by C. K. Nolan
“Did he tell you who was responsible?”
Silva hesitated. Bassan had set Rath free, hadn’t he? He’d wanted to convince the islanders of Rath’s treachery. Why was that? He’d poisoned the trees of Skeps Wood. He’d used her to poison Great Aspen. He’d attacked the fig, knowing precisely what it would do.
“No. But I think you and I know who it might be.”
Marchus breathed in heavily. “If that’s the case, we have a mighty battle on our hands. You do realize that the Session will choose a new Legator? And this time, there will be no leaf written by Great Aspen. Only Session votes will count. I’m sure you can imagine who may be elected.”
Silva stared at the words of Hortus before them. Bassan had been desperate to find this book. He needed it for some reason. It was her only weapon.
“Bassan has the Mazer,” she murmured. Marchus frowned. “It’s a cup,” she continued. “One of the trees in Skeps Wood, Isleaf I call him, mentioned it before I set out for Yewlith. Harold found this Mazer in the laboratory. He escaped to Oakenwood and gave it to Rath, I suppose; but then Bassan captured us, and he took the Mazer back. Oh, wait! I’ve still got the leaf here.”
She took the leaf out of its box and showed it to Marchus.
“Well, well, well! Starry skies, eh? A flying Maple? I’d like to see that! Your mother lies in Westernwood. Zossimo went to Oakenwood the day he disappeared—and we all know who this traitor is now, don’t we!”
“There’s more, Marchus. Isleaf spoke to me about finding a key for the Mazer. It’s the only time in my life I’ve seen the words of a tree disappear back into the leaf, so I haven’t got it with me. Now we have Hortus talking about a key. It can’t be a coincidence. If, somehow, we can get our hands on this key, we may be able to control the Mazer, don’t you think? Even though we don’t know what the Mazer does or how it works, or even where the bits of the keys are that we need!”
Marchus stared at her. “What did Isleaf say exactly?”
“He told me to find the Mazer key, in gardens three. Then there was something about the greenest tree, Marchus. He said that under the greenest tree, I could set the island free. I think that tree is the Yew of Yewlith.”
“Great Yew, eh?” Marchus lowered his face, but didn’t take his eyes off her. “Are you sure?”
She nodded.
“A key for the Mazer is it?”
“Yes.”
“Gardens three, you say?”
She nodded again, smiling.
Marchus picked up the vellum and waved it about excitedly. “That must be it, Silva! Three gardens. And this poem tells us where the first gardens are, doesn’t it? The ‘gardens of darkness’ they’re called. What a wonderful place that must be! But where is it? Can you tell? Do you think he’s referring to First Falls?”
She read the words again. It couldn’t be the Falls. That place was too gloomy, too enclosed. No such hills there, either.
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “It might be the Hintermounts. There’s woodland, a river, plenty of mossy banks, much of it is beech, and there are caves. Did Hortus die in one of the caves, do you think? Is it a grave or a vault we’re looking for?”
Marchus sighed. “Only Hortus knows. Or knew. Poor fellow, he sounds terribly confused. One minute he wants to get away from the island, the next, he’s proclaiming its glories. Mind you, he’s not the first to feel that way, is he? But to return to this connection between the key and the Mazer. Both must be very old, from the time of Hortus, if not before. So how did Bassan find the Mazer?”
Perhaps, like the driftwood, he’d found it on the shore one day. No, it wouldn’t have been washed up from some shipwreck. It was already here on the island. How about in the tunnel? That was a thought. But Bassan hadn’t doubted that Zossimo knew of the tunnel, too, so Father would have—
Her stomach twisted. She held out her hand, and Marchus passed her the poem. When had Father last read these verses, last touched the smooth, clean surface of this strange document? He’d known of the cavern under Yewlith and the tunnel to Oakenwood. He’d read these words about a key. Who was to say he hadn’t known about the Mazer, too? And if he had, he’d never mentioned it, never shown it to her, never brought it home or put it in the laboratory. He’d guarded it well. Until…
“I can guess how Bassan found it,” she said, her voice hollow. “He must have stolen it from Father when he killed him. He stole his life; he stole the Mazer, and now he’s going to get what he must have wanted all along.”
