Heartwood

by Freya Robertson

  It was a long and tedious journey that day, and he barely talked to the others, too wrapped up in his own thoughts to converse. They stopped that night at a village halfway to Realberg, enjoying the luxury of a real bed in an inn after their previous night spent on the road, and after a hot bath and a decent meal they turned in for the night, everyone falling into a sound sleep.

  Everyone, that is, except Gravis. He was tired, and his body felt heavy with weariness, but he could not get to sleep. He lay there for a long while, listening to his compatriots’ steady breathing, and then eventually got up and made his way downstairs, through the darkened inn, and outside into the cool night air.

  It was still raining, but very lightly, more like a low mist than rain, and for once it refreshed him rather than bothered him. The clouds had in fact parted to reveal the Light Moon in its first quarter, casting its pink glow over the countryside, though the smaller Dark Moon was hidden behind the clouds. The village was sleeping, the cottages darkened and quiet. Behind him one of the horses whinnied in the stables. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

  Gravis had never felt so alone. He shivered, wishing he had brought his travelling cloak with him, but he was only wearing a light tunic and breeches, not even his mail. He felt strangely light without it after wearing it continually for several days now. He walked down the lane, not knowing where he was heading, but feeling the need to get away. It seemed like an eternity since he had left Heartwood, even though it had only been seven days. He remembered his time spent in the Exercitus, and how he and Gavius had comforted each other with tales from their childhood at the Castellum, and stories about Militis both past and present.

  He thought about Gavius now, and wondered where his brother was. Somewhere in the Knife’s Edge, he guessed, trying to get some sleep in the midst of the cold. Did Gavius miss him? Or was he relieved to be free of the dog-like hanger-on who was continually at his side?

  Gravis’s feet had led him onto a bridge that crossed a pond. The circle of water looked dull in the watery moonlight, like a beaten but unpolished sheet of steel. He leaned on the bridge, looking down at the water, remembering the way the channel had erupted in the Curia, and how the Darkwater Lords had formed from the liquid into solid warriors. Any form of water left him uneasy now, and he eyed the pond with a frown, uncertain what was making him feel apprehensive.

  And then suddenly he realised what it was. The reflection of the Light Moon lay on the surface of the pond like a dead fish, a sliver of pink silver against the grey flatness. This in itself was not disturbing.

  It was the fact that he could not see his own reflection that made him catch his breath.

  Gravis blinked and looked up. A cloud covered the Moon, and he was cast suddenly into darkness. He gripped hold of the wooden handrail, wishing he had been sensible enough to bring a lantern, but even as his knuckles whitened and his heart rate increased, the cloud passed and the Moon appeared again, and he looked down and there was his reflection, anxious and white, but as real as the wooden bridge on which he leaned.

  He breathed deeply, calming his racing heart. He had been mistaken the first time – of course his reflection had been there; how could it have not? It had been a trick of the light, an illusion, like the time one of the Deans at Heartwood had done magic for him and Gavius, making a coin mysteriously appear and disappear beneath a square of cloth.

  And yet… Gravis shivered. Deep inside, he knew he was not mistaken, just as he had known as a boy the coin had not really vanished into thin air. For some reason, he had not cast a reflection.

  What did that mean for him? And what did that mean for the Quest?

  II

  Beata pulled the hood of her cloak down over her face to hide her tears. Her stomach felt knotted like a skein of tangled wool.

  As Dean, part of her role was to act as mediator and intercede if there were problems between people. However, she was unused to direct confrontation, and her disagreement with Fortis had unsettled her greatly. His direct criticism of her as leader had knocked her confidence and upset her. When he took her to one side she had assumed he was going to continue his diatribe towards her, and had steeled herself for an argument, only to find him apologising and telling her his rebellion was a ploy. He had explained he thought Gravis was going to have trouble with his Quest and wanted to help him.

  Beata had got very angry at this and told him he had undermined her authority with the others, but he had been defensive and said he was only doing what he thought was best, which was what Procella had told him to do. Beata told him this was not what Procella had had in mind, and had promised him she would take it up with the Dux when they got back to Heartwood, but he had been unrepentant, saying any other way of changing groups would have seemed like a lack of confidence in Gravis’s ability, which would only make the matter worse.

  “And what of my confidence?” she had asked him miserably. He had appeared astonished at that comment, and said he thought her confidence was high, and he had complete faith she would fulfil her Quest. Beata had sighed at that point. It seemed pointless to her to force him to stay; it would only lead to further resentment and bad feeling between the two of them. And besides, if he was right and Gravis would need help in activating the Node, it was better Fortis went with him.

  Still, she now felt concern for her own party that they were down to three, and she was also disappointed in herself, for she set very high personal goals, and so far on the journey she had failed to meet all of them. There was no way realistically she could have avoided the problems that had beset them, but as Quest Leader she was responsible for the others, and she had not done a good job so far.

  Caelestis and Peritus rode behind her in single file because the road was too busy to ride abreast, and for a while they said nothing, each caught up in their own thoughts. They passed through the town centre, busy with trade and bustling with people, but as the shops petered out and the houses gradually grew less numerous, the other two were able to pull up beside Beata and relax as the noise and hubbub of the town died away.

