by C. K. Nolan
Bassan put his bag on the floor and sat opposite Filibert. Lisette bustled about, carrying food and drink to a group of scribes here, some of the guard there. Harold walked through the hall, into the kitchen, and back out again, munching, chatting to the guard, laughing with one of the scribes, casting a glance in their direction.
“Filibert, you and I have been here long enough to know how the Albatorium works. Wystan’s had his chance. He’s been a good Legator, but he should have taken action earlier against the poison attacking our trees, simple as that.”
“So you thought that you would make a more suitable Legator.”
“Not at all! I’ve never wanted such a position. I’m already Librarian, am I not?”
“Because of course, if you had won the election, if the tree had named you, Bassan, who would you have picked to be Librarian?”
“My dear Treasurer, I’ve never imagined myself as Legator. So I’ve never had to think about choosing a Librarian.”
Filibert finished his wine and plonked his cup on the table. “Maybe you’ve never had to think about choosing a Librarian because you would’ve chosen yourself. Now, that would be interesting. But you’re spared from such a decision, as Silva is to be our Legator. And what do you think about that?”
Clever old Filibert! What else did he have to do all day but hide behind his number scrolls in his cellar next to Trevello’s office, adding, subtracting, eating, listening, watching, thinking?
“Silva is Zossimo’s daughter. She will have my full support. I’ll do all in my power to help her become a Legator as memorable as her father.”
Filibert reached for a basin of rosewater. He dipped his greasy fingers into it, then dried his hands on the tablecloth.
There was a commotion outside. An officer of the guard ran into the Great Hall, shouting “Guards, to your horses! Fetch the buckets! There are flames in Skeps Wood! They’ve almost reached Silva’s cabin!” and he ran up to Filibert and Bassan.
“Sires, I come from Skeps Wood, there are flames—”
“Yes, we heard,” said Bassan, standing up. “Calm down, man! How bad is it? Do you think you can control the fire?”
“Oh, I think so, with enough men, but the cabin is in danger. We’ll douse the trees over there. It’s the only thing we can do. We’ll be working through the night.”
“Good!” said Bassan, watching some of the guards leave their table and hurry out of the hall. Silva’s cabin wouldn’t be much of a loss. He’d searched it, of course, a long time ago, looking for the missing chapter of the Arboral, but had found nothing. “Where’s Trevello?”
“He’s down in the wood, too, sir. One of the guard thought he saw Rath hanging around the Albatorium today, and what with this fire, Trevello joined the search for Rath in the woods.”
Even better. “Then I shall leave the matter in your hands.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the guard, and he turned and left the Great Hall.
“It’s getting late,” said Bassan. “I think I’ll go to my laboratory. There’s not much we can do at the moment.”
“You’re right,” said Filibert, pushing back his bench and getting to his feet. “Wystan and Medrella are preparing the Session room and the Legator’s chamber for tomorrow. It looks like Trevello is going to be busy tonight. I hope Winifred and Silva have reached Yewlith safely. The wind is fierce this evening. I’ll be in my cellar later if you need me.”
Bassan sat and poured himself some wine. Lisette came over with a platter of lamb and onion sauce. The sauce was lumpy and slightly burned, but it wasn’t worth complaining about. He wanted to get downstairs. He ate quickly, left the hall, and descended the steps to the underfloor. Once in his laboratory, he went straight into his chamber, drew the curtain shut, sat at his desk, and opened the lid of his writing box.
The Mazer, this cup, this beautiful thing, Zossimo’s secret, and now his. He’d found the Mazer in Zossimo’s bag that terrible day. He’d got back from Oakenwood, unseen. Nobody had had the slightest suspicion he’d been there. He’d taken the empty bag and Zossimo’s cloak, ridden out to the Homesteads, and dumped the lot in an overgrown wood-bank next to Rath’s cottage. He’d even soaked part of the cloak with his own blood. And the stupid guard had fallen for it. They’d arrested Rath the next morning.
