Heartwood

by Freya Robertson

  “Are you going to explain your theory at the Congressus?”

  “Do you think we should?” Silva asked.

  It was Chonrad’s turn to shrug. “It might help the Twelve Lands come to a peaceful decision. Without the impetus of this goal…” He did not finish his sentence, but the serious look on their faces meant they had understood: it might not come to pass.

  He looked once more at Silva, with her dark hair and gold eyes. Recognition suddenly struck him. “You are from Komis!” he blurted before he could stop himself.

  V

  Silva surveyed him coolly, then nodded. “You are correct. I came to Heartwood at the age of fifteen.”

  “She is the only person from Komis to have joined the Militis for twenty years,” said Procella.

  Chonrad nodded with interest. His life in Laxony had led him to have very few dealings with the people of Komis, but he knew them to have a varied and colourful past. Before the time of Oculus, the Komis had been a strong, arrogant race. The King of Komis at the time had been powerful and greedy, and his desire for land had led him to mount an invasion on the eastern lands shortly after the Great Quake. In spite of his vast wealth and power amongst his people, however, he was a bad tactician. When, in a bid to show the strength of his forces, he moved his whole army into the Knife’s Edge intending a secret invasion, he met a combined army of eastern knights who swiftly obliterated his troops, leaving barely a person alive. Komis suffered greatly; with nearly all their men of a certain age dead, the population declined swiftly, and the spread of the Pestilence did not help matters. Crop failure in the west was particularly bad during the cold winters of those years, and many also died from hunger. The kingdom shattered, and those who were left withdrew into the great forests to find food and shelter. And there they stayed until the present day, a race of tree-dwellers and guerrilla warriors, as alien to the easterners as a bird underground.

  From what he understood, however, the people of Komis had developed a keen understanding of nature through their many generations of living in the forests. He supposed that explained why Silva was Keeper of the Arbor.

  Chonrad turned his attention back once more to the Arbor. He felt strangely disappointed. He could not put his finger on it: he wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact that the tree was smaller, or if it was something else… Over the years, since the Allectus, he supposed he had built up the Arbor in his mind to be something magnificent and awe-inspiring, something that would make him gasp and instinctively make the traditional sign of reverence Procella had done.

  And yet after his initial feeling of wonder, he felt a kind of dull disenchantment, as you might feel when the clouds block the sun on your wedding day. It was just a tree. An old oak tree. And not a very big one. The one outside his castle at Vichton was nearly as big as the Arbor.

  Procella was watching his face. She came over, took his hand and pulled him forwards until he stood right underneath the tree, its overhanging branches like a canopy above his head.

  “Touch it,” she whispered. Lifting his hand, she placed it on the bark.

  A shock went through him. The trunk was warm. And beneath the bark, his fingers could detect a slight, slow heartbeat. The Pectoris. He looked up at the leaves. There was, of course, no wind inside the Temple. And yet the leaves moved, carrying with them a soft whisper like the sound of the sea.

  He looked across at Procella, realisation striking him. “We are just coming out of The Sleep,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “But the leaves have not fallen.”

  “The Arbor’s leaves never fall,” Silva said from behind him.

  Her words made a shiver run down his back, and he withdrew his hand from the bark. He felt distinctly unsettled by what he had felt there. All trees were living things, and of course the Arbor was no ordinary tree. But still, feeling that heartbeat… It gave him the impression the Arbor was more than just leaves and trunk and branches. Looking up into its branches, he suddenly wondered if it were aware that he was there, if it could see him, could feel him. Did it remember him from the Allectus? What was it thinking? You should not be here… Why did you come…? He shivered again and took a step backwards. Although the Arbor was at the root of his religion, and although he wore an oak leaf pendant around his neck and said his prayers at night, he did not feel comfortable standing beneath its branches.

  Across the western side of the Temple, a door opened in the wall and several people came through. Chonrad knew this was the wall separating the main part of the Temple from the Domus or living area of the Militis, and realised they had to belong to Heartwood.

