The Mazer (30 page)

Nothing happened. What should she do? Wait for the coming dawn? If only Arpad were here! “Calm down,” she muttered furiously. “Rath and Harold should arrive later today, unless something’s happened to them, too.” There was nothing to see from the doorway other than the path leading back to Spinney Henge—and two gulls, flying low, speeding across the path and out of sight, calling loudly to each other. They skimmed the top of the tower before disappearing around the other side towards the sea.

“Where were you in that poem, Hortus? Don’t tell me. Up on top of the tower, watching the gulls looking down at you! Look below… Then up I go! Is there ivy up there too? Bound to be; the whole building’s covered in it. Ouch!”

She’d crashed into the wooden stepladder leading up to the next level. But now she was on it, climbing through the hole at the top into the room above, feeling the musty air for the next ladder that took her up against a trapdoor. She scrabbled to find the catch and pushed with all her might. There was a crack—the hinges?— and the door fell off, smashing into her head before clattering to the floor below.

She was exhausted, but she’d reached the top. “It’s up here; I know it is!” she cried, ripping the ivy away from the walls and floor, throwing it down over the sides, ignoring her thumping head and scratched hands. She stubbed her toe and fell against the parapet. Out west, a pink and purple sea. To the east, Spinney Henge. She caught her breath. The henge gleamed in the distance, its pattern reminding her of the carved sun on the Tree Tower at Yewlith. She bent down to rub her toe.

She stood on evenly laid brickwork. One brick, however, sat higher than the others. She thought of the gardens of darkness and the mosaic that had hidden the Hintermount key. Then she hunted for her lacing hook and began to scrape about the edge of the brick, round and round, farther and farther in, finally levering it out to reveal a small, empty space. She examined the brick in disbelief. No, this hadn’t been tampered with. But there was nothing buried below it.

“Where’s the key, Hortus? What have you done with it?”

“Oh dear! Is there a problem?”

It was him. She put the brick and hook on the ground. Got up. Stared at the henge. Seven stones around an eighth. Seven sunbeams on the Tree Tower, some of them missing. Three missing? The three keys? So that’s where they belonged! But the key below her feet was gone, and her nostrils filled with the scent of horse, sweat, mint, and rosemary.

Footsteps tap-tapped up the ladder. There was a flash of light. She turned to look behind her. Bassan squinted out to sea, and she followed his gaze. A boat floated out of the cove, a lone man standing next to the mast, a silver sail billowing in the wind, and as one they whispered the same name, “Hortus!”

***

~~ Chapter Six ~~

The Mazer of Yewlith

Yewlith. He’d made it! But the sanctuary’s surroundings offered no cover. Should he wait until dark to cross the fields? It must now be mid-morning. The sun shone warmly enough, although a chilly wind blew, chillier still when a cloud came along.

There was the wagon he’d clung to. It lay abandoned next to a hut jutting out from the side of the temple where guards meandered about. A couple of men stood on top of the Tree Tower, no doubt examining the twisted branches and pondering, as every islander did, the mystery of its strange design.

No point making a run for it. He’d better keep his head down and—

Furious whispering came from behind him. He nearly jumped out of his skin and back in again! The whispers became groans as he heard a familiar voice.

“Winifred, slow down! I can’t go any farther.”

“Yes, but it’s Harold. Told you so, Marchus!”

He giggled as Winifred and Marchus crawled towards him like a pair of old scarecrows come to life. Grass and thistle adorned their knotted hair and crumpled clothing—and had Marchus lost his trousers? His bare legs, dotted with angry red bites, poked out from under a tattered cloak, and his shoes were in ribbons.

Winifred collapsed beside him. “We…are…exhausted!” she panted, wiping her dripping nose on her sleeve. “But I think adventure suits me. My cold has almost disappeared and I feel twenty years younger. How about you, Marchus?”

The archivist lay face down, his hands over the back of his head. “Never felt older,” he gasped. “Can’t bear it out here. Good to see you, Harold, very good indeed. You see, Winifred, my plan worked. But how are we going to get into Yew—”

“Did you find a key, Harold?” interrupted Winifred. “We did! But there’s one thing you don’t know and it’s all Marchus’ fault because he didn’t tell you, and that’s—”

She stopped and gave Harold a shrewd look. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to the Round Tower by now?”

