The Mazer (24 page)

“No thank you!” said Marchus firmly. “I prefer two legs, not four. How about you, Silva?”

“I’ll walk with you, Marchus. Winifred?”

“If you insist,” grumbled Winifred, allowing Arpad to help her up. “If I fall off, who’ll catch me? Stop laughing, Marchus, or you’ll be next! Careful, Arpad, don’t lead him on too fast, please. Ooh, this horse is too tall for my liking. Why didn’t we take a pony?”

Silva and Marchus followed them up the path.

“I think we’ll set the horse free before we leave the Hintermounts,” pondered Marchus. “If the guard find our tracks up here, we don’t want them following us any farther.”

“Getting down to the stream is going to be tricky,” said Silva. “I can’t see Winifred climbing down there. She’ll have to wait with the horse. How will she manage trekking up to the Round Tower? She can’t go as fast as I can.”

“We’ve thought of that, Silva. From here, we cut down to the Ashenwood road and skirt along it. Hopefully, nobody will discover your escape while it’s dark. That gives us a good start. I say we try to find the Hintermount key tonight. Then we get onto the road by morning, and Arpad and yourself should make Ashenwood by midday. You’ll have plenty of time to get to the Round Tower.”

“What about you and Winifred? Aren’t you coming with us?”

“Oh, no!” said Marchus. “Best if you two go north by yourselves. Once Harold and Rath get to the tower, you can all make your way down to Yewlith, and we’ll meet you there.”

“Why are we going to Yewlith? The Mazer’s in the Albatorium with Bassan. Even if we find these bits of Hortus’ keys, we won’t be able to do anything without the Mazer, will we?”

Marchus stopped. “I don’t know about that,” he said. “I think it’s very telling that Hortus never mentions the Mazer in his poems, don’t you? I’m not convinced we need to have the Mazer in our possession just yet, although it may be best if we do, so I have arranged for it to be brought to Yewlith.”

“What!”

“Yes. I’ve instructed Lisette to tell Bassan that we’re ending our journey in Yewlith. Much better to face him there than in the city. He’s bound to bring the Mazer with him! I doubt he’s let it out of his sight since Harold pinched it.”

“You—Marchus! What have you done?”

“Nothing, my dear Silva! Nothing to worry about at all. Bassan doesn’t know about
The Book of Hortus
, does he? He doesn’t know about any key; remember that! Harold said Bassan keeps the Mazer in an old writing box. Can you believe it? It’s still no more useful to him than some old ornament, although he must have been trying for many years to find out about it.”

Marchus looked very pleased with himself. She, however, could hardly bring herself to utter a single word. What did he imagine would happen? That Bassan would welcome them with open arms at Yewlith, grant them all pardons for their various offenses, shrug off years of animosity between himself and Marchus, and then offer to show them a rather interesting cup called the Mazer?

“Have you told anyone else about this?” she asked hoarsely.

“Only Winifred and Arpad. Not the others, though—they’d have thought I was mad! Now listen. Hortus knew what controlled this island. Or who. Maybe Hortus himself was in charge; who knows? But for some reason that we’ll never understand, he was left here to die. That much is clear to me. He wanted to leave, and he knew he couldn’t. So he wrote his book and left the trees as they were. He didn’t destroy them because he talked about ‘A truth I could never destroy nor deny.’ So, Silva!”

“Yes, Marchus,” she said, a little worried about what he was going to say next.

“Whatever you find out, whatever choices you are given, bear in mind that you are the rightful Legator of this island. You, and only you, hold the future of Southernwood in your hands. Not Bassan. No, not him! Not even the trees, powerful though they are. Once named Legator, the trees should bend to your authority, yet Bassan has destroyed your power with them, lied to them, taken your place. But are the trees evil? Have they ever lied to us? Have they not always done what is right for us, protected us, treated us as valuable beings on this lonely earth? Can we convince them of Bassan’s treachery? I think we can. I think you can, Silva, but only if you remember that you are Zossimo’s daughter, child of Eldis, named Legator by Great Aspen. Nothing else! Will you do this, Silva? Will you promise me?”

“I promise,” she whispered.