  They crossed the bridge and came over to the Arbor. One of them he knew: a tall, powerful-looking knight, grey-haired, his face marked with scars, looking even more imposing in full battle armour. Last time Chonrad had seen him, it had been on the Wall, during one of the many skirmishes Wulfengar had been carrying out. Now, however, he walked with a pronounced limp, a testament to the reason why he no longer headed the Exercitus.

  Valens was Imperator of Heartwood, leader of both the Exercitus and the Castellum, overlord of the whole holy complex – the top rung of the ladder; a truly powerful position, but a difficult one, Chonrad thought, for a knight used to a life out in the open, in almost constant battle. He wondered how Valens coped with his disability and his confinement to the building. Was he relieved after a life spent on the road? Or did he itch to get back out there?

  The Heartwood leader came forward and held out his hand. “Lord Barle,” he said in his deep, gruff voice. “It is good to see you once again.” He closed his hand on Chonrad’s in a firm grip.

  “And you, Valens.” Chonrad placed his left hand on the Imperator’s wrist, and Valens did the same.

  “Thank you for coming.” Valens released his hand and turned to face the tree, making, as he did so, the same gesture Procella had: putting his hand to his heart, his lips and his forehead.

  Chonrad nodded. “You are welcome.”

  “I just hope it will not have been in vain.” Valens sighed.

  “You do not have hopes for the Congressus?”

  Valens looked him in the eye. “Do you?”

  Chonrad said nothing.

  “As I thought,” Valens said gruffly. He turned to the knight who waited patiently beside him. “Have you met our Abbatis, Dulcis?”

  “No.” Chonrad came forward and held out his hand. He knew she was in charge of the Domus. “It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

  “And I you.” Dulcis took his hand. She was shorter than Procella, but taller than Silva, and her hair, like Valens’s, was grey and hung loose to her waist like a sheet of metal. She wore only light leather armour covered by a knee-length white tunic embroidered with a single oak leaf. “I have heard much about you,” she said. “The famous Lord Barle. You have a reputation as a great knight and, more importantly to us today, as a skilled diplomat.”

  “Peace must be our ultimate aim.”

  “That is not everyone’s belief,” she said wryly. She did not say the name Wulfengar; she did not have to.

  “I will do my best to aid today’s discussions,” he said.

  “Then that is the best we can hope for.” She smiled at him. “I understand we made the mistake many years ago, of turning you away from the Allectus.”

  Chonrad looked sharply at Procella. She returned his gaze openly, raising an eyebrow. Dulcis caught the look and shook her head. “Nobody told me, Lord Barle, I make it our business to research the lives of those who come to Heartwood. Our records state you came to us at the age of seven.” She touched his arm. “It was our loss.” She looked over at Valens. “You were not the first – and will not be the last – mistake we have made in choosing the Militis.”

  He wanted to ask her what she meant, but she was already turning away. Her comment flattered him, although it did not completely remove the resentment he carried deep within him towards Heartwood. It was an old wound that had never healed prop
erly, and it was too late to do anything about it now. He wondered to whom she was referring when she mentioned making a mistake in choosing the Militis. Was it someone he had already met? He would probably never find out, but her words intrigued him.

  Dulcis looked up through the dome at the sun’s position in the sky. “It will not be long until the Tertius Campana,” she observed. “We must bring in our guests.”

  Silva stayed by the Arbor, but the rest of them walked back towards the outer ring. As they passed over the channel of water, Chonrad glanced down. Once again, he was surprised to see a shadow beneath the surface, a dark shape moving along the bottom of the channel.

  “Are there fish in there?” he asked.

  Procella stopped and looked back at him. “There is a grille at the top of the channel where it is siphoned off from the Flumen, but occasionally one slips through.”

  “That must be it then.” He dismissed the frisson of unease that made his spine tingle. He had more important things to worry about than shadows. Today could be a beginning, the start of a new peace treaty, the commencement of a new historical era.