Harold cleared his throat. “We found the key. That is, I did. It was hidden in the lake where the Maple stands. But while I was in the water, the guard caught Rath. I heard them talking. They were taking him to Yewlith. Bassan’s orders. So I came here instead. Rath’s in there.”

He pointed to the sanctuary. His heart filled with shame. He’d ruined the whole plan. But what else should he have done? “Nothing, nothing, nothing,” he repeated to himself, shaking his head.

“And the Maple?”

“I’m sorry, Marchus. They set it on fire.”

Marchus rolled over, sat up, and grabbed Harold’s arm. “They did what!” The old man’s eyes flickered wildly. “This is most worrying! Why were they there? Bassan couldn’t have known where that key was. Unless he’d found my copy of
The Book of Hortus
in the family leaves archive. In which case—”

“I don’t think they were looking for a key, Marchus. I think they were there to destroy the Maple.”

“And did they?” said Winifred.

“I hope not. I put the fire out and poured water around the trunk. That’s what I thought I should do. I hope it was enough.”

Marchus nodded and released Harold’s arm. “You did the right thing, Harold. If that’s what you thought, then I’m sure—”

“So what don’t I know?” asked Harold.

“Aha!” said Winifred. “Wait until you hear what Marchus has done!”

Marchus groaned. “Please stop nagging me, Winifred. Like young Harold, I only did what I thought was best. I told Lisette to tell Bassan that we were all meeting up at Yewlith. He wouldn’t travel without the Mazer. Silva and Arpad were to bring you and Rath here, where we could corner Bassan and try out the keys. What I didn’t expect,” and he nodded towards the temple, “was that there would be so many people at the sanctuary! I presumed Bassan knew nothing of the keys. Looking at that lot, I’m not so sure. I just hope Bassan hasn’t sent guards to the Round Tower. Mind you, that poem didn’t give much away. I think Silva and Arpad should be safe, don’t you?”

Harold glanced at Marchus’ concerned face. Why would Master Ash have wanted to know where Silva was going? Would he have been able to tell…

“Where’s Bassan?” he asked.

“No sign of him!” said Winifred sharply. “No Bassan, no Mazer, no news of Filibert! And no keys from Silva yet. She’ll be waiting for you with Arpad at the Round Tower this evening. What will they do when you don’t turn up? It’s time we did something. Look at Marchus! He’ll burn to a crisp if we hang about any longer. Tell you what, Harold, you help Marchus get into the temple. Find out what Bassan is up to. And nab the Mazer again. Ready?”

“Winifred, stop!” protested Marchus as Winifred began to crawl away south in the direction of the ridge.

“Wrap your cloak around you, Marchus,” said Harold, “and make sure your shoes are tied properly.”

Poor old Marchus. If anyone could do with a fresh pair of shoes, it was their brave archivist! Then he remembered the vellum he’d stuffed into his shirt pocket.

“Here you are, Marchus. I’m sorry if the poem’s a bit creased, but I was in ever such a hurry.”

“Oh! Thank you, my boy!” exclaimed Marchus. “You’re lucky that this vellum is virtually indestructible. Look! As good as new. Now only Silva’s poem—”

“Marchus! Tuck those verses away. The moment Winifred does whatever she’s planning to do, we need to move.”

He checked the Tree Tower. More men stood on the top, while others were jumping down onto the balcony. Guards appeared from the side hut, gathering in just the right spot to grab him and Marchus when they—and oh! There was Winifred. Standing on the path between the ridge and the front entrance, shouting words that were instantly swallowed by the wind, and flapping her arms up and down like an infuriated chicken!

Marchus looked horrified. “What does she think she’s doing?”

“Um…I don’t know, Marchus. We’ll have to stay here, though. They’ll see us straight away if we try to—”

Winifred approached the entrance, still shouting and flapping, but nobody paid her any attention. The men on the tower looked north and the crowd of guards around the hut started running to the back of the temple.

