by C. K. Nolan
Before she knew it, she was inside. Guards swarmed round her, some heading down the steps to the underfloor, others going off to eat in the hall to her right where scribes huddled together at tables, muttering to each other while watching her through the large, open doors. The smell of soup wafted through the air. Then Arpad came through the entrance and dumped their sacks at her feet.
She looked down at her muddy shoes. Her long cloak was damp and dirty, still smelling of the pony. A strand of long grass stuck out from her shoulder. She picked it off, then wiped her brow with her sleeve, for despite the coolness of the hall, she was sweating. She hoped she hadn’t caught Winifred’s horrible chill. Where was Winifred, anyway?
“Harold!” called Arpad. “Come over here! Take Winifred’s sacks to the kitchen. I’ll take Silva’s upstairs.”
A boy approached, skinny, with tousled hair, freckles, bright brown eyes and a nervous grin.
“Hello Harold,” said Silva. “You’re one of Fabia’s sons, am I right? From Quagfen? I sometimes meet her along the shore with the fishermen when I mend the nets.”
Harold nodded eagerly and grabbed the sacks. “I’ll take these into the kitchen then, my lady. Winifred’s there. I’ll say you’re going up to the Session, shall I?”
“Oh, yes, thank you Harold. I suppose I’d better see what they want, and then I can get back to my cabin. I don’t know what the celebration is here today, but I think I’m too tired to join in.” She smiled at the young lad, who gazed back, his eyes wide.
“Haven’t they told you, my lady? I don’t think you’ll be going back to your cabin today. We haven’t announced anything yet, and I’m already late getting into the Session myself so that I can ring the bell.”
“What do you mean, Harold, announce what?”
“That you’ll—” and he stopped, looking beyond Silva with an expression of alarm on his face.
“Silva! I’m so glad you arrived safely.”
Silva turned. Bassan walked towards her. He was dressed in a light blue robe. A green belt embroidered with ears of corn in yellow and gold sat around his waist. His bare feet were neat and clean in leather sandals. He was a good-looking man, his silver hair curly, short, tidy, his face as decisive as ever.
“The Session is ready. Let me accompany you upstairs.”
He took her arm. His touch was gentle. She held onto him and took a deep breath.
“Bassan. It’s good to see you! We haven’t met for so long. How are you?”
“I am well, my lady. You are tired, I see. How was your trip to Yewlith?”
They started slowly up the stairs, Bassan on the outer side. Silva trailed a hand along the Aspen’s trunk.
“I thought of you in Yewlith, Bassan. Do you remember the driftwood you gave me? I keep it next to my mother’s vault. It still tells of other lands. It is still beautiful. But my mother, it seems, cannot rest in peace.”
Bassan tripped on a step and one of his sandals fell off. Somebody was shuffling up behind them. Bassan bent down to put his sandal back on, and Winifred’s whisper floated up around the trunk: “Silva, wait!”
“Silva, you know I will help you in any way I can.” Bassan stood up and took her hands in his. His skin was cool, firm. She looked into his eyes again and saw, in the shadowy light, the young man he had been: strong, elegant, bright eyed, inquisitive, skilled with the trees.
“Remember that, Silva. Aha, Winifred!”
Winifred appeared, holding an enormous handkerchief over her nose and mouth.
“Bassan Zabal, tell me,” she puffed, “just what is this news that I’ve heard in the kitchen?”
“Winifred.” Bassan smiled. “You will understand everything perfectly in a minute. Come on!” He took Silva’s arm again, and up they went, Winifred spluttering behind them, until finally they rounded the last bend that led them into the Session.
***
She was as slender as the piece of grass she’d removed from her cloak. Her arm was light, but she held him strongly. The Session was in turmoil, as was only to be expected, with the members arguing about who should sit where, Trevello barking orders, and guards stamping down the steps from the Legator’s chamber above, Wystan and Medrella behind them. Harold was on the window seat again, red cheeked, his mouth sullen, his arms clasped around knobbly knees that were drawn up to his chin. Maybe someone had finally managed to put the boy in his place.