  Or it could be the end. But he refused to dwell on that.

  The Custodes pulled back the huge oak doors, and people filtered in. More Custodes took their places at intervals along the tiers. He knew they would have been present at the Veriditas anyway, but even so, he guessed their strategic placing had more to do with an attempt to keep an eye on the guests than out of a genuine wish to spread out.

  Fulco came through, looking anxiously for him, his relief evident when he saw his overlord. His bodyguard took his duties seriously, especially during a time when their enemies were in such close proximity.

  The guests filed in, and gradually the tiers filled up. Not everyone who had come to Heartwood would be able to attend the ceremony; there wasn’t enough space for all the contingent of each lord, so the leaders of each of the Twelve Lands, the Hanaire lords and their closest followers were brought in first, and then the rank and file took the remaining spaces.

  Chonrad had been standing by the doorway, in the shadows, but now Procella beckoned to him. He and Fulco made their way around the tiers to a space a few levels up that had been reserved for them amongst the knights from Barle. She left them there and walked to the front row, where the most senior members of the Heartwood Militis were waiting.

  He looked around the Temple at the people seated on the tiers. Although each person sat with people of his or her own land, the Militis had been insightful enough to spread the three countries around the room. Not that he expected trouble during the Veriditas. Whatever tensions there were between the Twelve Lands, they were all followers of Animus, and none wished to defile the Temple by bringing politics and war into its midst.

  The Tertius Campana rang from somewhere in the western half of the Castellum, reverberating around the wooden tiers and the stone walls, sounding deep inside his chest.

  Gradually, everyone in the Temple fell quiet.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I

  Silva stepped out of the ring of Militis towards the Arbor. The rest of them closed the gap, reaching out to take each other’s hands to form a circle. Chonrad saw Procella, Valens and Dulcis, their faces serene as they gazed on the tree that seemed to sway gently in spite of there being no wind.

  Silva began speaking, her voice ringing out around the Temple. She spoke in the language of Heartwood, and he did not understand every word, but listened instead to the beauty of the language. Every now and again, the rest of the Militis would chant a line in answer, reinforcing what he realised was a devotional prayer to the tree.

  When they had finished the prayer, Dulcis then turned to the rest of the Temple and addressed the crowd. She gave a short speech in the language of Heartwood, and then began again in Laxonian. Chonrad saw the men from Wulfengar stir resentfully at the fact that the translation was first in Laxonian, but they soon quieted as her words echoed around the room.

  “My friends,” said Dulcis, her hand taking in the whole of the Temple, “I welcome you to Heartwood. May you enjoy your stay in this place of worship, and I hope you will use your time here to meditate by the Arbor and take in the atmosphere of peace and serenity that is generated by our loving tree.”

  She repeated the words again in the language of Wulfengar, then in Hanairean, and then in Komis, although as far as Chonrad knew, Silva was the only one there from that country.

  Then the Militis started to sing. It was a very old hymn, one Chonrad knew from childhood, as did most of the people in the room, obviously, as everyone began to join in. It was in the Heartwood language, but this time he knew what the words meant.

  Heart of Arbor, deep inside,

  The Pectoris holds the tears that Animus cried.

  The roots of the tree lace through the land.

  We honour you now as, hand in hand,

  We thank you for watching over us all,

  So strong and proud, so wide and tall.

  Keep us safe and keep us strong.

  The land of our fathers, where we belong.

  It was nothing more than a simple verse, really, like a nursery rhyme with a straightforward tune, and he wondered why they had chosen it. He supposed the main reason was probably that most people would be able to sing along. But he wondered also whether they were purposefully trying to rouse everyone’s memories of their childhood and make them think about the feelings they had towards the Arbor, which inevitably changed as one grew older and the problems of the world replaced the aspirations and daydreams of youth.

