The Mazer (26 page)

Could they know what the keys were for? He did. He’d always been convinced there had to be some other part to the Mazer, something that would make it truly alive. It was quite clear that one poem about a tree floating in the air referred to the Maple. Didn’t it float within the Mazer? Hortus had mentioned Old Elm, too, for some strange reason; maybe he’d had a soft spot for that tree; many people did! No, there could be no other explanation—the key was for the Mazer. It was most unfortunate, however, that Rath had stolen the cup. What had he seen within it? Had he told the others? They might—

The door opened slowly. First a foot, then a tray appeared. A steaming bowl filled the room with the aroma of onion soup. It was Lisette.

“Oh, sir!” She looked surprised, then bowed her head. “Good morning, Legator. Have you seen Marchus? I’ve brought him some breakfast. I’ve set the tables below if you’d like some yourself.”

He walked towards her, the dust from Marchus’ leaf still on the soles of his sandals.

“Where’s Winifred?”

“She isn’t here, sir. She left me in charge last night.” Lisette turned away from him, placing the tray on top of a cabinet.

“Don’t put that there, girl! These are the precious records of our people. We didn’t put them in here to get smothered in soup by some witless servant!”

Lisette stiffened, then picked the tray up. “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll take it straight down.”

He laid his hand on her shoulder. She shivered. Soup slopped over the side of the bowl and onto her hand.

“No Winifred, eh? Harold’s not around either. But it’s Marchus I’m worried about, Lisette. Where is he? Out on some foolish errand with the cook and the bell ringer? The sun will shine strong today, Lisette. Not a good day for our archivist to be running around the island.”

She turned to face him, her eyes wide. “Oh, sir! I can’t imagine Marchus running anywhere, can you? I don’t know where he can be, but if he’s with Winifred, I heard her talking to Arpad last night about meeting up with Silva at Yewlith. I did wonder how—”

Trevello burst through the door, Filibert behind him.

“Bassan! The prisoners! They’re gone! And Arpad! He’s—”

Bassan held up his hand. “Listen to me, Trevello. Prepare a company of the guard for Maplewood, another for Yewlith, a third to ride with me to Ashenwood. And you, Filibert. You’re still here I see?”

Filibert’s face gave nothing away. It never did, did it? What was he doing, calculating the odds of being charged as an accomplice?

“Of course I’m here, Bassan,” said Filibert smoothly. “The Treasurer’s place is with the Legator, if, as we discussed, you should honor me with that position. And from whom should I request payment for the services of the guard on this occasion: Trevello’s office, or the Legator’s account?”

“You’re such a stickler for protocol, Filibert! Charge it to me, Legator of Southernwood. And get yourself ready. You’re coming with me. You’ll have to find your own horse. I’m not paying for that!”

Filibert bowed, rather too extravagantly. How could he not know what Winifred and her companions were up to? He’d come down to the laboratory late last night, insisting Bassan accompany him up to his cellar to discuss treasury accounts at great length. That’s when they must have escaped! He picked up his bag.

“Come, Lisette.” Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken to her so harshly. Hadn’t Mother also worked in the kitchen after Father’s death? “That soup looks good, and I’ll take some of it if I may.”

“Yes, sir,” said Lisette, looking relieved.

They walked to the door. Bassan glanced back at Trevello and Filibert. “Have you ever heard of the Mazer?” he asked.

Trevello looked confused. “No,” he said.

Filibert stared up at the ceiling. “Can’t say I have.”

Then he turned his gaze on Bassan. Their eyes locked. Bassan gripped his bag tightly. Filibert was lying. He, Bassan, would know, wouldn’t he? He knew what it was to deceive, to deny. But Filibert would get his comeuppance. And so would his friends. For soon there would be one who would unlock the power of the Mazer and become master of the island and its trees: Bassan Zabal, Librarian, Legator, son of Reystan, son of Avren, son of Petran. And for the traitor trees and those who wished to save them, only one judgment remained.