“Zossimo’s power,” said Marchus. “Librarian and Legator. Oh, yes, I think you have the measure of him, Silva. He must have hated your father.”
How much could you rely on childhood memories? She’d believed Father and Bassan were good friends. Then Rath had come to work with them.
“I’m not sure he hated Father. But I’m sure he hated Rath. Bassan must have coveted the thought of becoming Librarian one day. So why did Father take on another apprentice? Did he doubt Bassan even then?”
“It’s possible. And Bassan’s Mazer? What part does it play in all of this?”
“You know, Marchus, when I spoke to Bassan in his laboratory yesterday, he asked me if I’d ever heard of The Book of Hortus. It’s mentioned in the Arboral near the end—”
“The Arboral. Ah, that’s why Bassan never left me alone with it! You didn’t tell him we have Hortus’ book, did you?”
“No. It was something Bassan said that stopped me.” She grinned at Marchus. “He called you a fusty old fool.”
Marchus laughed. “He’s right! And long may I be so.”
“But this is good news, see? Bassan may have the Mazer, but he can’t know much, if anything, about its key. So, I don’t think Bassan can understand very much more about the Mazer than we do.”
Marchus nodded. “If Isleaf hadn’t told you there was a Mazer key, we’d never have known what Hortus is talking about. But what information has Bassan gleaned from the trees? What else has he learned from the Arboral? He could—Sh! Someone’s coming down the stairs.”
Marchus grabbed the vellum from Silva. Arpad must have heard the footsteps, too, and was already running out of his office. Then he stepped back, unlocked the door, and poked his head in.
“More guests, my lady. But be quick. There will be more of the guard coming down shortly I don’t doubt.”
“Winifred! Harold!” How wonderful it was to see them!
Winifred marched into the cell and gave her a tight hug. “Silva, dear!” She shot a look at the archivist. “What’s going on, Marchus? Come to read Silva some poetry?”
“Oh, sit down, Winifred!” said Silva. “Harold, come in. And you’ve brought my bag! Thank you. Where did you find it? Come over here, and tell us about Oakenwood.”
They sat together in a circle. Harold recounted finding the Mazer, escaping through the tunnel to Oakenwood, and meeting Rath. Marchus tut-tutted as Harold described Bassan attacking the fig, and when he told of the Oak collapsing on top of the greenhouse, Winifred gripped Silva’s hand as if she’d never let go.
“But how did you get back to Southernwood?” asked Silva.
“Well,” said Harold, “by the time I woke up, you and Rath had gone, but your bag was still there, Silva, so I took it. I crawled out of the greenhouse and saw the guard and Bassan riding off along the road to Southernwood, so I thought that the only way I could get back before them was to use the tunnel.”
“What? The tunnel? Back into the laboratory? But Bassan had locked the door, hadn’t he?”
“Oh yes!” chuckled Harold. “He had! So I hid behind the screens and waited for him to return. And when he did, he went straight into that chamber of his, leaving the door wide open. I raced out—he didn’t see me. Then I nearly bumped into the guard who were busy throwing you into this cell, Silva.”
“And once you’d crashed through the kitchen door from the yard you sat down and told us everything,” said Winifred, gritting her teeth. “Or should I say, almost ever
ything, because you didn’t know that Rath and Silva had been captured, did you, Harold? I’d only just found out myself. We saw them drag you out of that cart, Silva. My, Lisette was in a terrible state! We got no sleep, none of us, we were all so upset. I haven’t been able to speak to Filibert at all. He’s been up in the Session or locked in his cellar with Trevello since you arrived. What a nightmare!”
“We need to decide what to do,” said Marchus. “We haven’t discussed the other verses Hortus wrote, and we haven’t—”
“This is no time to be sitting reading verse, Marchus!” said Winifred angrily. “Do you know what the Session is doing upstairs? Preparing the Great Hall for another election! Conjuring up some nasty punishment for our disgraced Legator, the conniving bunch of—oh, there’s no word to describe them. We’ve got to get you out of here, Silva. So Marchus, if you could tear your eyes away from those blasted manuscripts of yours for one moment, perhaps you could dream up an escape plan!”
The cell door opened.