  The path matched the course of the river south-west, passing through the Seven Hills which reared before them, the ground too high and poor for crops, home only to sheep and ponies. They hoped to follow the river through the valleys and steer clear of the highest peaks, which although not as troublesome as Gavius’s mountains, would be an even colder and more miserable journey than the one they were already undertaking, although at that moment, Beata found that difficult to imagine.

  Never had she felt so low. And never had she felt so unable to complete a task given to her. She hardly felt like she could go another yard, let alone the five-day ride to Henton.

  Peritus smiled at her. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  Beata sighed heavily. “It would be nice to think so, although I do not see as yet how that could be the case.”

  “We are together, are we not? We stand by you, Beata, in spite of what Fortis said.”

  She smiled back. She wanted to tell them the main reason Fortis had decided to go with Gravis, but did not want to betray his confidence. Instead, she just said, “Well, I hope we have better luck in the second half of our journey.”

  “So do I,” said Caelestis, accompanying her words with a cough. Beata looked at her with concern. The cough was beginning to sound as if it came from her chest rather than her throat, and her face looked drawn, her forehead glittering with sweat.

  “You do not look well,” she said, reaching over to touch the knight’s face. Her skin burned under Beata’s fingers. “You have a fever and it sounds like your chest is thickening. When we stop tonight, I will make you a tea from some herbs I have in my saddle bag. And you must keep warm. Do you want a blanket around you?”

  Caelestis insisted she was warm enough and Beata said nothing more, but as they followed the road down to the river, she worried about her fellow knight, knowing really she should be in bed resting, but also knowing they had to keep movi
ng, for the journey was long and each minute that passed was another minute the Darkwater Lords could be preparing to invade.

  The road continued to follow the river, just above the water, on the right bank. The river was quite wide and fast flowing at this point, and the horses would struggle to ford it. As would she; although she had splashed about in the Flumen during hot summers, she was not a strong swimmer and had never even seen the sea. Her time in the Exercitus had been spent mainly on the central forts where most of the trouble occurred, and her particular year had seen a major uprising of a particularly aggressive raiding party, and therefore she had not had the tour of the full length of the Wall many of the Heartwood army had.

  Still, she reasoned, there was no reason she should have to swim the river. Nearer Henton, there would undoubtedly be a bridge. She wouldn’t have to go into the water.

  She realised her experience with the Darkwater Lords had ruined her pleasure of water forever. Never again would she be able to think of it as just liquid. Always she would picture the way the warriors had leapt into the Curia, forming as if the water had been poured into a vessel, the way she had seen liquid metal poured into moulds to make arrowheads.

  But still, the river on this day was pleasant enough, the water higher than normal with the constant rain, but still a foot from the top of its bank, its colour a lush dark green, its surface – where it wasn’t broken by rocks – occasionally littered with moorhens and the brilliant flash of a kingfisher.

  The day went quickly enough and they camped that night in a small hamlet, paying valuable money for a small room in a farmer’s house, but glad of the shelter as the clouds seemed to thicken over the moors, and the rain intensified as the sun slipped beneath the hills.

  The farmer’s wife sold them some milk from their cow and some bread she had just baked, and – a real treat – some cod from the coast, which she had poached in milk until tender, along with some cooked carrots and leeks. The hot meal warmed their bellies and in spite of the rain that hammered against the roof of the little cottage, Beata felt a sense of well-being that evening which she hoped would last for some time as they continued on their journey.

  After they had eaten, she heated some water over the small fire in their room and tipped some herbs into a pan she had borrowed from the farmer’s wife, and made an infusion of coltsfoot and elecampe to help Caelestis bring up the phlegm now lying on her chest, then chopped up a raw onion and mixed it with honey and encouraged her to eat the mixture, laughing as the warrior pulled a face and explaining that in spite of its strange taste, it would aid her cold. Soon afterwards, Caelestis fell asleep, and Beata and Peritus talked quietly as the fire gradually burned low, discussing their childhood at Heartwood, and reminding each other of events and incidents from their youth.

  Eventually, however, with the fire now only glowing embers, it was too dark to see each other, and so they curled up in their blankets next to each other for warmth, and fell asleep with the sound of the river gushing in the distance, and the rain beating on the roof.

  The next morning the rain had lessened, but only slightly. The light mist they had been travelling through was now a thick downpour, and Beata’s heart sank as she stepped out of the cottage door and looked up at the heavy grey clouds, which seemed lower than before, as if the sky were gradually descending onto them.

  “Can you not stay another day?” said the farmer’s wife anxiously, looking across at Caelestis, who was mounting her horse, looking more exhausted than before she had gone to sleep. “She is not well – a day in the cold and wet will do her no good.”

  Beata hesitated. They were already more than halfway through the Lamb Moon and she had not even yet reached Henton. Animus knew what was happening back at Heartwood. It had only been Nitesco’s guess the Darkwater Lords would not attack until the High Moon – what if he was wrong? What if they had already attacked? Or were planning to attack tomorrow? No, she could not waste a day without moving forward. Every moment counted.