Medrella had been hard at work overnight, hadn’t she? Only she would have had reason to put so much effort into welcoming Silva in such a fashion. There had certainly not been this fuss when Wystan had become Legator. Usually, only chairs were set on the dais, but today they were joined by a long table covered with a golden cloth bearing piles of the most ridiculous-looking fripperies: wreaths of willow and wildflower, low wooden bowls full to the brim with dog rose and mint, straw braids decorated with myrtle and silk bloom cuttings, and even some type of fishing net hanging down to the floor, with daisy bows, carved shells, curling strands of vine, maple and oak leaves, and who knew what else stuck into the holes!
Trevello bustled over to them. Didn’t this man ever feel tired? He must have been up all night, too, yet he was as fresh as a May orchard in his grassy green tunic and brightly embroidered silk stole, the ends of which danced over the floor and swept over Bassan’s toes and Silva’s mud-caked shoes.
“Bassan. And Silva. At last. Welcome!” He shook Bassan’s hand warmly, and Silva bent down to arrange her skirts over her shoes. She straightened up, and Trevello laid his hands on her shoulders and looked at her. “Silva, I hope your journey to Yewlith gave you the comfort you were no doubt seeking. Today we have news that may surprise you, but I think your mother and father would be proud of you. Please, take your seat on the dais. Bassan, you can sit next to her on one side. Wystan will be on the other.”
Trevello marched off to the lectern. The Session members quietened. They sat down, chatting in low voices to each other, watching Silva make her way to the dais.
Bassan followed. The woman didn’t know where to sit, of course. He watched her take a seat near the end of the table.
“Your place is in the middle, Silva,” he whispered. She blinked, surprised, but moved without comment, frowning at the decorations on the table in front of her, looking up to her left as Wystan sat down slowly on her other side, avoiding her gaze.
Ferocious whispering came from the back bench. Filibert stood up and shook his head angrily at Winifred before walking round to the dais. The Treasurer hadn’t bothered to dress for the occasion. Look at his frayed, dull brown gown with its rough knotted strap straining against that stomach! The man had probably been drinking mead all night, munching on tasteless scraps from Lisette’s kitchen, and waiting for his cook to return. Filibert pulled a chair out from behind the table and plumped down next to him, breathing heavily.
“Members of the Session!” announced Trevello, and the voices stilled. “Let us spend a short time honoring Legators past by remembering their great deeds. Let us think of the trees, the leaves, and their words to us. And let us think of our island home with thankfulness and hope.”
Trevello sat down and bowed his head. A draught blew onto Bassan’s neck: the door to the roof of the Albatorium must be open upstairs. The room seemed to tremble. He’d felt this before, in the library below, and one of the scribes had told him that it was probably the Albatorium moving slightly against Great Aspen’s trunk. He’d never felt it in the laboratory, although sometimes other things moved down there that he couldn’t explain. Like the time he’d left Zossimo’s Arboral on his divan and come back to find it on his oak desk. He hadn’t seriously suspected that Rath had ever been in his laboratory, but he did sometimes wonder if others had tried to get in.
Winifred’s head bobbed impatiently above the men sitting in front, straining to see Trevello, who was now standing behind the lectern, starting his speech. Harold stood atop the window ledge, arms folded, sulky-faced. He caught Bassan’s gaze and scowled ba
ck; not a pleasant countenance to see on the face of one so young. Bassan turned his attention to the ugly wreath in front of him, a tangle of holly and yew. He picked off some of the yew leaves and dropped them onto the floor, as Trevello’s deep voice filled the room.
Silva stirred. She grasped his hand and leaned forward, her head almost touching the table. She was shaking—or was the room trembling again? Then she rose from her seat and went to stand next to Trevello at the lectern. Medrella placed a garland of laurel and ash on Silva’s head, and the Session members stood and clapped.
He found himself standing too, gripping the wreath, the twigs and leaves digging into the palms of his hands. Harold hopped about by the terrace door, waiting for Silva to take her pledge before he raced outside to ring that dratted bell.