She couldn’t bear to look. Who was it? Trevello, probably. Or Bassan. They’d all end up in jail for years, Winifred shut away from her kitchen, Harold no doubt sent to work in the papery or collecting coin all day. And Marchus had said he wouldn’t fear imprisonment, but what a sad loss for the archive that would be.
“I’m sorry, my lady.”
Now she did look up. It was Arpad.
“I’ve heard everything. No, you don’t understand!” he exclaimed, as Winifred scrambled to her feet, the pan in her hand. “It’s clear that Silva is innocent of any crime. If I can help you all, I will, although I’m not sure what I can do.”
Winifred settled back down again. “I’m glad about that,” she said. “I thought I was under arrest.”
“You’d need more than a frying pan to fight Arpad off!” laughed Harold.
Arpad grinned. “It wasn’t the pan that worried me!”
“Where’s Rath?” asked Silva.
Arpad’s smile faded. “He’s still in the guardery behind the Albatorium. I haven’t seen him yet, but I’ll go over there once the next guard comes down.”
“Then we must be quick,” said Marchus. He turned to Winifred. “You were asking about the plan. It’s here,” and he waved The Book of Hortus in the air.
They had less time than they thought, for just then, footsteps pounded down the stairs around Great Aspen’s trunk.
“Out we go!” hissed Arpad, snatching up the tray and one of the sheets of vellum that Marchus had dropped. He handed the page to the old man who stuffed it under his cloak to join the rest of the book hidden there.
It was as Arpad had said: a man from the guard come to replace him. A sullen looking fellow he was, but uninterested in the three figures scurrying past Bassan’s laboratory and up the path to the icehouse.
Arpad said nothing. He nodded slowly, gave her a small smile, and bounded up the steps. He must be going to see Rath. What plan had Marchus thought of? What would happen if Bassan found out what they were up to?
She frowned. Why wasn’t she worried?
“Marchus,” she whispered. A man of the dark who had brought the light of hope into her heart.
***
Harold raced past the icehouse into the yard. The door to the kitchen was open. He stopped dead in his tracks.
Bassan stood at the kitchen door glowering at him.
“Where in the name of Ashenwood have you been? Your services, if I may call them that, are required in the Great Hall. Ah! The cook and the scribe. What a merry duo! Been down in the undercroft have we?”
“It’s no business of yours,” snapped Winifred. “What are you doing in my kitchen? That’s what I’d like to know!”
“The Session is hungry, Winifred. Hungry for food. Hungry for a new Legator.”
“Got your eye on the legatorship, have you?” asked Winifred. Marchus poked her in the ribs. “Stop it, Marchus! I’m telling you, Bassan,” and Winifred wagged her finger as she approached the Librarian, “your behavior at that trial was shameful. An utter travesty! I’ve never felt so humiliated in my life. And to see our Silva sitting there, treated like a common criminal, I never thought I’d see—”
“Oh, you’ll be seeing a lot of things you’ve never seen before, Winifred,” said Bassan. He edged back into the kitchen. “Such as a talented cook in the Albatorium kitchen, perhaps? In you go, Harold, we have work to do.”
Winifred’s face turned scarlet. Harold could only imagine what she said next as Bassan took his arm and pulled him through the kitchen into the Great Hall.
“Members of the Session, take your seats!” boomed Trevello. But not only the Session were present. There were plenty of Southernwooders, too. This wasn’t like the last election! How would they vote without Great Aspen?
“Harold, pass these leaves around, please,” said Trevello impatiently. The chief of the guard was somewhat flustered today, and no wonder. Harold took the box of leaves and smiled to himself. Trevello would be most disturbed if he knew their plans to free Silva and Rath! But how would they do it?
“Not to everyone, you fool! Just the Session!” shouted Trevello. Harold murmured a quick apology and stepped back from the row of amused Southernwooders to whom he had nearly offered a plain aspen leaf, unwritten, still fresh. Each Session member took one, setting it on their lap next to their treequill.
“We vote alone,” said Trevello, “so there can be no room for error. No dependence on the wisdom of our Aspen. No petty politics or self interest. This time we must vote as one: one people, one island, one leader.”
Yes, they were one people; that was obvious. Probably the only people anywhere, on an island that knew of no other islands nearby, no other forests or seas. Although there were tales of trees far away in other lands, nobody knew where they might be or how they could be found. But voting as one? What was that about?