“Now, Marchus!” They scampered across the field, crouching as low as they could, making for Winifred, who stood alone on the path, her hands in the air, shaking her head.

“Of all the cheek!” she complained, reaching out and gathering a wheezing Marchus in her arms before dragging him through the entrance and into the empty gallery. “They totally ignored me! Some other, much more important arrival to Yewlith, I presume? Who could that be?”

From the north. The Round Tower? There was only one person who could prompt such a reaction from the men at Yewlith: Bassan. And he’d be coming in here any second!

A door slammed. Someone had entered the gallery.

“Quick!” whispered Winifred. “Into the keeper’s room. Look, nobody inside, thank the Tree Star. Oh, come along, Marchus! Harold! Shut the—”

A large hand grasped the edge of the door. Then a smiling face appeared and they all cried out in relief, “Filibert!”

“Just in time, I think!” The Treasurer slipped into the room and closed the door softly. Outside, the gallery echoed with the thud of stamping boots making their way down to the crypt.

“You always were good at timekeeping, Filibert,” whispered Winifred, hugging him. Then she froze as Bassan thundered, “Take her downstairs! And show me the Yew!”

The footsteps faded away.

“Oh, no,” mouthed Marchus, collapsing onto a mattress. “He’s got Silva!”

“Right then, Filibert,” said Winifred. She sat down next to Marchus and took his pale hand in hers. “What’s been going on? And why did you come to Yewlith? Not that I’m complaining. I’m mighty glad to see you in one piece. Did Bassan suspect you at all?”

“Of course he did! Took me to Ashenwood with him to keep an eye on me—”

“You mean Bassan was in Ashenwood?” asked Harold. “When?”

“Yesterday. He arrived here only in the early hours this morning. Set off north almost immediately, but not before he…”

Harold didn’t hear what Filibert said next. The Ash had, indeed, told Bassan where Silva was, and if—

“Show us your key, Harold,” said Marchus gently.

He took it out, his hands trembling.

“Hm,” said Winifred. “Is that it? Clean it off a bit, dear! Here, let me.” She took the key and rubbed it carefully between the folds of her cloak. “Yes. Very much like the key we found in the Hintermounts.” She glanced up at Filibert. “Just a moment. If Bassan’s only captured Silva, where’s Arpad?”

“And what about Rath?” said Harold swiftly. “I know he’s here. Have you seen him?”

Filibert leaned heavily against the door. “Rath’s up on the Tree Tower. Arpad, too. Bassan captured him at Ashenwood. I don’t know how she did it, but Silva escaped.”

Master Ash hadn’t lied to him about that, then; he
had
met Silva!

“The question is,” continued Filibert, “how many keys has Bassan got his greedy fingers on? Presuming Silva found her second key at the Round Tower, Bassan has only two out of the three in his possession. Hah! That means he can’t use the Mazer. And he doesn’t know how the keys work, anyway.”

Marchus shuffled his feet. “I’m not entirely sure about that. He might have found my copy of
The Book of Hortus
. He may know more than we think. Never underestimate this man. He’ll do anything to get what he wants. Does he have any friends? He’s ruthless with his family, as we’ve seen. That man has no heart! He’s—”

“Let me tell you something,” said Filibert thoughtfully. “Before we left for Ashenwood, he didn’t visit his brother or Medrella in the cells. Couldn’t face them, if you ask me. And why am I still walking free? I’d say, it’s because my Father, and Bassan’s father, Reystan, were the best of friends. So you see, there are some things Bassan—”

“You three! Stand guard outside the entrance! Where’s Filibert? Find him and send him down to me!”

Filibert looked alarmed. “I’d better go,” he said. “Marchus, Winifred, best if you both stay here. Harold—along the gallery and through the door into the courtyard if you can. You’ll see what to do.”

He opened the door and walked out. Harold made to run after him, then stopped to look back at Winifred and Marchus.

“Hurry up, Harold. Do as Filibert says!” said Winifred, tripping over her own feet as she bent down. “Up you get, Marchus, we’re not staying in here.”