“Thank you,” he murmured. “I am exhausted. It was only my armour keeping me upright.”
She laughed – the first time she had done so – and it lit up her face like the sun. “I am presuming before you go to your chamber you would like a bath?”
His answer was immediate and heartfelt. “Oh, roots of the Arbor, would I.”
“Follow me, then. I think I will join you. This cursed heat has melted my patience.”
She led him outside to the bath house – a separate stone building with a hypocaust system under the tiled floor to keep the baths hot. She, Demitto and the other Heartwood knights stripped and sank into the water with a collective sigh.
“Bliss,” Demitto said, leaning his head on the back of the bath and closing his eyes. They had added the usual rose petals to the water but it also had a strange smell he couldn’t place, something like cinnamon or cloves, sharp on the nostrils. Komir spices no doubt. He didn’t like it particularly, but he was too tired to complain and ask for a separate bath.
For a while they soaked in peace, and he let the heat of the water dissolve away the aches in his bones. Heartwood to Harlton was a good ten or eleven days’ ride, and he was glad of the brief respite before the return journey.
After a while, Catena spoke. “Following your bath, I expect you will want to retire?”
He opened his eyes and rolled his head on the tiles to look at her. She looked younger without the heavy armour, and strands of her black hair curled around her neck where they had escaped the knot on the top of her head.
“After this I expect to visit every inn in town,” he corrected. “I have not had a decent ale all journey.”
Her lips curved. “You drink ale? I am shocked!”
“Why?”
“You did not have any at the table. I presumed it was because you had taken holy orders?”
He shrugged and closed his eyes again. “We swear to protect the Arbor, but we are not monks. Those days are long gone.”
She fell quiet for a few minutes and they soaked in companionable silence. Then she said, “How long have you been escorting the sacrifices to Heartwood?”
“I have been ambassador for eight years,” he said. “I do not escort every year. This is my fifth time.”
“And are all sacrifices spoilt brats?”
He opened his eyes again, amused this time. He studied her for a while, long enough to make her shift uncomfortably in the water and say, “What?”
“Did it cross your mind that maybe the Prince is nervous?”
She thought about it. “Honestly? I do not believe that is the case. He is arrogant and thinks he is better than everyone around him because he has been Selected. But he has not won this honour through good deeds, for winning a battle or for being a champion among men.”
“It has been a long time since a Selected was picked in such a manner.”
“I know.” Her brow furrowed. She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice. “Once, those who wished to give their life to the Arbor went to Heartwood to study, and only those who truly understood the nature of their sacrifice were allowed to offer themselves to the tree. Now rich families proffer sons and daughters like produce at a market. Pay the highest price and you can win a place in Animus’s kingdom! It disgusts me.” Her eyes blazed. “How glorious it must have been for a while, at the beginning of the Second Era, when the land was renewed and everyone’s faith was restored. Do you really think Teague and Beata gave their lives so that boys like Tahir would think themselves superior to the rest of us?”
Demitto frowned, still hot and irritated by the strange herb that made his nose itch. “I am no philosopher. I leave the studying to others. As far as I am concerned, these names you mention could just be characters in a story. How do we know the tales are all true? I judge the world based on what is before me – by what I can touch and see. The Arbor needs to consume a living person each year – what does it matter whether the Selected reads scripture or not, whether he or she is holier than you or I? What does that even mean, anyway?”
She stared at him. “You are the ambassador to our holy city. I am aghast that you should speak in such manner.” She looked at him as if he had stated that he ate live babies to break his fast each day.
He studied her, watching the way a droplet of water ran from her hair behind her ear and down her long neck. “Have you ever been to Heartwood?”
She glared. “No.”
“Then you know nothing about that of which you speak. You have never seen the Arbor, or the city that surrounds it. I expect you envisage it as some shining settlement with streets paved with gold, and holy men and women in white robes singing its praises day and night?”
Her cheeks reddened. “Of course not.”
“Perhaps it was that way, in the early days – who is to know? Now it certainly is not. It reeks. Stinks of animal dung and rotting food and sulphur from the smoking mountain behind it. And at night the torches fill the streets with smoke. It is difficult to get near the Arbor itself because of all the pilgrims who stand in line for hours to file past and get one brief touch of its trunk. The King of Heartwood is a fat oaf who is the son of another fat oaf who was no doubt the son of another fat oaf before that, and I doubt they could even spell Oculus or Animus or if any of them would have even heard of the Darkwater Lords. They take money from those who wish to offer their offspring to the tree, and they spend that money on scarlet gowns and golden crowns and venison for their tables. So please do not criticise my faith or my loyalty to that place. It does not deserve it.”
He finished, breathless, fists clenched as he sat upright in the bath, back rigid.
Catena studied him wordlessly. For a moment he thought she might knock him out with a fist to his chin and wondered whether he should find something to hang on to. But then, to his surprise, her lips curved.
“Some ambassador you are,” she said.
His eyes met hers, and they both started laughing.
“Tell me,” she said as they both settled back into the water and stretched out their legs. “Is it true what they say – that Anguis is stirring across the land, not just here?”
Demitto nodded and rubbed his face tiredly, glad she had seen the funny side of it. He really needed to get some sleep before he insulted someone who would really take offence and cause a national incident. “Yes. The weather grows warmer by the day. Throughout my journey I have felt the rumbles beneath the ground. But none as bad as in Heartwood. The mountains behind the city emit smoke and ash on a daily basis.”