Bassan had hidden the Mazer well. It was the only thing that might have connected him to Zossimo’s death. But he’d never seen it in the laboratory during his time as an apprentice, and he’d found no mention of it in the library or even in the Arboral. Had Silva, her mother, or any of the Session known of it? Only after he was appointed Librarian did Bassan have the opportunity to observe the Mazer fully, and now he examined it again, striving to see if there was any change, for it must, surely, be aware that Great Aspen had chosen a new Legator?
The Mazer was a broader, shallower cup than other drinking vessels he’d seen. Bassan shook his head; he had never understood how the cup and the stand were molded as one. There was no join, no difference of material between them, no nicks or scratches. It was completely smooth. Bassan took the Mazer out of the writing box and set it in front of him. The outside of this cup was interesting enough. But inside, ah! He would never try to illustrate this. Nobody would have the skill to recreate the world he saw in there.
The base of the Mazer’s interior held a circular boss, made of metal, but Bassan was not sure of what sort. Something like silver, except that it never tarnished. Five circles were inscribed therein, one in the middle containing an outline of an ash leaf, and four surrounding it, in compass point fashion.
To the north, a maple leaf; to the south, aspen; to the east, an oak leaf; and, to the west, a yew branch. Straight lines had been chiseled from the ash to the four circles around it as well as between the outer pictures themselves, so that these four were connected to three other trees, the ash being connected to them all. This was surely how Zossimo had learned about the island’s master trees. Zossimo may even have found the tunnel to Oakenwood because of the Mazer, and although Bassan suspected there had once been tunnels between the other master trees, he had never found any of them.
Bassan’s eyes softened as the inner surface of the Mazer glistened, its transparent blackness turning dusky blue, the silver boss glowing green. He moved closer to look just over the rim of the cup, from where he could see the tiniest particles of light—at least, they had to be light, as he’d tried to touch them and there was nothing to feel—swirling around, creating a mist of blues, browns, greens, which then stilled.
Within the bowl stood four tiny master trees, each standing where its leaf was inscribed, the Yew, bending its branches to the ground, gleaming brighter than usual it seemed, the Maple, floating above its base—how clever that was—the trembling Aspen here in Southernwood, oh yes, that was still there, but not for long, and the Oak, slowly rocking back and forth. Only the Ash hadn’t grown, its leaf symbol barely glowing. Around the shimmering boss of the island glittered a silver sea, crowned by an evening sky.
Bassan hardly dared breathe. The whole effect lasted only a minute or so, and you could never tell when it would happen. This world, his world, fashioned in a bowl with such artistry! And now, at night, the Mazer began its dance of light, the island bathed in milky white, the trees casting miniature shadows onto the sides of the Mazer, where stars twinkled around a waxing moon as the island darkened, and a shooting star raced across the sky around the Mazer sides.
He shivered. His shoulders were cold; his mouth was dry; and the backs of his hands prickled with a strange sweat he’d never felt before. Perhaps he was getting old. Perhaps time had gone on without him and was accompanying Silva to Yewlith, readying her for legatorship, pushing forward, ever onward, forgetting the old men of the Albatorium?
Oh, no, he wouldn’t let that happen. He’d grab his time back, he would; he’d get rid of this new Legator much more effectively than he’d removed Wystan. If Great Aspen thought Silva was the answer to their problems, he’d soo
n prove him wrong, and there was nothing any of the trees could do to stop him. What had Master Ash told him? Fungus, fig, fire, fell! He’d have all these upstart trees at his beck and call before long. But he’d curse the day he was born if he were left to rot in the laboratory with its dead leaves and dry books written by dead men and the strawberry writing box of his dead mother, containing the most beautiful thing left in this building: the Mazer, whose life, if forced to, he would also destroy.
The starry swirl dissipated, and Bassan breathed out, frowned, and touched the top of the Mazer. The seasons, the weather, day, night: who knew what the Mazer would show? Yes, this cup was almost alive, a true work of art crafted no doubt by one who had loved the trees and the island more than any, more than Zossimo, even, one who did not explain all he knew with words, but who wanted the wonder of his science to live on, beyond…well, beyond when? Beyond the Dark Days he’d known were coming? For whoever had made the Mazer had, indeed, revealed a world and wisdom so far from Bassan’s own, so lost in years past, that Bassan knew he, and the world he now lived in, were lost themselves, and the splendor and sadness of this object overwhelmed him, and he bent his head and wept.
