Heartwood (22 page)

 

III

Beside Beata, Gavius lowered himself into the adjacent tub, and he too let out a long “Aaah” of satisfaction as his body penetrated the hot water. “It is only now I realise how fit the Exercitus are,” he said, groaning at his aches and pains. “I hardly ride anywhere at all.”

“Me neither,” Beata agreed. She soaped herself with a cloth, scrubbing away at the dirt from the journey. When she was finally happy with the cleanliness of her skin, she lay her head back on the tub and let the steam warm her cheeks.

It was a lovely end to what had not been a bad day, she thought. Her bones felt loose, as if she were melting into the water. She rolled her head and looked over at Gavius, who was almost asleep in his tub. “So you are off to the Knife's Edge, then?” she said sleepily.

He looked over at her, peering through the mist arising from their baths. “Yes. The real adventure begins tomorrow.”

“Are you looking forward to it?”

He laid his head back and looked up at the ceiling. “Yes and no. It is exciting to be travelling to a place I have never been, or indeed very few people in Heartwood have ever been to. But I must admit to more than a little trepidation about the journey.”

“Really?” she said. Gavius was such an enthusiastic, impulsive, uncomplicated character that she was surprised he ever felt nervous at all. “Why so?”

He looked back at her. His blue eyes, usually bright and clear, were shadowed with troubled thoughts. “I… I had a sort of premonition…”

“Oh?”

Heartwood was not a particularly superstitious place. Militis were not brought up to touch objects for luck or to follow a rigorous set of rules about things that could and could not be done to bring good or bad luck. As a general rule, the existence of ghosts was not believed in, and a practical approach to faith and their religion meant fortune tellers and other mystics tended to be scorned rather than revered.

For down-to-earth, practical Gavius to admit to a premonition, it must have been quite convincing, she thought, wondering if what he had seen what a true shadow of things to come, or a figment of his imagination. “What was it?”

He swallowed. “I dreamed of the Giant – the figure in the ground. I was walking over him, and he somehow came to life and clutched me in his fingers. And he crushed me until the breath left my body and my bones crunched in his grip.”

“Sounds like a case of too much cheese before bedtime to me,” she said lightly, seeing the fear in his eyes was real.

He focussed on her and laughed, and suddenly he was the old Gavius again, cheerful and indomitable, excited and eager for the adventure. “Yes, I am sure that is all it was.”

Beata knew his premonitions of disaster were more than likely due to self-doubt, a fear he would fail the Quest and it would be his fault Heartwood fell, as it was a fear of her own. She decided the best plan of action would be to turn his mind to other things.

“Will you miss Gravis?” she asked playfully, surprised when he did not answer with a resounding yes, but instead considered her Question seriously.

“It will be strange not having him around,” he said.

Beata looked across at him, her brow furrowing. “Is everything all right between you? Only for a while I have some sensed some friction, although I cannot fathom its cause.”

Gavius shrugged. “We have been together a long time. Any such relationship would undoubtedly wear thin after a while, like a favourite garment donned day after day.”

Beata said nothing. She knew there was something underlying the tension, but also sensed Gavius did not want to talk about it. Well that was his prerogative. But she also did not want them to make the mistake of parting on anything other than the best terms. These were dangerous Quests, and there was no surety they would all make it through them.

She would speak to them about it in the morning, she thought, before Gavius left for the Knife's Edge.

Getting out of the bath, for the first time that week she did not put on her armour, but went back into the Hall instead in a tunic and breeches, thinking that if Hicton was attacked during the night, she should at least have some warning from the castle guard.

Settling down in front of the fire, she chatted to Sarilo, the steward, for a while about this and that, while the other Militis talked among themselves, or played dice with some of the castle's occupants who had come in for the night..

She asked Sarilo whether he had ever met the Virimage, and was surprised when he told her he had.

“Here?” she asked, her heart thudding at the thought that the magician may have been sitting by the very fire by which she was warming her feet.

