The Mazer (31 page)

“But what—”

“Harold!” Winifred turned on him fiercely holding out the key. “Take this—and go!”

So he set off to the garden door as fast as his feet would take him. He pushed it ajar; all seemed quiet, so he opened it farther and looked into the yard.

His hands flew to his mouth. He hadn’t expected this! The Yew lay on his side, branches lopped off and thrown around the edges of the garden. A wide trench had been dug around his stump and thick, muddy roots protruded from the depths below. Had the guard gone mad? Or had Bassan ordered this?

He could hear voices, but the garden was empty. He was imagining it; but no. They came from beneath the stump, and this certainly wasn’t the Yew talking. So he stole over to peer down. Where did the Yew roots go? Into the crypt?

He sat on the edge and slipped into a hole, grabbing at loose roots and crumbling earth, sliding farther in, easier now as he pushed his feet against the side, hands and back pressed against the biggest root, down into the dark and—what was this? Earthy green, shimmering light from the root. He’d reached the bottom. And the Yew, so dead up there in the garden, still lived below.

“Great Yew,” he pleaded. “Please don’t die!” Muffled, angry speech floated through an archway not far off.

“He won’t!” Leather-shod feet dangled above him, and a shrouded figure dropped lightly onto the ground. “Oh!” said the man, gulping strangely as he patted the roots above his head. “Looks like my stick got stuck. Never mind. I’ll collect it later.”

“Who are you?” gasped Harold.

The man pulled off his hood.

“I am the Almanagic,” he said in a soft whisper.

The Almanagic? What an odd name!

“I’m Harold. Where are you from?”

“Me? Oh! Another island, my child. Beyond stretches of sunsets and sand. Across oceans deep. ’Tis a lifetime there and back!”

“Then why are you here?” asked Harold wonderingly.

“I understand this place,” said the Almanagic, “as I understand this Yew. He’ll grow back. He’s strong. As are you, young Harold. Still got your key?”

Harold looked at him, dumbfounded. “Yes.”

“Wonderful! Let’s go.” The Almanagic walked off towards the arch.

“Wait!” hissed Harold, running after him. “Can’t you hear? The guard are down here, and Bassan—”

“Oh, I know all about Bassan!” retorted the Almanagic, turning around to glare at him with eyes of green and silver. “A man who sees what he wants to see yet is blind to the truth. And the trees? What do they make of it all, I wonder? How about an element of surprise? What do you think?”

“Er…yes!” agreed Harold. Just what did the Almanagic have in mind?

The Almanagic bowed. Then he grabbed Harold by the scruff of his neck and shoved him with surprising force through the archway.

***

Bassan had, as she’d guessed, found Marchus’ copy of
The Book of Hortus
. It lay on the table in the middle of the cavern next to the lamp, her key from the Hintermounts, Hortus’ original poem about the Round Tower, and a pretty box. He’d crushed her own little box in his fist and thrown it over the side of the tower. She’d never forgive him for that. They’d ridden to Yewlith, the guard silent around her, silent also as she’d stood horrified by the tunnel entrance that had been hammered out to create a wider opening. Mother’s vault had been thrown to the ground. Its lid was cracked in two, the coffin visible within. She’d spotted a golden rain seed pod and stooped to pick it up, hesitating as her eyes fell upon the driftwood lying nearby. Bassan had pushed her aside, stamped on the seed pod and grabbed the driftwood, snarling “Mine, I think!” before hustling her through the entrance and towards the archway by the square wall.

Torchlight illuminated the faces of the guard as they milled about nervously watching Bassan, who yelled,

“Stand back!”

He put the driftwood down, opened the box slowly, and lifted out the Mazer.

So this was it. Wider than she’d imagined; dark; a yellow-orange sheen around its edges. And the table with that strange indentation carved into its center—it wasn’t a table at all. It was a stand for the Mazer! Bassan set the Mazer down. As soon as he did so, silvery light began to shine from within.

There was a commotion from the tunnel.

“Stand clear! Move aside!” Wasn’t that Trevello?

