The Mazer (3 page)

Silva waited with the ponies and looked back towards the city. A bell began to toll. Winifred was right; Father would have known what to do. If he were still here, she’d be living in the Albatorium, with Mother too, of course, and she wouldn’t be going to Yewlith today. She wouldn’t have to return to her empty cabin tomorrow night. She might even have married and had children, but it was too late for that now.

“That was a bargain!” said Winifred, dropping coin into her pocket with one hand and triumphantly clutching a basket of apple tarts with the other. “Freshly made, too. I could have done tastier myself, but I can’t cook everything for us and the Session as well. What’s that? Another bell? Huh! Don’t look so worried, dear,” and she walked past Silva, guiding the ponies onto the bridge. “I’m sure they’ll manage without me!”

***

How pleasant it was to ride through the Homesteads! She hadn’t been here for years. This place had changed. Gone were the dilapidated huts drowning in weeds. Now there were cottage gardens to enjoy with willow woven portals over their gates and stepping-stone paths leading to porches draped with climbing roses and clematis, pink, purple, and white, their sweet scents mingling with thyme, sage, and spicy honeysuckle in the earthy air of new dawn.

She’d kept to herself in her cabin. When she wasn’t busy at Quagfen, she’d walk along the coast to collect shells to paint and sell as ornaments. She’d explored the Southernwood shore and had started to record her findings, writing descriptions of the beaches, plant life, animals, and fishes. She’d even begun to try her hand at illustrating some of her observations after she’d woken one morning to find a family of dolphins playing in the sea not far from the cabin.

Yes, she had a different life from these cottage people. Many Homesteaders were farmers, either out in the crop fields or here at home, tending their herbs, vegetables, and fruit trees. Others worked in the long barn where grain was stored or in the flour mills along the river. Some cottages were kept by city folk who came for rest days or festivals because it was such a pretty place, much prettier than she’d imagined. She really should think about getting herself a cottage once she’d finished writing about the coast.

There were already people about, but the sound of galloping hooves made her look back. Behind them, a stout horse bore an even stouter rider, brown cloak flapping wildly around him. The figure waved, nearly slid off his saddle, and then shouted out, “Winifred! Silva! Hey, hey! Stop! It’s me, Filibert!”

Silva turned her pony about. It was, indeed, Filibert, the Albatorium Treasurer. Whatever was he doing here?

Filibert rode up to them. Sweat poured from his brow, but his dark eyes sparkled. “Thank the Great Ash I found you both! I can’t ride well at the best of times. If I hadn’t talked to that pastry boy, I wouldn’t have known where to find you.”

Winifred laughed. “Didn’t you think to ask the guardery? They lent us the ponies. My word, Filibert, I’ve never seen you on a horse before. You look quite dashing!”

Filibert blushed. “A compliment, Winifred? That’s unusual! I’m glad I’ve shown myself to be such an accomplished horseman.”

“You are accomplished in many things, Filibert, and your skill on horseback is not the least among them. Have you come to filch a slice of my savory pie? I left you a special basket in the Albatorium kitchen. I hope none of the scullery maids have helped themselves to it. How will the finances of the island prosper if the Treasurer’s stomach is rumbling?”

It was Filibert’s turn to laugh. “My good lady, the Treasurer’s stomach is, as always, rumbling, but the basket is safe in my office, worry not.” He turned his gaze, more serious now, to Silva. “Silva, the Session ask that you come immediately to the Albatorium.”

“Immediately? Oh, Filibert! Is it about Rath?”

“No. We have no news of him. The Session wants to speak to you about another matter.”

Winifred frowned. “Why on earth do they want to see Silva?”

“I can’t tell you, Winifred, I’m sorry. I can’t tell anyone. Silva, this is important. I must insist you accompany me back to Southernwood.”

“What’s—” began Silva, but then Winifred launched forth.