They fell silent. Demitto surprised himself by wishing he could tell her what he knew and lighten the load a little. But the secret he carried with him could save the world, and he did not have the luxury of sharing it with others.
Instead, he stretched his arms above his head, glad to feel his muscles finally softening, his bones loosening. “By the Arbor, it has been a long day.”
Catena pushed herself up out of the water, accepted a towel from one of the waiting pages and began to dry herself off. “Come on. Get dressed and I will take you into the town. The Fat Pig has twelve different imported ales for sale at a reasonable price. I wager I can drink more than you before you slide under the table.”
“Done,” he said wryly, rising to join her. He needed sleep, but the opportunity to drink himself senseless was too much of a draw, and besides, after what he had had to put up with that day, he felt as if he had earned it.
III
It was difficult to walk, stumbling in the darkness with a cloth sack over her head.
Sarra kept her complaints to herself, however, determined not to make a fuss. In spite of her irritation at being treated as if she were untrustworthy, she understood how imperative it was that their destination remain a secret, and that the members of the group remain anonymous. Their lives depended on it, and if she discovered who they were and where they were going before she had established their trust, she had no doubt what that would mean. She would be found floating in the Great Lake with the turtles, and nobody would come forward to claim her. Her body would be taken to the depths of the Secundus District and burned, and nobody would mourn one less mouth to feed. So she remained silent, even though she occasionally stumbled and twisted her ankle or stubbed her toe on a rock, thinking instead of the future, clinging to the hope of better things to come.
Presumably, they thought she had no idea where she was. From their starting point in Pisspot Lane in the Primus District, their course had twisted and turned through the streets until eventually she had lost all sense of direction. But she was able to follow their route by the smells that penetrated the cloth.
The acrid stench of urine and leather from the tanners was gradually replaced by the smell of peat as they skirted the river banks and the weavers’ houses, distinguishable by the aroma of dried mosses and pungent dyes. When the tang of fish assailed her nostrils, she knew they were crossing the quay around the Great Lake. Here they moved slowly, keeping to the shadows of the houses – after all, if the Select caught two people escorting another in such a manner, with her head covered, there would be questions to answer and her chance would be over. So she trod carefully over the fishermen’s nets and tried not to rattle the turtle shells as the men escorted her along the western edge of the quay.
Their path twisted and turned some more and she lost her sense of direction again. They paused frequently, her guards pushing her into alleyways as voices came towards them. The bustle of people and the stink of perfume oil announced the presence of the whorehouses, which meant they were travelling into the Secundus District. Her heart rate increased even more. She rarely entered the area, preferring to keep to the trade regions and the relative security of the family caverns in Primus. Everyone knew the Select had less control over the inhabitants in Secundus. Overcrowding, poverty, starvation and murder were all commonplace. She clutched hold of Geve’s hand, and his tightened on hers in response, comforting her.
The aroma of berry pie told her when they had reached the playhouse. At this late hour, the shows had concluded, but the aroma of baked pastry and cooked fruit still pervaded the air and made her mouth water. The smell made her smile, in spite of her nerves. Rauf had loved pie. He had introduced her to all kinds, brought into the palace from across the sectors, flavoured with fruits and herbs she had never even heard of, let alone tasted before. He had even given her some of the legendary whiskey brewed in the Tertius Sector, although she had not liked it mu
ch. He had laughed heartily at the faces she pulled before he took her in his arms and stifled her complaints with kisses.
She pushed the thoughts of him away from her mind. Rauf was gone. The tears she had cried over him could have filled the Great Lake three times over, but she was done mourning. She had to fend for herself now.
They were entering deeper into the Secundus District now. It was late, the alehouses would be full, and she could hear men fighting, the bellow of voices and the crunch of fist meeting bone. In the distance, a woman screamed, abruptly cut off. The air smelled sour and fetid, of unwashed bodies, vomit and other bodily fluids. The men with her moved more quickly, apparently as keen as she was to pass through the troublesome area.
They must be nearing the southern edge now, she calculated, shivering at the thought that one day her body might be disposed of here, the ash washed away over the Magna Cataracta to who-knew-where. But even as she wondered if that was their destination, her feet hit cool water, the shock making her inhale and clutch Geve’s hand. They were crossing the river, which meant their destination was away from the waterfall, to the south-western limits of the city. Geve steadied her, guiding her across to the other side, the splash of their feet ringing in her ears. They were heading for the forgotten caves. She had never been this far south. Here the air smelled stale, and sound echoed without people and belongings to soak it up. Most of these caves had been deserted since the White Sickness. The palace insisted the disease had long since died out, but even the poorest in the city refused to cross the banks, in spite of the overcrowding in many areas.
The avenues changed to streets, the streets to lanes, and then they were in alleyways so narrow she could stretch out her hands and brush her fingers against the stone walls on either side. Were there still bodies here? Rumours abounded that the Select had left the sick here to die and just chained off the area. She sniffed cautiously. The air smelled clean with no sign of the sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh. Perhaps it had been too long, and the flesh had turned to dust, and only bones remained. No wonder the group met here – who would ever think to look for them in the forgotten caves?
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