Heartwood

by Freya Robertson

  Was it malevolent? Instinctively, she drew up her legs to escape the thick tendrils. The roots stopped as she withdrew, and above her the tree shook gently, as if rustled by the wind, although there was no breeze. Beata’s heart thudded. Part of her wanted to flee, but another part of her, perhaps the child within, remembered the gentle caress of the Arbor, the thing she loved more than anything in the world, and the slow heartbeat beneath its trunk. As a seven year-old, when she had felt lonely and was missing her parents and home, she had crept to the tree in the dark and put her arms around it; its warmth had never failed to comfort her. Something told her to trust this oak. Slowly, she straightened her legs. Just as slowly, the roots moved towards her.

  The soft tendrils crept gradually up her legs and over her body. Her breathing quick, she lay on the grass and let the roots slide over her torso and then up, into her hair. The feel of the soft, fibrous plant against her skin was both repulsive and strangely seductive, and she shuddered, although whether from disgust or desire she could not tell.

  The roots tightened their grip, and eventually she felt as if she had been tied to the floor by chains. She couldn’t have moved, even if she had wanted to. But strangely, she found she didn’t want to. As if they contained some kind of narcotic, sleep quickly came upon her, and her eyelids descended like curtains at the end of an act.

  And as she slept, she dreamed.

  There were six figures on horseback, riding through the Dorle countryside. It was as if she rode, too, beside them, and when she looked across to the right she could see the Henge in the distance, rising up on top of a hill, a dark shadow through the misty rain. Briefly, she thought of Gravis and his Quest, and wondered how he was faring and whether he had been able to activate the Node. But then her attention was drawn to the companions she rode with.

  She looked back at the figures and saw in shock that one of them was Teague. He wore a cloak, the hood pulled low over his face, but it was definitely him. She glanced around at the other riders and saw with surprise they, too, were Komis, distinguishable by their jet-black hair, their swarthy skins and their strange gold eyes. So, he was with his countrymen, she thought, and judging by the direction they were travelling, they were headed for Komis.

  She gave a little start, and opened her eyes.

  She was still lying on the floor beside Peritus’s grave, and the tendrils were still covering her body, but they were now slowly pulling away, and she watched open-mouthed as the tree withdrew until its roots were once again just hard ridges, firm in the earth.

  Was it the Arbor, she thought breathlessly, wondering if the tree had somehow managed to reach out to her across the lands, to give her the vision? Perhaps it was, perhaps it wasn’t. Whatever the cause, the point was that something had given her the vision, and that meant something wanted her to know where Teague was heading.

  She looked down at Peritus’s grave, at the little wooden plaque pushed into the ground at the head of the mound, with just his name on it. Reaching into her tunic, she took out the oak leaf pendant hanging on a chain around her neck and pulled it over her head, leaning across the grave to hang it on the corner of the plaque. Perhaps it had been Peritus who had given his last energy to help her.

  Whatever, or whoever, had helped her, the fact was that the Virimage was still alive and on his way back to Komis. Teague, who had taken her without a second thought, then killed her friend before abandoning her. He could still help the Arbor recover, she thought, even if he were forced. If she could find him, she could make him come back with her to Heartwood, and then let Valens deal with him as he saw fit.

  She had been given one more chance to save the world, and she could not pass on it.

  Beata pushed herself to her feet. She stretched her arms above her head, feeling the branches of the oak tree tickle her fingers. She smiled. It was time to let the knight back out, she thought with some amusement, looking down at her soft tunic and smiling wryly. Tearing it from her body, she stood there naked for a moment, feeling the gentle rain wash away the misery and hopelessness that had threatened to drown her barely an hour ago.

  Then she turned to the horse that had been waiting patiently, tethered to the tree, and pulled her breeches and padded tunic out of her saddlebag and dressed swiftly. It was not an easy job, dressing herself with the heavy mail, but she did it eventually, welcoming the weight of the metal rings on her shoulders. Taking pins from another bag, she twisted her hair into a tight knot at the base of her neck and secured it firmly.