***

They plodded upstream and found a place to cross. Then they released the horse into the forest. Back along the opposite side of the stream they tramped, their way made easier by the strengthening light of dawn.

“There’s Southernwood River,” said Arpad after a while. And indeed it was, its waters glinting in the sun, the road to Ashenwood running in front of it, bordering the forest. They gathered by the edge of the trees.

“Phew! It’s getting hot already,” said Marchus, removing his cloak to reveal a tatty gray shirt.

“Hot, and there’s a touch of a storm in the air,” said Arpad, shading his eyes as he gazed back towards Southernwood. “We’ll keep under cover until we reach Westernwood Crossing, though. No road for us.”

It was slow going. The lumpy earth below their feet was sodden and slippery, brambles caught their clothing, and they had to stop frequently to let Marchus catch his breath.

Bassan must know of their escape by now. The guard would be after them. Marchus had wanted some adventure. Well, he’d got it! Sliding about along this horrible slope, the air full of insects swarming up from the river, the ground below a haven for nettle and thorn.

Eventually they reached the crossing where the road split into two, one path leading across the stone bridge towards the west, the other continuing up the valley to the Petrified Forest and Ashenwood.

“This is where we leave you,” puffed Marchus. He eyed Winifred with a smile. “We can slow down a bit. Let these younger folks do the running about. A pleasant walk for us it’ll be, across gentle hill and tussock, nothing too energetic!”

Winifred laughed sourly. “Oh yes! We’ve only got to cross half the island from here. What a trek that will be! I do wonder, though,” and she frowned, “how things are going in my kitchen. I’d usually have prepared a nice broth by now and sent some in to Filibert.”

“Don’t you worry,” said Marchus. “Filibert can look after himself. And we’ll be fine!” He smiled, his face shiny and damp, his shirt soaked with sweat, ragged trousers hanging around bony knees, his knitted socks full of burrs bulging out above shoes that were caked with mud and grass. Winifred looked no better. She should be taking charge of the kitchen, not traipsing around the island through valley and fen!

“You’ll do it,” said Arpad. “I know you will. Travel well, dear scribe, dear cook!” He stood to attention and saluted them. Arpad seemed to have every confidence in these two! She stood straight and nodded; it seemed appropriate to do so, although she felt like falling on the ground and weeping for these faithful friends, yes, she did!

“To Yewlith!” cried Marchus, and he paced down towards the river. Winifred sighed. Then she looked at Silva and smiled determinedly before following Marchus across the bridge and into the flat fields between Ashenwood and Westernwood.

Arpad watched them go, then set off through the trees. They were nearing the burial gardens, whose high walls were made not simply of stone, but also hedging and wattle laden with climbers. They found a gap and crept into a field of oak and maple.

When had she last visited the gardens? A long time ago when Grandmother was buried by the only yew that grew there. Grandmother had wanted treebark, not a leaf, to be written on after her death. This had caused some argument at the time, but, as in all things, Grandmother had got her way.

“Where’s the yew, Arpad?” she asked.

“In the next field, my lady,” he said, stopping by a fresh grave under a maple. Its branches hung low for such a tree, caressing the pile of earth beneath.

“No stone placed here yet. But I know who’s buried below.” Arpad knelt, leaned forward, and touched his face to the ground. “May this maple protect you, young Somerhanna, for we remember you with such joy, and parted with as many tears as would fill the mightiest sea!”

He sat up. “My niece,” he said quietly. “My sister’s child. Plump and full of life, she was, until winter’s end when a sour illness entered her heart and wouldn’t let her go.”

Silva bowed her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Arpad nodded and stood up. “Sorrow, great sorrow, Silva. But this is our world, and we cannot escape it. A guard I am, and a criminal, now, too, if Bassan were to find me. But with Somerhanna’s passing so fresh in my thoughts, I’m not standing by and doing nothing when a man like Bassan becomes Legator. Once, I might have accepted things as they were, and not thought twice about it. Now, though…”

He held out a hand. She took it.