“Filibert Muchbright! Whatever is all this fuss about? Some silly whim of the Session? I mean, honestly, Filibert, words fail me. Can’t you men ever consider a lady’s feelings? No, don’t interrupt me! I can see you don’t know what I’m talking about. We’re going up to Yewlith to pay our respects to Silva’s mother. Don’t look so surprised! I’d have told you if you’d bothered to listen, and I’m certain the Session are far too busy to have noticed what day it is. You’re all so caught up in your petty arguments and power struggles. No—”

“Winifred, please!” said Filibert. “I wouldn’t have ridden out if it wasn’t urgent. So, again, I must insist—”

“Filibert!” shouted Winifred. “Haven’t you been listening to me? I said we’re not coming! Now get yourself back to the Albatorium, and tell those lazy oafs to sort out their own problems! Come on, Silva, we must go!” Winifred rode off along the path.

Silva wasn’t sure whether to be worried or amused by Winifred’s outburst. “I’m sorry, Filibert. I must go to Yewlith today, and I’m very glad to have Winifred with me. I don’t know why she’s in such a bad mood all of a sudden.”

“No, neither do I,” said Filibert. He wiped his brow and glanced up the path to where Winifred had stopped. “If you can’t come back with me, I understand. It’s your birthday, and yes, I, for one, had forgotten. I would advise you to return to the city, but if it is your decision to continue, I shall inform the Session of your plans. When do you expect to be back?”

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Today is for my mother. Your journey was in vain, Filibert. But at least your riding finds favor with Winifred, and with me, also.”

Filibert nodded. “Then my journey has not been wasted.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” said Silva. “Can I ask you one question before you go? Do you know what a mazer is?”

Filibert scratched his nose. “Hmm, there used to be those drinking cups called mazers, beautiful things they were when decorated, but I’ve not seen one for many years. They’ve gone out of fashion, I suppose. Now, I must be off. Return as fast as you can tomorrow. Until then, travel well, and keep safe!” And with that, Filibert set off towards Homestead Bridge.

Silva joined Winifred who was waving a fan about her head in an effort to drive away a small cloud of flies.

“Well, Silva, how strange! Filibert is quite a different man when he’s on official business. What do you think this is all about?”

“No idea,” said Silva. “I haven’t met any of the Session for a long time, and if it’s nothing to do with Rath, I can only imagine it’s some matter concerning the woods near the cabin.”

She rode on. It was odd that the Session had sent Filibert. Why not send one of the guard? Maybe Filibert had wanted to see Winifred. Yes, that must be it. Tomorrow she’d be back in Southernwood City. She could go to the Albatorium, talk to the Session, and by nightfall she should be home.

***

It took them almost an hour to leave the Homesteads behind. They crossed the fields and headed for Falls River, visible in the distance only by the line of aspen, poplar, and willow running along it. While her pony stepped softly along the track, Winifred snoozed and occasionally sneezed on its back. The croplands were spacious, an ocean of green and yellow. But after a time, their novelty wore off and Silva looked forward to getting to the river and riding through the hills to Westernwood.

They reached the river after midday and followed its path towards First Falls. The trees became a thick wood. Leaves rustled in the afternoon breeze, and clear water bubbled over the shiny stones on its journey to the sea.

“Aha! We’re nearly where we want to be.” said Winifred. “See that outcrop of rock? There’s a nice little spot by the river up there, so we’ll soon rest and have a bite to eat. I’m ravenous! I wonder how Lisette is coping in the kitchen. I expect Filibert has guzzled everything I prepared for him by now. I should have left him two baskets. Or even three. Or maybe I shouldn’t have left him anything at all, the rascal.”

“So tell me, Winifred. You’ve never said much about Filibert, but he’s obviously a close acquaintance of yours.”

“That’s true. I’ve known Filibert almost all my life. We went to the school by the Albatorium together. We live near each other in the city. He was appointed Treasurer after your father disappeared, and I came to work in the kitchen only a few weeks later, once we’d got you settled in your cabin, as you know. He’s a good man. His parents are very elderly, and he takes care of them. As soon as the Albatorium bell rings in the morning, he’s in his office. The moment it rings in the evening, he leaves work and returns home unless there’s some essential business to attend to. He’s actually a very good cook. That’s another reason we get along so well. There’s nothing he likes better than to sit at his desk with a slab of bread and cheese, some cold meat with vegetable pickle, and a mug of mead. He’s clever, too. Filibert can estimate the number of leaves on a tree faster than a sword severing a pudding!”