So now she had two promises to keep: one to Mother, the other to Marchus; one to the dead, the other to the living. Which promise was more important? Or would one fulfill the other?

Marchus gathered the tail ends of his cloak around his stomach and scuttled up the path on his thin, white, sapling-stick legs. Arpad and Winifred had disappeared. She’d better catch them up and make sure Marchus didn’t trip over and topple into a ditch.

Higher and higher they went. Arpad drew the horse to one side and helped Winifred to the ground.

“Is that where we’re going?” panted Winifred, pointing to a stone bench marking a break in the trees to their left.

She’d sat there with Mother waiting for Father to climb back up from the stream with fresh, cold, spring water. Her stomach stirred with excitement. “This is it, Winifred. Why don’t you sit here while we go down? And Marchus—will you come with us? Or should you take the horse and go on with Winifred?”

Marchus chuckled. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything, Silva. If I get stuck coming back up the slope, I’m relying on Winifred to rescue me!”

“Don’t you worry, old fellow,” said Winifred, settling down on the bench. “I have no intention of leaving you here. Although I should warn you,” she said, her expression darkening, “that despite our planned trip to Yewlith, if I find out that Bassan has discovered Filibert’s part in all this and is meting out some nasty punishment, I shall indeed abandon you, I’m sorry to say, in order to return immediately to the Albatorium to stir up a large pot of trouble!”

“I’ll go first,” said Arpad. “Marchus, you follow after me. Silva, you’re at the back. Ready?”

Down they went, brushing through spider webs, squeezing around narrow corners and protruding rocks, climbing over fungus covered logs, descending into the cooler air of the rushing waters below. The small stream she remembered had become a faster, wider river.

“We’ve got to find stepping stones!” called Silva. “I don’t know if the river’s hiding them. I can’t see in this light.”

Marchus gazed upstream. “I can. There’s something up there along our side of the river.” He shuffled along the mossy bank, pointing into the gloom, chuckling. “Ah! We won’t have to cross the river after all. Those are branches those are, cut and gathered just so by the woodsmen of old. It’s a marker, yes, with a pile of rocks around it. I’ve seen something very similar in an illustration of—”

The sound of the water muffled his voice. They scurried after him and approached the rocks that surrounded a bundle of tall, leafless branches sticking up into the air.

The old man grinned widely, waving his arms about. “I was right,” he said. “The cave must be somewhere nearby. And I think I know where.” He turned and pointed to a gully behind.

“How do you know?” asked Arpad, looking worried. “Aren’t we supposed to cross a river? There’s no river here.”

“Oh, but there was,” said Marchus. The moonlight caught his white hair, and a silver glint flashed in his golden eyes. “This is a dry river bed now. Those stones mark the place of a memorial. The branches? The sign of a man of the trees!”

Arpad glanced at Silva. “Is he talking about Zossimo?” he whispered.

She shook her head. “He can’t be. Surely someone would have told me of such a place to remember Father.” She stepped over to the stones, observing the thick branches rising from the middle. The shape resembled Great Aspen growing out of the Albatorium.

“These branches are from oak,” she said. “But who put them here?”

“Who indeed?” said Marchus. “But Winifred is waiting for us. Come along! It’ll be a lot easier to spot any stepping stones if there’s no water here.” He entered the gully and then stopped, gingerly poking the edge of a large slab of rock with his toe. “Oh, dear! This place could be crawling with snakes.”

“It’s not the snakes in the gully I’m worried about, Marchus, it’s the ones in the cave we need to—”

“Over here!” shouted Arpad. “Look! Clear as day, even by night!” He jumped up onto a smooth, round stone, then leapt across to another. Marchus hurried after him, climbing onto his own stepping stone, before sitting down and laughing merrily as Arpad jumped his way all across the river bed to the other side and back, landing next to the archivist. He pulled the old man to his feet and shook his hand enthusiastically.

“Marchus, I’m not a man of word or book myself and have never wanted to be, but your long years of study and your sharp eyes and mind have proved themselves tonight. Your sign is correct. The stepping stones are here. And there’s the entrance to the cave.” Arpad pointed to an opening at the bottom of a low cliff. They’d found it!