  The lady had gone, probably forever, she thought, with not an ounce of regret. The knight was back. She looked down for the last time at Peritus’s grave. Rest easily, my friend, she thought. I will avenge you, and in doing so, I will save Anguis from her foes.

  Turning, she mounted the horse nimbly and guided it onto the track leading south-west across the hills without a backwards glance.

  IV

  The Darkwater Quest party arrived at Vichton in the late afternoon. At the head of the party, Chonrad led the way along the main road shadowing the Wall the whole way across Laxony, and through the large city gates into the city proper. It had been a long and difficult journey and, in spite of his tiredness, his heart swelled at the thought of being home.

  Vichton was a large city but well-fortified and protected, and he had the advantage of knowing the guards manning the city wall were well-trained, as he personally oversaw his army’s training whenever he had the chance. For the first time since leaving Heartwood, he relaxed.

  He had been shocked at the state of Isenbard’s Wall and its forts on their journey. In the short time he had travelled to Heartwood, the Wall had noticeably missed the departure of the Exercitus, and despite a physical presence by countrymen of both Hannon and Barle, the Wulfian raiders had clearly observed the Wall’s weakened state, and were taking the opportunity to carry out deeper and more devastating raids. All of the party had been aghast at the devastation wrought to the town of Setbourg, which had seen many of its buildings burned to the ground, and shortly before their arrival, a large raid had seen many of the women raped and the men killed. Chonrad was pleased to see that Esberg, in his homeland, had fared better; with a city wall manned by trained guards, it had managed to keep out the raiders, but the guards had told him of the repeated and increasingly violent raids, and it was clear matters were escalating.

  However, there was little he could do for the moment; things were only going to get a lot worse if the Darkwater Lords were successful in their invasion attempts, so he just tried to reassure them and tell them he had a plan in mind and was working on it at that very moment.

  In Vichton, however, things seemed little changed. His Chief of the Guard assured him raids had been few and far between, and even the sea traffic had remained steady, with few coastal raids. The city certainly seemed as bustling and alive as ever. As they wound their way through the streets to the castle on the cliffs, he stopped occasionally to talk to the shopkeepers and traders, who greeted him with pleasure, keen to speak to their lord, and clearly fond of him. Procella looked over at him several times, whether amused or puzzled at his popularity, he couldn’t tell, but he didn’t return her glance; his people were his first priority, and he had to satisfy himself they were relaxed and happy before he finally went home.

  They found themselves at the castle gates and he led the party through, dismounting in the courtyard and letting the stablehands take the horses off to be rubbed down and fed. He had just lifted his bags down from the packhorse when there were screams of “Father, Father” from the castle, and then two figures came flying down the steps, running up to leap into his arms to cover his face with kisses.

  “Careful,” he laughed, picking them both up easily and squeezing them tightly, “you nearly knocked me over.”

  “We have missed you,” said Rosamunda, burying her head in his neck.

  “Have you been fighting?” said Varin, pushing himself away from his father and brandishing a wooden sword. “I
have been practicing, Father, look!” and he leapt about, swinging the sword around him fiercely.

  “Careful, young man, you nearly had my head off with that.” Procella smiled, clearly touched by the children’s affection for their father.

  Chonrad came over, pleased she seemed to like them. “Rosamunda, Varin… This is Procella,” he said, bringing them over to her. “She is Dux of the Exercitus. The leader of Heartwood’s army.”

  Their little mouths fell open. Varin, eyes wide, said: “You must be so brave and strong.”

  Procella tipped her head, her cheeks pinkening a little. “Not as much as your father,” she told them. “He fights like a great bear.”

  “My father is the best,” said Rosamunda defensively, but her eyes watched Procella eagerly, and she was clearly impressed.