Silva couldn’t imagine Filibert with a sword, although the pudding was another matter.

“You’ll find that some people think Filibert is a rather greedy, selfish, insular man. And they’re right, in some ways. But he’s honest, too. Look! Here we are!”

And Winifred carefully guided her pony towards a wide, willow-draped rocky step next to the river.

They ate bread, ham chunks smeared with mustard, and some of the eggs. The wine sent Winifred straight to sleep, but Silva couldn’t rest. She sat up and took the leaf out of her pocket.

Cries from her father in Oakenwood. It was true that the guards had said he was going to Oakenwood, although it was presumed he’d never arrived. His cloak and bag had been found near Rath’s cottage in the Homesteads by the riverbank, stained with blood. As for this Mazer, Isleaf seemed to think it was the most important thing of all. What had he said? Something about the Mazer’s key. Three gardens. And a green tree, yes, that was it. And—

Winifred began to snore.

“Winifred, wake up! We can’t stay here too long. Look at this leaf that Isleaf gave me. Can you understand what he’s talking about?”

Winifred stirred. “Dearie me! Did I doze off? What’s that? A leaf? Lovely!” She read Isleaf’s words and frowned.

“Winifred, why does Isleaf talk about Father being in Oakenwood? I can understand about Mother, but it’s that first line that really bothers me. Nobody apart from Rath knows what happened to Zossimo, and it seems the trees know, but Isleaf didn’t…er…say much else.” Should she tell Winifred about Isleaf’s last words to her, the ones that had disappeared back down into the tree?

Winifred was still puzzling over the leaf. “Now, the traitor, could that be Rath, do you think? Do the trees have any idea where he is? And what’s this about a Mazer? What’s it doing with the skies, and what is it, anyway?” She shook her head. “A mystery right and proper, Silva. But you know,” she got to her feet and continued, “these things usually become clear in time, believe me. There has to be a reason Isleaf told you this. They’re not stupid, our trees, oh no. Too intelligent for us—”

“Has this something to do with Filibert coming out to fetch me? Perhaps we should return to the Albatorium after all.”

“Don’t fret so much!” said Winifred, smiling, but Silva could see that Winifred was worried: she’d had the same smile when she’d reassured her that Mother wouldn’t die.

Wind blew down the valley, sweeping the ends of the willow branches into the river and then pulling them back over the step, leaving trails of water dripping over the rock.

“The wind’s changing. We must go,” said Winifred. So they tidied everything away and led their ponies up the track that would take them to Westernwood.

***

Silva stood on the ridge. The wind whipped hair into her eyes and mouth. She caught a strand with her tongue, curled it round and sucked the cold, rough ends. An old habit from childhood.

Why it was called Westernwood, she didn’t know. There were few woods, and no wonder, with the blast of sea air racing along the dusty, stony surface. Trails of black and pink cloud billowed across an orange sky. Beneath the cliffs yonder, rumbling rocks that were spewed out from the depths ran up the beach and were sucked back into the churning foam.

Here was Yewlith, the sea sanctuary, a place where the sun shone its last light of day on the house of those whose flame had dimmed forever. Yet the temple proclaimed life. Silhouetted against the ragged horizon, a giant stone tower rose from the northern corner, its smooth, tapering cylindrical trunk bursting into rocky branches from the top as if jumping up to shout, “They have not gone! They will live on!”

The top of the western tower housed a disused lantern room. A spiral staircase descended to the lighthouse keeper’s quarters and continued to the crypt below. Propped up against the southeastern side of the temple was a ramshackle barn where Winifred had taken the ponies. The sacks they’d brought with them leaned against the temple door.

The door was never locked. Last time she’d visited, this had seemed an odd state of affairs. There was nothing worth stealing, however. The temple was empty, apart from its lifeless inhabitants, and the keeper’s room held only a couple of straw mattresses—if the rats hadn’t nibbled them to shreds. She shoved open the door and took the sacks inside.