  The song ended and Dulcis began a prayer. As she did so, bowls began to be passed along the lines of guests. Chonrad knew what was in there: Acerbitas, the bitter tea made from oak leaves the Militis drank to remind themselves of how bitter life would be without Animus’s love. He accepted the bowl as it was passed to him and sipped a small amount of the tea. He grimaced, passing the bowl to Fulco. It truly was bitter. Fulco pulled a face too as he sipped and signed to Chonrad: Lovely! Chonrad glared at him, trying hard not to laugh. This was not the place to have a fit of the giggles.

  Just then, the oak doors at the front opened. He craned his neck to see over the heads of the others to observe what was coming through. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see, though, because when he heard the high voice of the animal he knew instantly it was a lamb.

  Two Custodes led the creature down the pathway and across the bridge to the inner Arbor ring. He hadn’t noticed before, but he could now see from his elevated position a circular pattern of stones where the path crossed the inner ring. This was the Sepulchrum – the area of death – where animal sacrifices were made and the dead offered to the tree.

  Silva knelt down and took the creature in her arms. The chanting of the Militis grew louder as she grasped the animal’s legs and lifted it so it lay on its side. She then pressed down with her knees so it couldn’t rise and reached to one side to pick up a large ceremonial knife. Swiftly she cut its throat, and lifted it so its blood ran onto the roots of the tree.

  Chonrad’s breath caught in his throat. He was both fascinated and appalled by Silva’s actions. The viscous red liquid dripped from the twitching lamb’s neck and then, as the blood hit the roots, the tree shivered, its leaves rattling like teeth. Silva laid the lamb at the foot of the tree. Then he saw something he had never thought to see, that he did not fully comprehend.

  The roots of the tree moved. Like snakes, they lifted themselves out of the earth and crawled towards the lamb. He watched them, unnerved by their slow slide along the ground, unsure what was going to happen next. The lamb, which was nearly dead, twitched feebly as its lifeblood flowed over the ground. The roots curled over the white woollen body and drew it closer to the trunk. Slowly, the animal was absorbed as the Arbor ingested its limp form.

  There was a dramatic moment as the tree seemed to wait. If it had been a person, Chonrad felt it would be standing with its head tipped back and its face to the sun, arms sp
read wide to take in as much of the light as possible.

  And then there was a dramatic movement – Chonrad could only think of it as a spurt of growth, as the tree grew taller, its branches lengthening and buds appearing on the twigs, which quickly unfurled to reveal new, bright green leaves. Everyone in the Temple cheered and rose to their feet, clapping and shouting their approval that the ceremony had worked, and Animus had accepted their offering. He rose with them, not wishing to seem irreligious, but in truth his stomach had been turned by the event.

  He took his seat again as the Militis joined hands once again for the final ritual. Everyone bent their heads, but Chonrad found his gaze drawn up to where the sun filtered through the coloured glass in the roof, and he wished fervently he was outside in the fresh air.

  The Veriditas ended with a closing prayer. Even if he had been able to understand Dulcis, however, he wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on what she was saying. The mix of emotions he had felt when watching the ceremony combined inside him with the nervousness and anticipation of the coming Congressus, and his head buzzed as his brain kept switching from thinking about the Arbor to what was going to happen next.

  He wasn’t the only one getting jumpy either. Even as Dulcis finished and the Militis gave a final chant, the noise in the Temple grew louder as everyone began talking at once, and there was general shifting in the seats. As the sound of the Quartus Campana rang through the Castellum, the Militis left the inner ring and headed down the central path towards the oak doors, and gradually everyone began to file out.

  Chonrad waited until the crowd had died down, then made his way outside, Fulco following. The sun was now high in the sky, and he blinked as he came out into the Quad, the fresh air and the noise of the crowd a vivid contrast to the quietness and coolness of the Temple.

  There was to be a short interval for lunch before the Congressus began. Heartwood had erected a special food tent for the visitors, and so he decided to make his way there to grab a snack before he went to the Curia. He walked along the central pathway, counting off the roads as he did so.