***
~~ Chapter Three ~~
The Book of Hortus
Had the wind woken her? Silva sat up on her thin, itchy straw mattress. Her feet were freezing, though she’d got up during the night to throw more logs onto the fire. The door had blown open. No wonder it was cold. Slits of light peeked through the cracks in the gallery walls outside. The pile of blankets on Winifred’s mattress squirmed.
“Are you awake Winifred? Good morning! Did you manage to sleep?”
“Wouldn’t call it sleep. All I could dream about was Lisette in charge of the kitchen. What a nightmare that turned out to be!” Winifred crawled out from under the bedclothes. “Do you know, I think I’m feeling a bit better this morning. Pull me up Silva, that’s it!”
“You don’t look well to me, Winifred. You’ve got puffy eyes, and your nose is ever so red.”
“Yes, dear,” sniffed Winifred, rubbing the end of her nose. “Think I’ve got a bit of a boil brewing there, unless I got bitten by a roach or rat in the night. Wouldn’t surprise me! Hand me my cloak would you? Can you pack up in here? I’ll get the ponies ready and meet you outside if you like.”
“I thought I might go up to the Tree Tower,” said Silva.
“What? Now? Oh, if you must, but don’t be too long! Leave this room to me, then. Now, where’s that lantern?”
Silva hurried off along the gallery to the wide stairs that wound about the northern tower’s central pillar. Up and up she went, round and round, so that by the time she reached the top, she felt quite faint. The floor was littered with sand and grit, feathers, and the remains of pigeon nests. This was a large, bright room. A smashed table sat next to boxes of empty jars and flagons, a pile of firewood, an ax handle, and a threadbare, ripped cloak covered in cobwebs. She walked around the column in the middle, counting eight windows, most still holding glass, but two of them broken.
A small archway framed a door to the outside balcony. She tugged open the door and stepped outside gingerly.
She faced east, the sea behind her, the island stretched out before her in the sun. Where had Father died? In a wood? By a river? On the shore? He may never have reached Oakenwood. Perhaps he’d come to Yewlith instead where he knew of the stone room below. He could have decided to head to Ashenwood. Or farther north. She didn’t want to think about that.
The balcony was wide. She could walk round keeping to the inner wall and not be too close to the edge. But it was difficult to see anything in this fierce wind, which whipped her hair and clothes tightly around her, made her eyes water, blocked her ears and chilled her cheeks.
She moved round towards the south of the tower and noticed narrow steps set into the balcony wall behind her. Had the keepers ever lit a beacon on the very top? The flames would leap up the stony branches, the fiery tree proclaiming danger, death, pestilence, and shipwreck, and the guard would charge out of Yewlith on their white horses to warn the citizens of Southernwood, flags and pennants billowing in the same wind that swept the sanctuary today. What an impressive sight that would be! But now she was letting her imagination take hold. The guardery had only one white horse. He was employed to carry barrels of mead over to Oakenwood. And as for lighting a fire up there, that would be almost impossible, surely?
The steps were cut deep into the wall, offering some protection from the gale. She climbed up and then, surprisingly, down again. The stone branches rose from a sturdy base in the center. They reached up past the walls and into the sky, familiar shapes glinting on its dark surface.
She ran towards the tree, reaching out to touch the cold, hard rock, feeling its finely patterned pictures of leaves, buds, twigs, roots, spirals, petals, and flowers. Who had built this tree? Who had decorated it with such abandon, such precision?
She examined the branch in front of her. Gentle, yet boldly sweeping strokes of a leaf curled into a vine that twisted into a horn-shaped cup, with a long-legged spider on top. The vine continued, running up the branch, bursting into spined twigs, adorned on each side with five-petaled flowers, some fat and thick, others pointed and star shaped. Farther up was a simple circle, the sun, surrounded by seven precisely carved sunbeams, most with gold inlays, some left empty, as if their decoration had been ripped away by the frequent wind and rain. Facing the sun stood a proud looking plant that looked very much like the Sundial Tree by the Albatorium.