  “I am sorry,” she said to Caelestis, “but we must keep going. But I understand if you would like to stay here – we could always pick you up on the way back.”

  “No, I am fine,” Caelestis insisted, looking anything but as she had a sudden fit of coughing. However, when she finished, she gave them all a grin and sat straight in the seat, and Beata sighed, knowing the knight would feel responsible for the fact that there were now only three of them left, and would be unable to desert her leader.

  Beata thanked the farmer’s wife and mounted the mare, and then they were off again, hunched in the rain, heading for the coast.

  It was harder going now the rain was heavier. The road had turned to mud with large pools of water, and it was difficult to pick up the pace. Sometimes, they met carts coming the other way with goods from the coast, and they had to move aside to let them pass, as the road wasn’t wide enough for them all.

  To make things worse, the wind blew the rain towards them, so even when they pulled their hoods down low over their faces, they could not avoid getting wet.

  Beata felt miserable enough in the cold, wet weather, but she knew Caelestis must be feeling even worse. She kept looking over to check on the warrior, but she was wrapped in the folds of material of her cloak, and kept her face hidden out of the rain.

  The first sign she received that Caelestis was really unwell was when she fell off the horse.

  III

  After leaving Grimbeald at Karlgan, Fionnghuala and her party travelled for another three hours before deciding to stop at one of the lodges placed there long ago by Hanairean traders travelling to the Twelve Lands. The lodges were one-room huts built out of logs, but basic as they were, they did provide protection from the weather. They also contained cooking utensils, as well as firewood, some food, and hay for horses, which was replaced on a regular basis by travellers from Fintaire, Bearrach’s town on the other side of the Pass.

  Fionnghuala tied up her horse with the others in a space covered by a sloping roof to provide them with some shelter, then spent a while rubbing the steed down and making sure it had access to hay and water before going into the lodge. The three Militis who had travelled with her, as well as Bearrach and their two fellow countrymen, had already started a fire, and someone had placed a pot over it from which a rich, meaty aroma was already emanating.

  She pulled her blanket out of her bag and unfurled it near the fire, then sank onto it gratefully. She was not used to spending so long in the saddle, and although her muscles did not burn as they had after the first few days’ ride from Hanaire to Heartwood, she still ached. How she wished she could have a hot bath! But that was out of the Question, obviously. It would take about ten refills of the pot hanging over the fire to get an inch of water in a tub, had there been one, and by the time the tenth one had boiled, the other nine would be cold. The thought made her smile and appreciate for the first time the work of her household at her home in Salentaire, who always managed to have a hot bath ready for her whenever she wished it.

  “Something funny?” asked Bearrach, coming to spread his blanket beside her. He groaned as he lowered himself onto the floor. “I cannot possibly imagine what you can find amusing after spending so long in the saddle.”

  “Having such a big thing between one’s thighs does make one ache a bit,” she admitted, only realising the connotations of what she had said when Bearrach burst out laughing and the others exchanged wry grins.

  He patted her knee affectionately. “If you have such high expectations, I guess I should forget about letting you discover what is beneath my breeches!”

  She smiled as the others guffawed but made no reply, turning instead to pull her bag towards her and hiding her flushed face by looking inside. She felt confused by his words. Obviously he had been jesting, but still, there had been a ring of truth about them. Had her instincts been right – was he interested in her?

  She released her hair from its braids and began to comb the long, blonde locks. She knew
he, like her, had never been married. In Hanaire, families took priority over politics, and a married man or woman was expected to spend as much time as possible with their family and thus could not serve on the Council.

  She didn’t know why Bearrach had never got married. He was a handsome Hanairean, clever, witty, affectionate and kind, and there was no good explanation for his continued single status. Of course he could be wondering the same about her, she thought. But he would never guess her reason for staying unmarried.

  The stew was soon ready and ladled into bowls, and the party ate it hungrily, glad of some warmth inside. Their mood was high; they were warm, dry and full, and Fionnghuala soon discovered the Heartwood knights to be good company. Audax was a stocky Wulfian, but had retained none of the traits she disliked so much in that people and instead was outspoken and funny, and teased his companions mercilessly. Mundus was older, a Laxonian, quiet and patient, steadfast and true. Fionnghuala found out as they talked that he had travelled extensively on missions for Heartwood, had been to Hanaire several times, and knew the Twelve Lands well. The final Militis was a female Laxonian, Lalage, who was probably older than she looked at first glance, but had a youthful, bubbly personality, and talked continually, though luckily not in an irritating fashion.

  Fionnghuala’s companion from Hanaire was a quiet council member called Kinaed, whom she had known for many years. Bearrach’s companion was a tall, rather fierce-looking Hanairean called Ruadh, whom she thought probably had more than a little Wulfian blood in him. And so that was their party, and they knitted together well, and talked for many hours until they finally curled up in their blankets and subsided into sleep.

  That night Fionnghuala was tired and, having drunk a little ale too, fell asleep quickly. It was the next day and they were back on their horses heading for Hanaire before she had chance to think again about what Bearrach had said.