Marchus beamed. “Oh, there is none finer than you, Arpad, to compliment me so. For we’d not be here without your help. Who am I? Just an archivist. Old Marchus. Protector of history, of books—and not a very good one at that. But you? You are young, of the guard, protector of island and islanders. You did not wait, as I have done for so long, to act against so plain an evil.” He sighed. “Hortus had his regrets, too, I believe. So come, let us enter the cave, find him, and free him. Then I think we’ll both feel better.”

They made their way across the gully towards the cave. But it was clear they weren’t the first to visit this place recently. The rocks and roots sticking out of the cliff about the entrance were adorned with handkerchiefs, woven necklaces, and all manner of clothing hanging limply in the night air.

“What are these?” asked Silva.

Arpad reached for a small cap, sickly red in the thin light, the long tassels on each side neatly laced together into a bow. “I know what this place is. I should have guessed what Hortus meant, even though I’ve never been to this part of the river. The burial garden’s on the Ashenwood road, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Arpad, it is.” This was a child’s cap, close fitting. It was a hat for an occasion, worn to impress, to remember, to treasure. She gave Arpad a sad smile.

“Yes, my lady,” he said. His mouth twisted. “They come through the Hintermounts before the burial sometimes. They leave clothing, usually, or some other keepsake. It’s not permitted, of course, but Trevello turns a blind eye. He’s even been up here himself, they say. When his wife died. They also say the spring starts to flow when you hang something by the rock, tears from the earth, washing away the grief of the flesh. I should have come myself, I—”

“Oy!” shouted Marchus.

Arpad hurriedly replaced the cap, and they peered into the cave. Marchus lay stomach down, scratching at something.

“There’s a picture here. A mosaic, is it? Stand away from the cave entrance, Arpad; it’s dark enough even for me.”

Silva went to kneel beside him. “It’s a garden, Marchus, look! Lines of hedging,” and she traced her finger across the tiny, dusty, broken stones, “surrounding a square. That’s a fountain in the middle, I’m sure—and such design!”

“So where’s the key?” asked Arpad softly. “My lady, we don’t have much time, not if we want to leave the Hintermounts tonight.”

“You’re right, Arpad,” muttered Marchus. “Where are you hiding, Hortus, my old friend?”

They scrubbed the floor with hands and sleeves, coughing in the dust. She made out a clump of pale green, the crowns of trees, a forest, then a band of lighter color—then blue, stone after stone of blue.

“Waves!” she exclaimed. “Hortus’ boat, remember, Marchus? He must be out at sea.”

She scraped the neighboring mosaics with a vengeance.

And there he was, sitting in his small craft, alone on the sea by Southernwood, his pale face much larger, more expressive than in the illustration she remembered.

“Give me a knife, Arpad,” she whispered. She carefully cut into the gaps around the tiles containing Hortus and his boat. The earth beneath his face was more resistant. The key was under here; it had to be. Hadn’t Hortus wanted to be released?

Part of the mosaic popped out of the ground: two tiles, joined together. Hortus’ eyes, so bland in expression before, now shone, golden and bright. How strangely they resembled Marchus’ eyes! Was this the key? She turned the piece over, her hands trembling. No words were written there, only thin, silver, criss-crossing lines on a smooth, dark surface.

“Never seen anything like that before,” said Marchus in her ear. He took the key from her and sat up. “What did he employ to make those lines? Paint? Ink? How does this key work? I suppose we need the other keys to find out.”

“His eyes are like yours, Marchus; didn’t you notice?” said Silva.

Marchus was silent for a moment. “Maybe we’re related,” he said bitterly, dropping the key into her lap. He struggled up from the ground, waving away Arpad who came forward to help him. “We have the key. We must go. We’re not finished yet.”

Marchus limped out. Arpad’s shadow disappeared after him. A sharp smell of rain on dry ground entered the cave. Dust stirred on the floor, covering up Hortus’ eyeless face. Silva got up and looked outside. Raindrops dripped from the rock above, bouncing off her cloak and onto her shoes. A puddle had started to form in front of her, but not from the rain. This water bubbled up from below, trickling down to the first stepping stone, finding its way downstream to the river. They hadn’t hung anything here, had they? Why had the spring begun to flow?