“Let’s find your tree,” he said, his face full of pain. He held her hand tight as they made their way through the high hedges to the next field, to the yew, surrounded by gravestones.

Silva couldn’t help but smile. Grandmother had been tall and thin and her stone was just the same—more of a pillar, sticking up from the other stones about her.

“This is it, Arpad,” she said, walking up to where Grandmother lay.

Elda, Daughter of Elsha, Wife of Esmond, Mother of Eldis

Wise, Strong, Helper of those in Need

Your Words Forever in our Ears

Yes, her words still rang in Silva’s ears: “Hang this cloth out to dry, Silva, there’s a good girl! And don’t listen to your father, dear; he’s only Librarian and Legator. What does he know? Eldis! Have you seen this filthy child? What? Ice in the basin? Ooh, there’s nothing more bracing than a good, cold wash!”

“We must go,” said Arpad. She turned reluctantly. They left Grandmother’s grave and hurried down a stony lane that led to the main road.

“Let’s stop,” said Arpad. “I need to check the guard post by Ashenwood Crossing.”

“There are guards here?” Of course there would be; hadn’t Father kept Ashenwood closed to islanders?

“I don’t think anyone will be on duty,” said Arpad. “They were ordered back to Southernwood after your election. Wait here!” He loped off towards the bridge.

So Trevello had already recalled the guard!

“None of them had the slightest intention of doing a single thing I said,” she muttered. “And look where it’s got them! Oh—there’s Arpad beckoning, we’d better get across this bridge before any of the guard do, indeed, arrive.”

She ran out of the trees and over the bridge. Ahead of them loomed the Petrified Forest. Old wood, coin, the river; all so familiar to Father, no doubt. He must have sensed, like her, the grandeur of these trees who stood silent, watching and waiting for the years to pass so that they might only relish in being ever older. They trod over fallen stone and upturned root until they reached the river bank, where the oldest trees of them all lay like dead men about the banks of the rushing waters.

“This valley isn’t very big,” she panted, struggling to keep up with Arpad. “I can’t imagine this was a city, can you? Buildings, yes, ruins now, but no signs of wide streets or a market square like in Southernwood.”

“Oh, we’re not in the city yet, my lady. If we’d kept on the main road, we’d have gone around the hill and into the valley beyond. We’ll go up this track and over the hill from this side, and then you’ll see.”

The narrow river shot past them below. A small bridge caught her attention. It swung from side to side, made only of planks, it seemed. There were no ropes to hold onto—you’d have to crawl across to reach the other side where she glimpsed a door built into the side of a hillock. What a strange place! She’d be glad to get out of it. She didn’t envy the coin collectors one bit. No wonder they sent people up here to work as a punishment.

She reached the top of the hill, her heart beating fast, her breath gone. Then she stopped in amazement.

The Ash rooted below her reached up into the sky, his branches stretching out and twisting down into the greenery. This must be Master Ash of old. Behind him, the trees of Ashenwood dotted the landscape like an army on the march. The winding river was blue here, slow, wider than the gray waters that raced through the Petrified Forest. She could make out lines, shapes, the marks of a town, a city—the old city of Ashenwood! The lines connected, leading to Great Ash, who had surely stood in a square, as proud as the Sundial Tree, watching life go by.

She walked down to join Arpad. They scrambled through hawthorn and sticky alder, then entered a clearing, marveling at the huge trunk before them.

“Can this tree really have destroyed the city, Arpad? I wonder if he—”

“I’m not—”

Something thudded into the trunk. Then another.

“Knives!” yelled Arpad, and he grabbed Silva, pulling her back to the edge of the clearing.

Footsteps crashed towards them.

“They’re going to find us!” she hissed.

“No. Listen! They’ve gone to search around the outside of the trees,” said Arpad. “We’re stuck in the middle with old Ash, and I don’t see how he’s going to help us.”

“Maybe he can,” she said. “See that hole in his trunk?”

Arpad wasn’t convinced. “If we climb in there, my lady, they’re sure to guess where we are.”