“Remember,” continued Trevello, “the eyes of the people of Southernwood are upon us. I invite you to come up to the lectern, write your choice upon your leaf, and place it in the box next to me. Then, in front of all, we shall announce the winner, and everyone may come and inspect the leaves for themselves so that there is no doubt about the result. Sheridan, Osbert, Arpad! I call you, also, to the lectern, to observe that the proceedings follow, as best they can, the law of our island.”
Sheridan and Osbert made their way to the front.
“Where’s Arpad?” asked Trevello.
Harold’s mind raced. They’d better not go searching for Arpad. He might be with Rath! So he piped up, “He’s been guarding Silva down on the underfloor. Shall I go and get him?”
“No, no,” said Trevello. “Leave him be; we’ll make do without him. Right, Harold, take this hand bell. Go to the Albatorium steps and ring it long and loud. Voting will now begin!”
Harold took the bell and rang it as long as he could before his arms and ears ached so much he couldn’t ring it any more. By the time he returned to the Great Hall, the last Session members had taken their seats, and the three men at the front were counting the leaves, sorting them into piles. One pile was much bigger than the others.
Trevello cleared his throat. “I’m proud of the Session. You’ve served your island well today. We have a decisive result. Osbert? I think you should announce the name of our Legator this time.”
Sheridan was clearly crestfallen; Osbert grinned. He selected a leaf from the largest pile, and slipped smoothly behind the lectern.
“It is an honor for me, a Quagfenner, to stand before you,” he started. Yells of support came from the crowd, and a few of the audience got to their feet, clapping and whistling. Trevello was about to shout back at them, but Bassan put up a hand, and everyone quietened down.
Osbert bowed to Bassan. “Our new Legator,” he said, “is one who is often to be seen pacing the glades around our southern shores. It is Bassan!”
Everyone stood up, cheering, waving their arms in the air, shouting “Bass-an, Bass-an!” Bassan returned Osbert�
��s bow, looking at the fisherman with something of surprise on his face, although whether that was due to Osbert’s comment or the election result, Harold couldn’t tell. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, either: Bassan, their Legator, a man who not even a day ago had tried to kill Silva before his very eyes. Look at him! Taking his place at the lectern, shaking Trevello’s hand, smiling at his people, enjoying their acclaim. What would his pledge be?
“People of Southernwood! Friends of the Session!” Everyone sat again and stared excitedly at Bassan. “I hardly think it necessary to repeat the pledge that was made yesterday, albeit by a traitor. We all know what it says. Shall I protect our island? Of course. All of it! Our history? Who knows it better than I? Our future? Assured, as we work together to restore our trees and woods that have been so cruelly attacked. The danger is over. Let us leave the Albatorium together. Let the halls be prepared for a banquet, the market square for dancing and song. I have no need to appear on some terrace to lap up the approval of adoring crowds, so come! To the Sundial Tree!”
Bassan stepped down from the lectern and marched to the open doors. Benches screeched along the floor as the crowd got up, shoving each other aside in their rush to be the first to speak to their new Legator by the tree outside.
Harold watched them go. Bassan hadn’t made the pledge. Some would think he had, but he hadn’t said anything about the last part where the Legators promised to rule in peace. Nobody had seemed to notice, not even Trevello, who stood alone by the lectern putting the leaves back into the box. And not one citizen had bothered to check the votes on those leaves, either, had they?
He shook his head. He couldn’t stand here doing nothing. He’d go and find out if Arpad had managed to see Rath.
“Harold!” called Trevello. “Can you take this box into my office? There’s a cupboard under my desk. You can put it in there.”
Harold’s heart sank, but he took the box. The Albatorium entrance was empty. Everyone was outside congratulating Bassan, even the guard. He went into Trevello’s office. He came in here quite a lot, usually to take plates of food through to Filibert. He opened the desk cupboard, put the box inside, then gazed at the keys on the wall behind him. Were they only decoration, or did they open anything useful? A few were mounted on plaques inscribed with tiny silver writing. The rest hung vertically from sharp hooks, but one key, high up, attracted his attention. Hadn’t he seen the same key hanging from Bassan’s belt in the greenhouse?