Winifred must be wondering where she was. Filibert and the Session would be waiting for her back in Southernwood. And it was starting to rain.
She climbed to the top of the wall. Winifred was leading the ponies up to the ridge. A pale sun shone through gray shards of cloud tracking northwest from Oakenwood, passing over Hintermount forest, cutting across the sky to Spinney Henge and the Round Tower farther up the coast. Spits of rain caught the light and glimmered briefly in the air before her, but something else moved on the road north, and it had nothing to do with the weather. Who was that? Could it be Filibert looking for them?
Silva raised her arm and waved. “Filibert!” she shouted, “Here we are, Filibert!”
But whoever was there did not wave back. The figure continued his journey. Who would walk that road alone? Silva carefully climbed down the slippery steps and made her way out of the temple. She ran up the path to Winifred.
“Come on, Silva, I’m getting soaked! Take your pony; everything’s packed. We’d better head to First Falls before this drizzle becomes a downpour.”
“Did you see anyone on the northern path? I’m sure I saw someone out there from the top of the tower. I thought it might be Filibert. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
“Out to the north, you say?” Winifred stopped, took out her handkerchief, and wiped her dripping nose. “It couldn’t have been Filibert. Are you sure you’re not imagining things? Filibert knows the way here. He wouldn’t have taken that road. I think those tower windows need a good clean myself.”
“But, Winifred, I definitely saw somebody, didn’t you? I wasn’t looking from the lantern room. I went out where the branches are.”
“Just what do you think you’re doing, my friend, climbing up onto the top of that tower in this weather? You’ll catch a terrible chill. No doubt you’re going down with a fever already what with seeing people who aren’t there! I was out here, you know, and I did take a good look around to see if you were about, and I didn’t see a soul. Not a one! A-a-a-tishoo!”
“Oh, Winifred!” said Silva, “I think you’re the one who’s ailing, not me! Here we are; let’s put a blanket over you. Take that wet thing off first; that’s right. Now cover up with this, and we’ll set off as quickly as we can.”
Silva folded up Winifred’s soaking cloak and put it into one of the sacks, while Winifred wrapped herself in the biggest blanket they had, pinning it under her neck and pulling her hat tightly over
her head.
***
Back across the plain they trudged, then down into the valley where the river flowed towards First Falls. They rested, but not for long, and Winifred began to cough, a dry, airy cough that tightened her throat and took her voice. Most strange not to hear her chatter, but she simply shook her head impatiently when Silva tried to talk, got onto her pony, and rode off towards the Homesteads.
The sun came out as they crossed the fields, and at last the path took them down to the cottages and gardens. But how odd! The place was deserted. No carriages, no horses or riders, nobody tending their vegetable patches; no children running about, no aroma from a cooking pot, no sign of life at all; even the cottages seemed empty. Where was everyone?
“Ah!” murmured Winifred. She pointed to the bridge. Across it, heading straight for them, rode a company of the guard, their pennants flapping in the wind. Silva thought she was dreaming. Wasn’t that the white horse in the lead, with Arpad riding him? Arpad was a tall man, not easily mistaken. But why so many of the guard? There must be ten or twelve riders with him, but where were they going in such finery, their reins decorated in green and gold, embroidered covers over their saddles?
The troop galloped up to them, and Arpad called out: “My lady! Welcome home to Southernwood City. We are here to accompany you to the Albatorium. Turn about, men, and follow me!” And the company surrounded Winifred and Silva, and they all proceeded across the bridge and up the road, children running beside them screaming with delight, people making their way to the square, chatting, laughing, pointing at them, smiling, waving.
Winifred drew her pony up alongside Silva. “This is a bit unexpected,” she rasped. “What’s going on?”
Silva couldn’t answer. The square lay ahead, and it was packed. Music played in the distance, an old dance tune, and voices filled the air. Dogs barked, babies wailed, chickens clucked, and then the company entered the throng and the noise got louder. People started pushing forward, and Arpad and the guard closed in around her and Winifred, helping them off their ponies when they reached the Albatorium steps.