The clapping died away, and everybody sat down, looking at Silva expectantly. What a fickle lot they were! They didn’t seem worried about the sudden end to Wystan’s rule, it seemed. They all watched Silva pat her cloak, remove something from her pocket, what was that—another leaf?—and set it next to the leaf from Great Aspen that lay on the lectern before her. She paused, then jumped out of her skin when Trevello touched her on the shoulder and beckoned her to recite the Legator’s pledge:
“I promise to protect our island:
The trees and leaves,
The woods and gardens,
The people and their homes.
I promise to preserve our history,
Secure our future,
And rule in peace.”
She’d be lucky to do all that! Wouldn’t she say anything else? Were there to be no flowery phrases, no praise for previous Legators, no pretty childhood stories or stirring words speaking of happy days ahead? Aha, yes, here they were!
“I also pledge to discover the truth behind Zossimo’s mysterious demise, so that his name may be written on the bark of Great Yew in Yewlith, and his death can be properly recorded in our beloved library. May the full story of my father’s life be known, and may he, my mother, and their child sleep in the peace they so richly deserve.”
***
Silva sat by the kitchen fire. She’d been right to come down here. She could hardly think. The view from the Session terrace had been so surprising, so moving, yet completely unreal. As soon as they’d seen her, shouts of “Silva! Legator! Zossimo’s daughter!” had filled the air, and the eyes of those below were full of hope and excitement. It seemed as though one moment she’d been gazing down at them, and the next, she was back inside, Trevello standing before her, telling her that he would talk to her later and that the Session would meet tomorrow evening and expect to see her. Then there’d been a flurry of hugs and handshakes. People grabbed her cloak, patted her on the back, thrust flowers into her arms, and almost carried her downstairs to the Great Hall, where she’d finally come to her senses and insisted on seeing Winifred.
“Harold! Get yourself over here! Take these peelings out to the yard. Yes! Use that bucket. Then fill this pan with some clean water and set it on the stove. Quickly now, boy! Lisette! Where do you think you’re going? Chop these onions up, will you? Get the turnips done, the carrots, too; throw the lot into the pan with the jellied stock. Don’t forget to add plenty of thyme and savory. And bay leaf! There’s a crowd of hungry stomachs out there! No, Silva, you stay put, please. We can’t have our Legator getting her hands dirty in the kitchen, can we?”
Winifred looked terrible. Her face was blotched, her eyes bloodshot and full of tears, and not just from peeling onions, it seemed, as there wasn’t a shadow of a smile on her lips, nor a hint of pride or fun in her words.
“Winifred, come over here,” said Silva, getting up. “Come on, sit down for a bit. You must be exhausted!”
Winifred clumped over and collapsed into the chair, brushing onion peel from her apron.
“Legator. That’s what it was all about, then. And Filibert didn’t tell me. Can you believe that?”
“He said he wasn’t allowed to tell us, didn’t he? Oh, I can’t remember what happened, but you can’t blame Filibert.”
“I’ll blame him all I want,” said Winifred. She screwed up a corner of her apron and blew her nose on it. “That man should have told us plain as day what was going on. He should at least have given us some warning, or time to prepare. We’re talking about ruling the island, here, Silva, not taking a group of school children out on a forest walk for the day.”
“What, you mean you don’t think I’m up to being Legator?”
“Quite frankly, no. The problems this island faces will need to be solved by someone with much more experience. Let’s face it, Silva, you can hardly compare yourself to your father when he became Legator, can you? I mean, he hadn’t been sitting in a cabin by the sea for years on end beforehand. And look at Wystan. Even he couldn’t hold on to power, and he’s worked in the Albatorium for decades!”
“Decades or not, Winifred, I’m Legator now, and I don’t understand why you want to make me feel as though I’m going to do a terrible job when I haven’t even been doing it for one single day!”
“You know, Silva, Winifred’s right,” said Harold, pulling up a stool. “Why don’t you sit down too? I’ll tell you what, I’ll get you both some wine and herb cake. That’s what Winifred does best when the men get a bit argumentative: pop a little food and drink in front of ’em, ha!”
Winifred cleared her throat. “You do that, boy, you’re a dear! Yes, we’re probably both good for nothing today, let alone talking about serious things, but they’re here, and we have to deal with them. Thank you, Harold,” and Winifred took her goblet of wine from him and put it on the hearth.