“Take your grubby hands off me!” No question about it—Winifred!

“Leave him alone, you worthless dog!” Filibert?

“Winifred, if you’d just—” The voice trailed off weakly.

Winifred squeezed into the cavern, Marchus’ pale face peeking over her shoulder.

“Look who we have here!” said Bassan. “Where did you unearth these two?”

“Trevello found them outside,” said Filibert, glaring at the chief of the guard. “I don’t—”

“Take them to stand with Silva!” ordered Bassan. “I think you’d better join them, Filibert. Now, Trevello? What are you doing in Yewlith? And why,” as the cavern became ever more crowded, “have you brought half the Session with you?”

“We held a vote,” said Trevello, his eyes taking in the scene. “Thought we should come out here. Some of us wanted to know what was going on. Too many disturbances for our liking. Nobody in charge, nobody—”

“I thought I put
you
in charge, Trevello!” shouted Bassan. “I left Southernwood in incompetent hands, I see. Not only—”

“Hardly incompetent.” Sheridan the shipwright slapped Trevello’s shoulder and scowled at Bassan. “And Southernwood is in good hands. Maybe better hands than yours. Certainly with a good deal more experience.”

“What are you saying?” Bassan was rattled now.

“The people need to know that our island rulers work in harmony.” Trevello spoke softly, yet his face was full of contempt. “They like to see former Legators honored. They don’t want to wake up to the news that a man they hold in such high regard has been slung into jail. So we released Wystan and left him in charge.”

“What are you talking about? I didn’t jail Wystan—this is part of the plot against me! Against the island! Against the trees!”

“Prove it!” Then Trevello’s eyes widened.

It wasn’t her imagination. The cavern was brighter than before. A silvery blue glow emanated from the depths of the Mazer. To her left, the wall glowed also.

“You want proof? I’ve got all the proof I need!” Bassan touched the lamp. “Someone’s been up to no good. Someone knew of this cavern. And that someone left one of the Albatorium lamps here. Who could that have been? I’ll tell you: Silva, on her trip to her mother’s vault, which, as will come as no surprise, hid the entrance to the tunnel. Not a day later she takes her Legator’s pledge. Coincidence? I think not. And as for this—” he held up the copy of
The Book of Hortus
“—time to tell everyone, my dear Marchus! Tell them what you found. Tell them what you hid from me, from all of us. Yes, this man: archivist! Scribe! Traitor!” He glared at them, his hand shaking with rage as he pointed to Marchus, “This man discovered one of the most important documents on our island and hid it away! This is his copy of it, written in his own hand. And the original?”

He snatched Silva’s poem, walked over to them and tore the old man’s cloak open. “You are nothing,” whispered Bassan. “You hear me?
Nothing
! You know why? Because according to the family history library, you were never…even…born! Give me the book, Marchus of Quagfen.”

Marchus flinched, holding the pages of vellum tight to his chest before slowly releasing them.

“Thank you,” sneered Bassan. “You helped the prisoners escape, didn’t you, Marchus? Assisted by Filibert, Winifred, and Arpad. They won’t deny it! And their intention? To gain control of this cup, the Mazer, which, as you can see, unlocks the mystery of the trees of our island!”

“I can’t see any such thing!” said Trevello. “Where did the cup come from? What’s the mystery—”

“Oof!”

Someone bumped into her from behind.

“Ah. Harold!” said Bassan gleefully. “Welcome to our little gathering. Guards! Search him!”

“Get off!” shouted Harold, as the guards dragged him over to Bassan. “Rath! Where are you? Help!”

But it was no good. The guard had found what they sought. Bassan placed a second key on the table. Harold got up shakily.

“Two keys,” said Bassan. “Now, I wonder—”

A blinding light filled the room.

“Get away from the wall!” yelled Bassan.

