Teague’s face was not far from hers, and those golden eyes were like magnets, so attractive she could not move her own gaze away. He leaned even closer, and suddenly, more than anything, she wanted to feel his lips on hers. He hesitated for a second, just millimetres away from touching her, and before she could think twice about it, she moved the final distance and they were kissing.
It was the first time she had ever kissed anyone, and Beata’s face flamed and her heart thudded. The world spun, and she didn’t know if it was from the kiss or the ale or whether there was an earthquake.
She melted into his embrace and did not protest when he lowered her gently onto the seat so she was underneath him. There was a small part of her that knew she would probably regret this in the morning, and which counselled her to stop now before she went any further, but there was a greater part of her that was curious about love, and its voice was so strong it drowned out the rest.
He unlaced her dress and began to kiss her skin, and all thoughts went out of her mind. She forgot about Heartwood, forgot about Peritus hiding somewhere in the gardens, forgot about her vows. The only thing in the world was Teague and his soft lips and tongue, and as his kiss traced down over her stomach, and then lower, she even forgot about breathing.
He made love to her slowly, thoughtfully, blissfully, and afterwards Beata fell asleep in his arms, content and without a care in the world.
When she awoke, some hours later, it was completely dark, the only light from the small lantern they had brought to guide their way, the candle burned almost to the base. She pushed herself to a sitting position awkwardly. She was stiff, cold and sore and had a throbbing headache. Instantly, the memory of what she had done rang in her head like a bell and she groaned. She was still in the garden, lying on the seat, but she was alone. Teague had gone.
As she got to her feet, a spark of anger flared in her chest at the realisation her lover had abandoned her. What on Anguis had possessed her to give herself to a complete stranger, and such an important one at that? She should have known she couldn’t trust him!
He had left his cloak, however. She wrapped it around her and began to walk slowly back through the gardens. Why on earth hadn’t he woken her? Clearly, he had used the opportunity to sleep with her as a ruse, maybe to show her he wasn’t to be told what to do, and to give him the opportunity to get away while she slept.
What was she going to say to him when she got back to the castle? Well, she was certainly going to give him a piece of her mind. If he was still there. She went cold at the thought that he might have fled the town to get away from her. Obviously, he was not to be trusted; he enjoyed his freedom and his lifestyle and had made it plain he wanted nothing to do with her Quest. How could she have been so stupid?
And then she saw the figure lying face down on the ground in the flowerbeds. Beata gasped. She recognised instantly by his clothing it was Peritus. She ran up to him and, gathering him in her arms, turned him over. Immediately, she could see he was dead. His eyes were open, unseeing, and there was a deep knife wound in his chest. His tunic was soaked in blood.
How had Teague – a musician and magician with no fighting skills whatsoever – managed to best a Heartwood Militis? He must have taken Peritus by surprise, she realised numbly. The knight must have stayed in the gardens, close but far enough away to give them some privacy, expecting a threat to come from the castle, not from behind him. She wondered if he had managed to wound Teague and, before she could stop, felt a stab of hope that her lover had escaped unharmed. Then guilt washed over her, and with it came a large measure of anger.
Her lover had taken her, and then abandoned her, in the process killing the last colleague and friend she had with her. With her foolish act, she had done what every knight was taught not to do – surrender to her emotions, and with that act, she had sacrificed the last chance to mend the Arbor. Heartwood was lost.
Horrified, broken, Beata sat there with Peritus in her arms and wept.
II
Grimbeald hunched himself into his blankets, huddling beneath the makeshift tent the Militis had erected to keep off the worst of the rain. He had refused to stay underground in the Tumulus, finding it too unsettling after the event of the night before, when the ghost of his father had appeared on the top of the mound.
Now he looked over at Tenera, and found her eyes on him, the deep blue orbs warm, a hint of a smile hiding with them. She had not been as frightened as he on seeing the figure on the Tumulus. In fact, she had comforted him when – startled as a deer – he had fled the mound, shaken to his core at seeing the apparition.
