by C. K. Nolan
“But none of this solves the mystery surrounding Silva’s motives behind her actions, does it? Did she say anything after you captured her?”
“I haven’t spoken to either of them since we got them out of the greenhouse and into the cart. I expect they’ve cooked up some story together.”
Bassan glanced at the door, then lowered his voice. “You must be careful, Trevello. They’re both mad. She probably sneaked in here to see him while he was in jail. He must have convinced her that he was innocent of any crime and that they should seek revenge on us, on the trees, on anything. Why did she never come to the Albatorium after Zossimo’s death? Well, I think she did, in disguise. Couldn’t be bothered to come and see us, of course. We, who were her father’s closest friends! Have you never wondered why she hid herself away down in that cabin, never wanting to attract attention? Now you know.”
Trevello looked worried. He was in charge of the island guardery, wasn’t he? How would he defend his reputation when everyone knew that Silva and Rath had been scheming together right under his nose? No, he wouldn’t come out well in any of this. He’d want to get these two put away quickly with as little fuss as possible. All the more reason to make Trevello an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“Look, Trevello. Our island trusted in Zossimo’s wisdom and words for many years, and rightly so. Who could have predicted his daughter would turn out this way? Nobody is to blame. But we must be swift to seek justice. Present the evidence; get the islanders on our side; then remove this pair of criminals from the city. Great Aspen? I can heal him—I know I can—once these two have stopped pouring their poison into him. I’ll heal the other trees in Southernwood, too. Don’t you see, Trevello? We’ve caught them! We know who is responsible for this evil treesmoke. We can stop it. We heal the trees, and all will be right again. That’s what the people want. That’s what we’ll give them. I’m ready, Trevello. I’m ready to do anything you need. I’m willing to lead the trial tomorrow, if you wish. That way, it won’t be the guardery against them; it will be the people, represented by their Librarian!”
He nearly laughed. Oh yes, he’d learned a lot from Wystan! All those years listening jealously to his brother’s smooth words to the Session were suddenly not such a waste of time after all. Trevello’s mind was working, and it was plain to see what he would decide.
Trevello slapped the table. “You’re right!” he said. “We seemed to be dealing with a complicated set of problems, but it’s simple, isn’t it? I’m not worried about Rath; he won’t need a trial. He escaped while under our jurisdiction, so we can do what we want with him. And yet, Bassan, if it weren’t for Great Aspen’s words, I would still find it very hard to believe that Silva could ever have conspired against the Session, against the trees, the island and all who live here.”
“Oh, so would I,” said Bassan. “But that is the beauty of irrefutable proof, is it not?”
“Hmm,” muttered Trevello with a wry smile. “No beauty in this to my eyes, none at all! But proof, nonetheless. I shall see you in the morning, which, if I’m not mistaken, is nearly here.”
Trevello hurried out of the room.
Bassan drummed his fingers on the table. Silva couldn’t prove anything. Oh, she might try to disprove her part in poisoning Great Aspen, but he’d have to ensure that she had no opportunity to talk about the tunnel. He couldn’t risk anyone finding out about that!
He entered the chamber. He picked up the Mazer and inspected it carefully. No signs of damage, just a tiny swirl of light above the boss. He bent over it and watched the gleam spread across the base. The trees appeared. There was the Maple, the Yew, the almost invisible Ash. The Aspen and Oak glimmered as feebly as Master Ash. Those two weren’t dead, then. Not yet. How did the Mazer know this? And what would happen once he’d destroyed the enemy trees? There would be only one tree left. The one tree that would declare him Legator before the people.
“I’ll visit you soon, Master Ash,” whispered Bassan. “A little business here to take care of, and then I’ll go on a trip around the island to the Maple and the Yew. It won’t take long.”
The light in the Mazer flickered, then disappeared. There had been no star this time.
***
Shouts and the jangling of keys woke her. She wriggled and tried to sit up. Her hands were tied. Her feet were freezing. A guard stamped in.
“Time for your trial, my lady!”
A bell rang. More hands grabbed her, untied her, and she was dragged out of the cell, into the corridor, and up the steps to the Great Hall.
Her legs had no life. Her tunic was ripped, her shoes covered in dirt. Hair hung around her shoulders in rags. A fierce ache settled in her belly, a stone of fear in her throat. They threw her into a chair. She sat, head bowed, shaking.
Footsteps shuffled into the hall, carrying a draught of important air with them: the Session. Their cloaks whisked along the floor around her chair as they took their seats behind her. That was clever. They wouldn’t need to face her as they made judgment. They’d already made up their minds, hadn’t they?
The bell ceased. The doors of the Great Hall swung shut. Silva took a deep breath. Then someone banged frantically on the doors. People turned round, some cursing, some laughing. The doors were opened again. She raised her head. Harold entered the hall.
Harold! How had he got back from Oakenwood? He ran to the front row of seats, already packed with islanders, and sat on the floor. His eyes were wide and bright. He held her gaze, reaching into his jacket pocket, taking out a leaf, laying it next to him. An oak leaf.