“No, no,” he said. “This was some time ago, down south, on the Seven Hills. I was visiting my daughter, who had married into the local family, and while I was at the castle, the Virimage arrived.”

Beata sat up with interest. Though both Malgara and Kenweard had said they had met him, she had not really had a chance to quiz them. This was the first time she had really spoken to anyone who had seen him.

“What was he like?” she asked, realising she didn't even know what he looked like. “Tall, short? Hairy, bald?”

Sarilo smiled. “You could not miss him. He is from Komis – with that distinctive hair black as evil's shadow, and those entrancing gold eyes. They unnerved me, Beata, I can tell you. A handsome fellow, though. And he had all of his own teeth.”

She smiled, clasping her hands around her knees, pulling them up to rest her chin on. “What was he like as a person?” she asked.

“He was pleasant enough. Fast-talking, a real charmer, put on a good show. I do not know what he was
really
like. I never really got to talk to him properly; he put on this persona like a heavy cloak, and it was difficult to tell what was under it.”

“And what about the tricks he did?” she asked breathlessly.

He shrugged. “Well, of course I assumed they were just tricks, but they were still impressive. He played the lute and sang tales of romance and adventure, and illustrated them with his ‘magic'. For example he made vines grow up the legs of the tables and flowers bloom out of thin air.”

Beata frowned. “I do not really understand. Why did everybody think this was just a trick? How could he have made that happen? Why did nobody Question him about it?”

Sarilo shrugged again. “We just all assumed it was part of the act. We had no reason to doubt otherwise. How could it have been anything other than an illusion? I know what you have told me about the Custos of the Arbor, but we are simple folk; we would not think to Question. To us it was a trick – a damn fine one, and for days afterwards people discussed how it might have been done – but a trick nonetheless.”

Beata sighed. It was growing late and most of the Militis had wrapped themselves in their blankets and closed their eyes. She said goodnight to Sarilo and did the same, staring into the leaping flames of the fire.

She found herself thinking about the Virimage, and wondering how he could have got away with his gift for so long. She wondered what he himself thought of it. Had he asked heartfelt Questions about it, studied it, puzzled over it for years? Or did he just accept it as part of him, like his hair and nails, like she accepted her gift for dealing with people?

She fell asleep that night dreaming about forests growing up around her, and of a magician with glowing gold eyes.

 

IV

When Beata awoke the following morning, it was dark and cold, although she knew the sun had risen behind the grey clouds. She dressed in her armour, shivering, and watched Gavius and his party don their mountain clothes. First they put on a tight pair of linen leggings and a-long sleeved vest, then a pair of woollen breeches and a thin woollen tunic. Over this went their usual leather breeches and thick padded hauberk, and finally the mail coat over the top of this, tight against the unusual layers.

“Like a caterpillar in a cocoon,” Gavius said wryly when asked how he felt. He shoved his feet into his boots after placing woollen socks over them and accepted a pair of thick, fur-lined leather mittens from Sarilo. They would make holding the reins difficult, Sarilo explained, but they would be glad of them after ten minutes in the freezing cold.

Finally they were encircled by heavy woollen cloaks, which were fastened at the neck, the material voluminous enough to wrap right around them almost twice.

They waddled out to their horses, Gavius complaining that if anybody were to attack them they would be in trouble, as he wouldn't be able to draw his sword, and even if he did, it would be lost in the folds of his cloak.

“I very much doubt there will be anyone living in the mountains at this time of year,” said Sarilo. “You should be safe until you exit the pass. Then you will need to be on your guard.”

The party mounted their horses. Beata looked around for Gravis, but he was not there. She had seen the twins talking that morning but had not been able to hear what they were saying. She hoped they had not argued and had said their goodbyes peaceably, in case they lived to regret it at a later date.

Beata went up to Gavius and held his hand. He had not yet put on his mittens, and his flesh was warm and dry. “May the Arbor watch over you and keep you safe,” she said, putting her hand to her heart.