  Chonrad raised an eyebrow at the Dux as he led her up the steps to his Great Hall. “A bear?” he asked dubiously. “I am not sure if that is a compliment or not.”

  “I just meant you like honey and have big hands,” she said mischievously.

  Chonrad laughed and swung open the doors to the Hall. “Come in,” he said. “For one night, at least, we shall eat like kings.”

  One of his men had ridden on ahead while Chonrad stopped briefly in Esberg, and thus the household were prepared for their visitors and had laid on a splendid spread. The party were taken first to the baths, of which Chonrad was most proud: huge stone sunken baths with underfloor heating, and they all stripped and sank into the hot water with a sigh, feeling the aches of the journey gradually melt away.

  After this, they dressed in fresh clothes and had dinner in the Hall. He watched his servants bring in the food with satisfaction – his staff had done him proud. Huge plates of cut meats and various types of fish, loaves of fresh bread, bowls of stew full of crisp, fresh vegetables, and plenty of flagons of ale to wash it all down. Though food was scarce, still his pride made him want to look like a good host.

  The party ate hungrily, complimenting him on the spread. Chonrad made a mental note to go down to the kitchens later and thank the staff. He looked up to see Procella watching him, smiling. “What?” he asked, pulling a face.

  “You are proud of your home,” she said, “and rightly so.”

  “I am surprised you have not been here more,” he said.

  “I tend to stay away from the towns. Too many distractions for the knights. We stay on the Wall road, and in the forts.” She smiled. “It is my loss.”

  Pleased she liked his home, he came to sit beside her, pulling his seat closer to the fire that danced in the central grate. “How do you feel about our journey tomorrow?” he asked. Nitesco had suggested they get started at first light.

  Procella shrugged. “What will be, will be, regardless of my feelings towards it.”

  He smiled. “Very neatly sidestepped.”

  She sighed. “Truly? I cannot imagine it is going to work. I saw with my own eyes the Darkwater Lords rising from the river, but still I cannot believe I, myself, can be turned into a water elemental.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said, opening his arms with a smile as his children came towards him for a cuddle before going to bed. He placed a kiss on one head and then another, giving them a squeeze before they retired. “Sleep well,” he called after them as their nurse led them up the steps to the bedchambers at the far end of the Hall.

  “They are beautiful children,” Procella commented. “Clearly, they do not take after you.”

  He laughed. “No, obviously they look like their mother.”

  Procella turned her tankard in her hands, looking into the depths of the ale. “Do you miss her?”

  “Minna?” Chonrad thought of his dead wife and sipped his own drink. “Would I be a cruel man if I said no?” Procella just raised an eyebrow. He sighed. “She was the daughter of a local magnate. It was a good match. She gave me two healthy children before she died. We… tolerated each other. I think I was more upset because I was not more upset when she died, if you understand me.”

  Procella gave a wry smile. “I think so.” She sipped her ale. “I do not understand, though, her lack of enthusiasm towards you. If I were not a Militis, I would have been grateful for such a match.”

  Chonrad met her gaze directly and smiled. “Why, thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” Her dark brown eyes were very warm. Once again, he felt a surge of desire towards her. She was strong, fierce and striking, and he wondered how her body would feel pressed against his own without the hindrance of armour.

  Of course he had seen her without her clothes in the baths, but bathing was such a natural, unsexual thing for all of them that he had done little more than glance at her body to note it was as firm and slim as he had thought it would be. Now, however, he pictured her in his arms, and he realised he wanted her very much.

  His desire must have shown in his eyes, because her pupils widened. She hesitated, and he told himself not to expect anything; she was Dux, for Animus’s sake, and not likely to jeopardise her position and her place in the Militis for a quick roll in the hay. Neither would he want her to hate him in the morning. However, the next day was a monumental one for both of them – they were about to risk their lives in an act that may well see them die on the spot, and this quite possibly could be their last chance, as clichéd as the fact might be.

  Suddenly she stood, and said, “Come, Chonrad. Let us not spend our last night alone.”