The light softened. Five leaves floated above the brim of the Mazer, but everyone’s attention was fixed on a picture of a sealed scroll on the wall, golden brown upon a milky white background. The seal, shaped like an aspen leaf, grew larger and larger, and, as the crowd cried out in wonder, broke into a thousand pieces, revealing a map of the island bathed in sunlight, filled with restless forests and running rivers, the whole surrounded by a glinting sea.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” A soft, warm hand slipped into hers. The man next to her gazed first at the island, then at her, his eyes full of laughter and as green and sunny as the island before them.

“You—you’re the man in the boat we saw from the Round Tower,” she stuttered. “You were at the Ash. You’re the Almanagic!”

He nodded. “And you were
in
the Ash as I recall. But look!”

The Mazer leaves slowly transformed into trees, and the very same trees grew on the map, each in their own part of the island: the Aspen in Southernwood, his branches bending softly to the ground; Great Oak in Easternwood, toppling onto his side and wriggling in agony; a Maple up by Northernwood, shaking her leaves, sighing unhappily; and Great Yew in the garden above, his stretchy boughs shrinking until they could barely be seen at all.

One tree grew strong, however: the Ash.

“See that?” crowed Bassan. “Do you know, I don’t think we need any of these keys at all. I think the Mazer is going to work just fine without them!”

There was a flash of green from the archway. Then from the wall came the sound of a wise, old, and very, very tired voice:

“With trunk and branches chopped away

It’s difficult for Yew to say

What other trees might say to me

Unless you use the Mazer key!”

“The key, Bassan?” chimed in a much jauntier voice. “Why don’t you use it? You didn’t lie to me—or did you? Not to worry. You’re right. The Mazer is all we need. Master Ash can rule perfectly well without any key.”

“Master Ash?” breathed Bassan. “I can hear you! Is this the work of the Mazer?”

Trevello stepped forward. “What’s the Yew saying? Is it true he’s been chopped down? I can’t believe that Silva, even with the help of Winifred, would have had the strength to do it! No. This sounds like the work of the guard. You see?” He turned to face the crowd. “This is what comes of electing a Legator without the approval of the trees.”

“Oh, but there is one tree who approves of me, Trevello.” Bassan approached the Ash in the center of the wall. “This tree. You all know who he is, as did Zossimo, who respected the power of the Ash and protected him dearly. That’s why he barred any visits to Ashenwood save for the coin collection. That’s why he never told you of the Mazer, never told any of us of this cavern. Did he share his secrets with his daughter? Did she tell Rath, his treasured apprentice? Did they plot—”

“Excuse me,” said the Ash lightly. “Maybe he did. Maybe she did. And maybe they did. So why did Bassan destroy the Yew?”

Bassan seemed taken aback.

“Because I told him to!” roared the Ash. “A traitor tree! And as for the killing of innocent trees, if there are any of you who wish to condone that, then I shall do exactly as I said in ages past!”

There was a stunned silence. Bassan pulled the Mazer off its stand. The wall grew dark.

“Is this not just as is told in
Tree Tales
?” he asked. “If the trees turn against the Ash, he will find a way to destroy them. And if we turn against him, he will destroy us, too.”

“That’s not how I remember it,” said Trevello.

But Bassan wasn’t listening. He seized the driftwood and threw it to the floor, screaming, “I need the third key!”

The wood split in two, the nail spinning along the ground to her feet. Bassan bent down. He laughed.

“Hortus! I have to hand it to you, my man; you hid your keys well.” And he raised his hand, holding the third key between his fingers. Had it been hidden in the driftwood the whole time? That was impossible!

“Very clever!”

The Almanagic walked calmly towards Bassan.

“You!” rasped Bassan. “Why can you never keep your nose out of our affairs?”

“Oh, my nose has nothing to do with it,” said the Almanagic, tapping the top of the Mazer. “You found the keys, I see. Aren’t you going to use them?”

Bassan frowned.

“Great Yew will be sorry,” continued the Almanagic. “He’d like to talk to his friends. Too difficult without the keys. That’s what he said! And Great Ash? As matters stand, he can do what he likes. He can say what he likes. He can appoint anyone as Legator if he changes his mind about you! But with the keys, things could turn a little more in your favor, Bassan. Or not. Who can tell? So, Legator. What do you think we should do?”