“People of Southernwood, members of the Session! The trial of Silva Leon, accused of the attempted murder of Great Aspen, Great Oak, and…other trees around the island! Accused of obtaining the title of Legator by criminal means. Accused of conspiring against the Session by helping a prisoner escape. Accused of false pledge, false witness, fraud, forgery, espionage, arson, and—ah, yes, we’ll leave that as common theft for the moment. Bassan?”
“Thank you, Trevello.”
Harold picked up the oak leaf and crushed it between his hands.
“Silva Leon, tell us where you live.”
Bassan sounded calm. There was no hint of the cruelty she’d heard in the greenhouse. But he wasn’t really talking to her. He was addressing the crowd. Everyone knew where she lived. He smelled of rosemary and mint. His clothes were fresh. He’d tricked her. He’d tried to kill her! Why? And now he was going to convince everyone she was some kind of murderer. He’d do it, too. Not a shred of doubt about that. He had the support of the Session, that was clear to—
“Silva? Could you answer my question, please?”
“In my cabin on the beach by Skeps Wood.” Her voice was thin, dull, unconvincing.
“Indeed, Skeps Wood. Precisely where the treesmoke started. What vile confection did you employ to attack those trees?”
Oohs and aahs filled the hall.
Bassan’s clean sandals compared favorably with her filthy shoes, which had never recovered since she’d trodden in that slimy, stinking, smoking mess. And Bassan? Could that have been him in the hollow, pouring his poisonous brew into the roots?
She glanced up at him. Ah yes, a sneering face on top of those broad shoulders. He was her enemy, then, not the Session, not the people in front of her, not Rath, no, he’d never been guilty of anything. Filibert was right. She should follow the voice of her heart.
The stone in her throat dissolved. “You attacked those trees, Bassan. And that’s not all! You—”
“Silva, blaming others will do you no good at all. Now, when we learned that Great Aspen had named you as Legator, Filibert rode out to ask you to return to the Albatorium, but you refused. Why was that?”
“I was on my way to Yewlith to pay my respects to Mother.”
“Yewlith! I understand that this was an important occasion for you, but I think your intention was entirely different than that which you would have us believe. Where’s the cook?”
Winifred glared at him.
“Bassan Zabal, what is this?”
“Just a few questions, Winifred, that’s all. Isn’t it true that you rode to Yewlith with Silva?”
“Yes, I did. We’d agreed to go together.”
“When you arrived, what did the accused do first?”
“The accused? Accused of what?”
“Answer me, Winifred! Do remember that this is a trial. Don’t forget that anything you bear witness to may reflect well, or otherwise, upon you. All we want is the truth.”
“I went to settle the ponies. Then I unpacked our bags and called for Silva. She came in from the courtyard.”
“Where Great Yew grows.”
“Yes.”
“How long was she there?”
“Oh, I don’t know, as long as it took me to feed and water the ponies, walk around to our room, get some of our things sorted. Not that long.”
“And was the accused left by herself at any other time?”
“Later that evening she went down to the crypt to see her mother’s vault, and the next day she went up to the Tree Tower to take a look around.”
“That makes three occasions. Yes?”
“Yes, that’s correct, although—”
“Thank you Winifred!”
Winifred was hauled away, coughing and complaining.
“So, Silva. Did you attempt to murder the Yew?”
“No.”
“Hmm. Why did you attack Great Oak?”
“I didn’t attack him.”
“Why did the fig attack you? He grows there to protect the Oak.”
“You attacked the fig, Bassan.”
“Have you visited the Albatorium since the death of your parents?”
“I haven’t been inside the Albatorium as I remember; I’ve only been to the market.”
“Are you sure about that? Didn’t you pay a visit to the scribes on at least one occasion?”
She racked her brains. She may have entered the Albatorium, yes, but only to discuss her book about the coastline.
“It’s possible. I can’t remember.”
“Can’t remember? Or won’t remember? Isn’t it true, Trevello, that I have complained about someone entering my laboratory without my permission?”
“This is true, Bassan,” came Trevello’s voice from behind.
“Have you ever broken into my laboratory, Silva?”
“No, never.”
“Have you ever stolen anything from me?”
“No!”
“Is it not true that you took an item from my laboratory to Yewlith, namely, the log I found many years ago on the shore?”
“Yes, but—”
“Did you ever talk to the prisoner Rath while you were in the Albatorium?”
“Never! If you—”
“Can you explain how it was that the door to the prisoner’s cell was unlocked, allowing him to escape?”
“No, he told me that you’d let him out.”
“Very clever, Silva! Did you poison our Great Aspen? Did you influence him to name you as Legator?”
“Of course not, Bassan.”
“Evidence for the people! Here I have a leaf from Great Aspen himself. Read the words written upon this leaf, if you haven’t already, as hundreds of his leaves are now blowing around our city!”
Bassan turned, picked up a box, and distributed leaves to everyone. Silva leaned forward. What was this? Bassan approached her and thrust a leaf into her hand.
“Everything you have told us is true, is it Silva?”
“Yes.” What trick was he playing?
“Then read this leaf, traitor! My argument with you is finished.”
He swished back to his seat behind her. She read the leaf.
“Silva has poisoned me.”