He gave her a half-hearted smile and turned over, somewhat unnerved by her steady gaze. Unfortunately, however, it meant he was facing the Tumulus, and his stomach clenched as he saw through the gap in the tent the shadow of the mound rising before him.
Why was he so afraid? Grimbeald could not understand his fear. He was not a coward, and in spite of the fact that he did not consider himself a natural warrior, he had proven himself fearless in battle, and did not dread handling a sword. Just one glimpse of that ephemeral figure, however, outlined against the darkness on the top of the mound, struck terror into his heart.
His eyes wandered to where the figure had appeared and his breath froze in his throat as, in the midst of the gloom, a dark shape materialised. His heart seemed to stop. It was his father; he knew it, even though he could not see its face or its dress clearly. But something inside him just knew it was him.
Grimbeald gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to flee. It was ridiculous! He was a grown man, and his father had been in the earth these past ten years. Maegenheard, the once-lord of the Highlands, no longer had a hold over him; he was lord in his own right, and no longer subject to the whims and wishes of his father.
But as the thought entered his head, he knew it was untrue. Even now, from the grave, Maegenheard still had control over him, like an animal that has clamped its jaws around a victim and refuses to let go, even after death.
Anger rose within him like a tide, sweeping through his veins. He wanted to be free of his father’s unyielding grip. Turning, he looked over his shoulder at Tenera. Her eyes had finally shut, and she seemed to be sleeping. Quietly, with a warrior’s stealth, he pushed back his cover and got to his feet.
He ducked under the tent flap and went out into the cool night. The rain fell lightly, fresh on his face. He looked up at the ghostly figure. It stood arms akimbo, and although he couldn’t see its face, he felt it was glaring at him. He tightened his grip on his axe, even though the metal blade would be useless against the insubstantial spirit. Still, he felt comforted by the feel of the wooden shaft in his hand, its weight almost a part of him.
Carrying a lantern in his left hand, he stepped forward, walking towards the Tumulus. His heart pounded in his chest and his mouth was dry, but he walked forwards. Some small part of him knew the only way to rid himself of the spectre that haunted him was to confront it, even though to do so caused his insides to melt with terror.
As he neared the mound, however, the figure disappeared. Grimbeald stopped, breathing heavily. He looked to the right, to the entrance of the mound. The figure now stood there, flickering in the dim light from his lantern as if it were a candle guttering in the wind. It seemed to want him to go down into the mound. Grimbeald shivered, his feet frozen to the spot. He did not want to go into the Tumulus again. The thought of all those bones… He shuddered. But still, he knew he had to go. The figure drew him there as surely as if it had called out his name.
He walked forwards to the entrance. As he drew nearer, the figure disappeared again. Grimbeald paused at the doorway. Rectangular in shape, supported by huge wooden beams that held up the weight of the earth mound atop it, the doorway led down several steps to the sunken burial chamber. He paused on the top step, feeling as if he were about to descend into the belly of some giant beast. The wind soughed through the Tumulus, and for a moment it seemed as if the mound groaned – or
was it himself? His palms were clammy, his hair damp with sweat and rain.
Taking a deep breath, he stepped down into the burial chamber.
Immediately, his lantern went out, whether from a rush of air or something more sinister, he couldn’t tell. He stopped on the bottom step, his heart hammering. His brain screamed at him to turn and run, but with iron willpower he kept his feet still, drawing from his inner depths of courage, waiting for whatever was in there to make itself known.
Gradually, he became aware the room was lightening.
Eventually, he saw the light was emanating from a small sphere that seemed to hover above the floor of the chamber. It must have been something similar to this that Tenera had seen above him, which had brought him back to life. He gasped, entranced by the glowing object. What was it, he wondered? Was it the Node?
The light illuminated the white bones lying on the shelves, and it was only as his eyes were drawn to them that he saw the figure standing to one side of the room. He could not help but give a small exclamation, which he stifled swiftly as he brought his axe up protectively across his chest.