Gavius did the same, exposing his oak leaf tattoo. He looked suddenly very young and unsure of himself, and she was reminded of his premonition. Was he thinking about it now?

He gave her one last smile. “I hope you find him,” he said. Then he turned his mare around and tapped it with his feet, and he led the party out through the gatehouse, disappearing as the road bent around and up to the mountains.

Beata sighed. Already she felt soaked from the rain, and she had a whole day of riding ahead of her. Her spirits were low, but she had to look bright and cheerful for the rest of the Militis, and so she walked around speaking to them and smiling and clapping her hand on their backs, and soon the party was mounted and talking about the day to come. Gravis had come out of the Hall at the last minute and he mounted his horse silently. Beata noted his appearance and made a mental note to talk to him on their journey about how he was feeling.

She clasped Sarilo's hand, then neatly mounted her horse, which was waiting impatiently once again, having been well rubbed-down, fed and rested. She raised her hand in salute and drew the hood of her cloak over her head. Turning the mare, she headed out through the gatehouse and across the drawbridge, and took the road south.

In spite of the fact that they were now well into the Stirring, it was cold and she did not feel the lightness of heart that often accompanied the first few days after the Sleep. As they left Hicton behind and headed south, Beata's heart sank even further at the thought of the long journey ahead. Sarilo had informed her it would take them nearly three days to reach Lornberg, which was where she would turn off for Henton on the coast, leaving Gravis to continue on to the Henge south of the Seven Hills. She was not sure the Virimage would be at Henton, and knew she could in fact end up chasing him around the country, but it was the last place he had been seen, and it was as good a starting place as any.

Sarilo had told her there were a few isolated villages on the way where they might be able to find a barn or an outhouse to bed down in for the night, but she knew it was possible they might have to find shelter on the road, and the thought of sleeping rough in the cold and the wet did not lift her spirits.

She tried singing again as they meandered along the road, but although the Militis joined in with the choruses, it was half-hearted and nobody protested when she eventually lapsed into silence.

She sighed, looking around at the view. The road veered away slightly from the mountains, and the landscape had opened up, the hedges and terracotta-brown crop fields giving way to rolling hills with low fences, the green fields filled with sheep. Occasionally a lake nestled in the valleys like a jewel in the dip of a beautiful woman's throat, and Beata thought that on a sunny day the view would probably be breathtaking. But today, the lakes were grey as beaten metal and the fields dull as unwashed linen, and the trees that occasionally lined the roadside drooped from the weight of the rain.

Gravis chose to ride at the back, next to Fortis, so Beata was unable to speak to him on the road. She wondered whether he had moved there on purpose to avoid talking to her. She checked back over her shoulder occasionally, seeing them talking every now and then, and tried to shake off the uncomfortable paranoia they were plotting against her. Procella trusted Fortis, she told herself. Hopefully, her faith had not been misplaced.

The first night they stopped at a small village – more of a hamlet really, at the conjunction of the main road and a lane leading off over the hills. It consisted of half a dozen small cottages and a variety of sheds and barns, and on talking to the village leaders they were given permission to rest in the barn, although the farmers told them outright they had no food to spare.

“We have brought our own supplies,” Beata told them, hoping they still had enough to see them through the night. “But we would be grateful if we could purchase some ale, or some milk to drink.” The farmers saw the glint of the Laxonian coin in her hand and agreed yes, they could spare some milk for the travellers, and brought it to them in two large pails, the liquid still warm from the cow's udder.

The two travelling parties split and rested in two separate barns, and Beata curled herself up in her blanket, ate her rations and drank the warm milk, and tried to ignore the scrabbling of the rats in the straw behind her. She felt very homesick, and kept thinking about Heartwood and her bed in the dormitory, and wondered when she would be able to see it again. She was sore from all the riding, and missed the hot bath and hospitality she had received at Cherton and Hicton. Feeling very sorry for herself, she turned her back and eventually fell asleep.