The cake was excellent: salty, flavored with rosemary, parsley, a touch of mint, and cheese.
“Is this your recipe, Winifred?” Perhaps she should cheer her old friend up rather than take exception to her tired words.
“Yes, Silva, it is. Very easy, nothing fancy, that’s always been my secret. I’ll tell you another secret, too, Silva, and not a word about this to Filibert from you, young Harold, if you please. Yes, I’ve been writing all my favorite recipes down. I’ve asked old Marchus up in the library to copy them and make me a proper manuscript to give Filibert one day. I can’t wait to see his face! As for this recipe, it needs more herb in it, fresh as well as dried, but Lisette baked this one. Still, it’s not bad at all, Lisette.”
Lisette looked up from the sink. She smiled weakly. “You’re welcome,” she said. “I’m glad you’re back, Winifred. It’s been a living nightmare the last day or so.”
“Yes, I can imagine,” replied Winifred drily. “But you’ve done a magnificent job under very trying circumstances, my dear. After all, who knew that we would be so busy, what with an election, and a new Legator! Which reminds me, before I lose my voice again, about what Harold just said. You said I was right, didn’t you, Harold? What I want to know is, why do you think that, my boy?”
Harold flushed and glanced at Silva. “My lady, I didn’t mean to be rude. What I meant was that Winifred is right to say that you can’t be compared to Zossimo or Wystan. If I had been named Legator, I wouldn’t compare myself to anybody. I’d just try to be me, and I think that’s what you should do, too. Don’t forget, Bassan has worked here as long as Wystan, but Great Aspen didn’t choose him, did he? Why was that, then? Lots of people must have voted for him!”
Lisette blinked, opened her mouth, and then shut it. Winifred sipped her wine, frowning at Harold. How unexpected! Harold had, of course, been in the Session a lot and must have heard the gossip. But it was, indeed, strange that Bassan hadn’t been named Legator. He would have been a much better choice.
Winifred put her goblet down. “You ask an interesting question, Harold. I’d also like to know why Great Aspen thought that Silva was the woman for the job, as you can be sure nobody voted for her. Quite honestly, I can’t imagine why they bothered to get the Session together to write anything on those leaves at all.”
“Exactly,” said Har
old. “Nobody voted for—”
“Just a moment,” said Silva. It was hard to believe what she was hearing. “Of course nobody voted for me! I’m hardly the most obvious candidate, am I? But if Great Aspen named me, then that must mean…”
Winifred eyed her expectantly. “Mean what, Silva? That our old Aspen is losing his wits? We don’t know what it means, do we?”
“I do,” said Harold. “It means that someone, Zossimo, no doubt, had already told the Aspen that Silva should be Legator. At least,” and he scratched his head, “that’s what Wystan said.”
“Oh, ho!” said Winifred, “so that’s where all your wisdom comes from, Harold! You’ve been listening in to some juicy conversations up in the Session I see. Come on, what else do you know?”
“Nothing,” said Harold fiercely. “Nothing that I’m sure about, anyway. But if you ask me, one vote from Zossimo has to be worth more than the votes of a thousand of those Session members, surely?”
“Oh, you’re most certainly right there, Harold!” Winifred laughed. “Now you put it like that, yes, I think we will have to say, Silva, that there is not a shadow of a doubt that you deserve the legatorship. The question is, what do you plan to do? I listened to your speech. Very short it was. That was the best thing about it. I remember Wystan’s speech when he was appointed Legator the year after Zossimo’s disappearance. He talked all day. I didn’t hear him. I was busy in here. Wonderful it was! Nobody in the Great Hall, no mouths to feed. We ate most of the dishes ourselves. There was almost nothing left by the time they all burst out of the Session and came down to eat. I think Wystan was out to impress on his first day, and of course he’d just started courting Medrella and she was sitting in the front row, apparently.” Winifred winked at Harold.
“I’m going to do what I said. I’m going to find out what happened to Father,” said Silva. The others looked at her doubtfully.