What? How could Great Aspen write such a thing? What was this poison? Unless…oh yes! How could she have been such a fool? She’d given Bassan’s medicine to the Aspen. And somehow, Great Aspen had found out it was her!
“Bassan, wait!”
“No more waiting!” thundered Trevello, moving swiftly to the front. “Guard! Take this woman down to the cells. We will pass sentence tomorrow.”
They grabbed her, lifted her from her chair, and pulled her past the crowd, through the doors, down the steps, and into her cell again. She’d had no food, no water, nothing all day, and she screamed, beating her hands against the bars of the door. But nobody came, nobody answered, and eventually she lay down, exhausted.
***
She must have dozed off for a while. It was hard to tell; the only light came from a torch on the wall outside. The door opened. Someone slipped a pan of food onto the floor. She crawled towards it, looking up to see Arpad watching her.
“I asked Winifred to send something down for you, my lady. There’s some wine, too.” He crouched down. “You have a visitor,” he whispered. “Not sure Trevello would agree, but Marchus is waiting to see you.”
Her heart lifted. “Thank you, Arpad.”
He nodded and left the cell. After a brief conversation outside, Marchus crept in, and Arpad locked the door before heading into the guards’ office.
“Silva!” said Marchus, settling on the floor next to her. “How are you? I’ve been so terribly worried. I didn’t go to the trial. Can’t bear such things. I couldn’t believe it when I heard that you’d been arrested. And Bassan! Didn’t I tell you he was trouble? More trouble than anything I could have imagined.”
“He’s a liar, Marchus,” said Silva, stuffing a slice of Winifred’s herb cake into her mouth. “Do you know what happened at Oakenwood? He got me to stand next to that fig of his, then chopped into it so it would attack me. I’ve no idea how the Oak was destroyed. I was too busy trying to breathe while the fig squeezed me half to death!” She took a gulp of wine. “The next I knew, I was in a cart next to Rath, who told me that Harold had been in the greenhouse, too, and seen it all.”
“Ah, Harold was there, was he? We wondered where he’d got to. Lisette came up to the archive searching for him. Then Winifred stormed in, looking for you. Quite worried she was! What were you doing in Oakenwood?”
“Oh, Bassan persuaded me to go there with him,” she said airily, grabbing a slice of chicken; honey sauce dripped down her chin and onto her tunic. “Took me down a tunnel that leads there from his laboratory and gave me the honor of feeding Great Aspen’s roots a flask of poison, which, unbeknown to Trevello and the Session, as they gave me no occasion to tell them, I believed to be medicine!”
“A tunnel, eh?” Marchus picked out a thin slice of chicken, its dry edge between the tips of his fingers. He held it up to the torchlight, watched golden sauce dribble onto the ground, shuddered, then put it back on the plate.
“Poison everywhere!” he muttered. “What has happened to our island, our people, our leaders? Everything is corrupt! No trust, no law, no truth!” He glanced at the cell door, then dug into the folds of his cloak and removed The Book of Hortus.
“Rather dim in here, Silva, but perfect conditions as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been working hard on the poetry of our friend Hortus; made a copy of everything—”
“Are you sure nobody saw you? Have you hidden the copy?”
Marchus smiled. “Don’t worry. Only Lisette and Winifred disturbed me as I was working. I’ve hidden the copy well. Let’s start with these verses.” He laid a sheet of vellum on the ground in front of them.
This is the place that reminds me of home:
Rolling hills, woodland, beech, river, and stone.
Shadows and echoes of ghosts I once knew
Flitting ’tween slivers of grass. Every dew drop
An ocean of sunshine and sky, a tear for the past,
A witness that nothing in this world can last.
By bough of sweet chestnut, by banks of moss green,
Sit st
epping stones leading to pathways unseen,
Where caverns set into the rock by the stream
Hide gardens of darkness. Oh! Long would I dream
Of escape from these meadows, these flowers of field,
These forests, these trees whose grand beauty revealed
A truth I could neither destroy nor deny.
But enough! It grows late. Find the place where I lie.
Then release me from darkness. And once I am free,
You shall hold in your hand the first part of the key.
Marchus’ wide-eyed face loomed before her. “Silva! What is this key? What does it open? On the first page Hortus talks about leaving a key, doesn’t he? Do you remember?”
“Yes, of course I remember! But what does he mean, the first part of a key? I thought Hortus had left just one key, not hundreds of them. This is going to be impossible! And I’d like to know how I’m supposed to hunt down this mysterious object and all its parts while I’m sitting in jail with Bassan and Trevello strutting around upstairs inventing another set of charges against me to lock me away for decades, no doubt!”
“Careful! Someone will hear us,” whispered Marchus. “Yes, things look bad for you at the moment. So what are you going to do? Oh, Silva! If I could take your place I would.” His eyes glinted, and he smiled gently. “It wouldn’t make much difference to me. I like being by myself. I like being in the dark. They can throw me in a cell forever. So long as I had some books or a manuscript to work on, I’d be happy enough. But not you! No, that can’t happen to you.”
“It happened to Rath. He also said he didn’t murder Father. And I believe him.”