“That will not do you much good down here,” sneered the figure, coming forward into the light. “Not that it ever did you much good on the battlefield, either.”
Grimbeald’s hands tightened on the wooden shaft as the face of his father loomed in the light. “Is that all you are here for?” he returned. “To mock me from beyond the grave?”
Maegenheard shrugged. “No. It is an added bonus.”
Grimbeald clenched his jaw, the familiar flush of hurt rising within him. He said nothing, however. Clearly, this was some sort of test, and he wanted to see how the game was played before he reacted. “What do you want?” he asked, watching the ghostly figure walk around the glowing light to stand a few feet in front of him. Maegenheard’s form was almost transparent, and he could see through his body to the shelves and bones behind him.
“For ten years I have watched you sit in my seat, in the Highlands,” said Maegenheard. “I have observed you as you carried out your lordly duties, hoping beyond hope you would show yourself to be the son I had always prayed you would be. But time and again, you have failed me. And now I use the power from this ancient site to manifest and to beg you to remove yourself from the land, so a better Highlander may take your place.”
Grimbeald digested this news with an ache in his gut. He had hoped his father’s appearance was a test, part of the process of opening the Node, but his heart began to sink as he realised that was not the case. Clearly, the energy in the Tumulus allowed Maegenheard to materialise, and he had merely seized the opportunity to do so. It was no test, no answer to his problems. It was just his father being his usual angry self, trying to control everything he said and did.
“I have done my best to be lord of our people,” Grimbeald said quietly, the axe lowering in his hand until it touched the floor. “I have tried to be just and fair, and treat all folk the same…”
“That is not the true measure of a lord!” snarled Maegenheard. “A lord governs by being harsh and firm with his decisions, by being aggressive, not defensive. How much have you expanded your lands? How many towns have fallen beneath your axe?”
“We are at war with Laxony,” argued Grimbeald, “not with each other. Wulfengar’s five lands should live in harmony.”
“Harmony!” Maegenheard gave a booming laugh. “That is not the Wulfian way, my lad.”
“No, but it is my way,” Grimbeald said miserably. His axe fell to the floor.
“That is true, and how I regret your weak stomach. I knew from your early years you were doomed to be a failure as a warrior.”
“That is not fair,” Grimbeald protested. “I have fought in many battles; I am a skilled knight.”
“You have the heart of a dove, boy; you are a foolish romantic. You dream of peace and accord between the lands. Bah! You cannot change Wulfian minds. Just because you have a diseased brain does not mean it has to spread to the rest of our kind.”
Grimbeald bowed his head. He felt strangely weak and heavy, as if his father were draining strength from him. The light in the middle of the chamber seemed to be growing dim, emphasising the darkness he felt spreading through him. “I have never pleased you. I have tried and tried to be a different person, but I do not think I could ever be the sort of knight you wanted me to be, however much I trained for battle.”
“Your weakness grows within you like mistletoe in an apple tree,” said his father. “It has invaded all parts of you, and has wrapped tendrils around your heart. You are a failure as a lord and a failure as a Wulfian.”
“I do not know how to be different,” Grimbeald said, and a hot tear coursed down his cheek. How he longed for his father’s approval. Just one smile, one word of encouragement. But it had never been that way, and certainly never would be now.
“You can still change,” Maegenheard urged. He came forward and his ghostly hands gripped Grimbeald’s arms. “Put aside your foolish, romantic thoughts; your paintings and music; your singing and carving. Your dreams of peace. Turn instead to the true Wulfian path: battle, war, blood and pain. Turn the Highlands into the force it should be. Raise your army. Reconquer the five lands.”
Could he? Was it not too late? Hope surged within him. Could he still lay his ghosts to rest by changing his ways? Perhaps it was true, and he could obtain the heart of a wolf instead of a dove. Put aside his hopes, his dreams for a peaceful future for his land. “But what about Heartwood?” he asked suddenly, remembering his reason for travelling to the Tumulus.