  He looked around the room, surprised at her directness. But the children were abed, the Militis were either asleep or talking quietly by the fire, and none of them even looked up as he took her hand and led her along the Hall to the bedchambers. Only Fulco caught his eye where he lay by the fire, his wife wrapped in his arms, and the knight’s lazy wink was enough to tell him that his bodyguard knew perfectly well where they were going.

  Chonrad took her up to his bedchamber, wondering as he did so if she would think about the fact that this may be the place where he had bedded Minna, but she said nothing as she entered the room, and he sensed she was past worrying about what had been, and past considering her future. It was comfort that she wanted most of all, and Chonrad could not bring himself to refuse her, as he wanted her more than anything.

  She unbuckled her sword and laid it carefully on the top of the oak coffer by the wall. She looked down at it for a moment, and he had the feeling she was mentally leaving her Militis status there too, removing the vows, laying down the restraint and the denial she had carried for so long.

  She turned and walked over to him slowly, then reached out and took his hands in her own. Her thumbs rubbed the centre of his palms and she stepped even closer, until her mailed chest met his with a soft clink of metal on metal.

  She was tall for a woman, but still several inches shorter than he, and she had to tip up her head to look into his eyes. Her own were dark with passion, and her lips parted a little as she read the desire in his gaze.

  Slowly, afraid she might bolt, Chonrad lowered his head. Their lips met gently.

  He kissed her softly, then, as he realised she was not going to pull away, more passionately, and his hands rose to cradle her head and the small of her back, his heart thudding against his ribs as she pressed herself against him.

  “Help me out of this,” she breathed, gesturing to her armour. He lifted the mail shirt over her head, trying not to catch her hair with the links. When she was free, she stretched luxuriously, enjoying the freedom of being without its weight. He watched her remove her leather tunic, and then she stood before him in her linen shift. She released her hair from its tight knot at the nape of her head, and he smiled as she spread the dark brown locks across her shoulders. She looked suddenly much younger and uncertain, and he reminded himself she had not had many – if any – lovers before.

  “Your turn to help me,” he said, and she took hold of his mail shirt and helped him struggle out of it, laughing as it snagged on his hair. When he was free, he caught her up in his arms,
promising she would pay for laughing at him, and began to cover her face and neck with kisses. The play soon turned serious as she began to sigh with pleasure, and it was not long before they removed the rest of their clothes and found their way under the furs on the bed.

  And then they made love, and it was as sweet, and as fierce, and as gentle as he had thought it would be. And afterwards she lay in his arms, and together they dozed as the rain rattled the shutters and the candle guttered in the midnight breeze.

  When he awoke the next morning, the sky was just lightening, and he turned over in the bed and sighed as he saw she had gone. With a groan, he stood and dressed, wondering if she would refuse to meet his eye when he saw her, but when he descended to the Hall he found her with her knights at the table, and when he passed her, she gave him a smile and squeezed his hand, and his heart gladdened that she did not regret what they had done.

  The atmosphere was generally subdued, however, and his memories of the night before began to be blanketed by a deepening fear of what lay ahead. Within the hour, they were gathered in the courtyard and, mounting their horses, they made their way out of the castle and down the coast road to the beaches beyond. None of them spoke as they rode. Procella was quiet, and although she smiled at him once or twice, she did not speak to him, and he continued to wonder whether she was regretting her act. No matter now, he thought, somewhat bitterly. Life as they knew it was about to cease.

  He had said goodbye to his children in the castle and found it difficult to think soon he might be dead. Of course, he faced death whenever he was in battle, but he had grown used to that foe, who he thought of as a large animal, bristled and growling, but real and physical and something that, with training, he could learn to avoid. Now, however, death had become insidious, like a snake or an insect that slipped into your clothing and, in spite of its size, brought an end to your life with a simple bite or sting. He could do nothing to avoid the consequences of what was about to happen, and that did not sit lightly on his shoulders.