“Heartwood?” Maegenheard spat invisible mucus onto the floor. “Those preening knights and their fancy tree? Who needs them? Who needs religion and prayers and speeches of ‘energy’ and ‘Nodes’ and ‘saving the world’? The Highlands are all that matter. Leave all that behind you, son, and turn to the true Wulfian way.”
And with that Maegenheard smiled at his son; the first smile Grimbeald could ever remember him giving that was directed at himself. And it made him so warm inside that suddenly he knew he would do as his father said: forget Heartwood, forget his Quest. It was time he became the son his father had always wanted.
III
Beata sat on the grass by Peritus’s grave. He had been buried that afternoon, and the earth was still loose, covering his wooden coffin in a small mound.
The funeral had been brief, attended only by herself and the two servants who had dug the grave, and they had soon left her to her grief, though they puzzled at the depth of her emotion and the amount of tears she had let fall for a mere serf.
She had been allowed to bury him under an oak tree in the cemetery just outside the castle grounds, and for this she had been grateful, distraught as she was that she could not take him back to Heartwood to give him to the Arbor. It would be a peaceful resting place, she thought, looking across the cliffs to the sea beyond, and eventually he would be absorbed by the oak and thus by Anguis, thought she knew it would take longer for him to become one with the earth than it would have done at Heartwood.
Under the relatively dry shelter of the tree, Beata’s final energy reserves drained out of her, and she lay down on the grass, her head on her arm, her misery sliding from her like an animal that had been coiled around her body. Never had she felt this low, not even when Caelestis died. And she knew she had to be honest with herself. It was not just the fact that Peritus had been killed that was causing her such misery. True, he was a childhood friend and a good companion, and she would mourn his passing for a long time. But it was more than that.
The whole journey had been a disaster, right from the moment Erubesco had taken the arrow in the forest. She should have done as Fortis said, turned around then and gone straight back to Heartwood, and given her Quest to someone who would have done it right. But what had she done? Lost all her companions, who had trusted her to lead them and keep them safe. And not only that – and here her breath caught in her throat and her heart almost stopped – s
he had lost the Virimage, the one possible saviour of the Arbor, because she had been lonely and flattered by his compliments, and curious to know about the sexual act. She thought of the way Teague had touched her, his fingers soft, his lips gentle, and cried, aching for him in spite of what he had done, and hating herself for it.
Several times, she tried to wrench herself up from this pool of misery, but each time she felt herself sucked back down, as if she stood in quicksand. She tried to persuade herself that Peritus would forgive her, that he would have understood her feelings for Teague, and that he was enough of a friend to realise she would never have wished him harm in a million years. But deep down, she knew her actions had been unforgivable, and she had surrendered to her emotions without taking the care that should have been second nature to a knight. In doing so, she had sacrificed him – and who would forgive a friend for that?
She attempted to think of Valens’s face, and hoped he would understand why she had made the decisions she had; he was fair and just and would not blame her for the way things had turned out. But she was fooling herself; Valens would be bitterly disappointed with the turn of events.
She tried to convince herself Teague’s actions towards her meant his heart was black, and therefore he would not have been able to heal the Arbor. For how could such an evil person heal the most precious thing in the universe? But then she thought of the way the yellow flowers had grown on her palm, and she knew in spite of what he had done, this was not the case, and he would almost certainly have been able to do something to help the tree, even if it was against his will.
She had lost the Arbor’s only hope; because of her, Heartwood and eventually the rest of Anguis would fall to the Darkwater Lords. The water elementals’ reign would be supreme. Everything would crumble, everything would fall to ruin, and it was all her fault.
Lost in despair, as unable to see the way out as if she were in the depths of a dark forest, Beata wept.
It was some time before she realised something was happening around her. She wasn’t sure what first alerted her to the fact that the tree was moving; maybe it was the sound of the roots crawling through the grass, or maybe it was a movement out of the corner of her eye, but she wiped away her tears to find the roots snaking towards her slowly, and she gasped, not having seen this done by any other tree except the Arbor.
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