The Mazer (33 page)

“Arpad! For courage, conviction, and—ah! Arpad’s still in Yewlith of course, so—”

The Homesteaders groaned.

“Lisette! For facing the enemy with a bowl of onion soup!”

Everyone stamped their feet, chanting, “Onion soup! Onion soup!”

Lisette darted from the stairs around the Aspen’s trunk. She ran to accept her wreath with a worried smile, a curtsy, and a promise that there would be onion soup for all after the ceremony, but that—

“Marchus!” announced Trevello.

Lisette looked desperately at Silva.

Silva stood up. “Where is he, Lisette?”

“In the library with the family leaves. He said he was going to check the Leon book. I waited and waited for him in the kitchen, but he never arrived, so I went into the library and…”

Her face crumpled.

“What is it?” asked Silva gently, stepping down from the dais and taking Lisette’s hand.

“His birth leaf, my lady, it’s gone.” Lisette’s eyes filled with tears. “Bassan destroyed it.”

She didn’t wait to hear any more. Pulling Lisette behind her, she raced to the stairs and down to the family history library. No torches were lit here. A single candle glowed at the far end of the room where Marchus sat on the floor in front of an open cabinet. Leaves and bark were sorted into neat piles about him. He looked up. She’d expected tears from him, too, but his eyes were dry, and there was even a glimmer of a smile on his face.

“Come and sit by me, Lisette. Look at you! More upset than I am. And Silva? I told you we’d come and look at the family leaves. Yours, however, not mine. But there’s nothing to see here, unfortunately. The funny thing is,” and he began to laugh, “Bassan didn’t realize, did he? The leaf he found wasn’t my real birthleaf, no! It was a copy. He’d like that, wouldn’t he? A copy! Or a forgery. Depends on your point of view. How the scribes made it, or persuaded the trees to write it, I don’t know and never asked. Where’s the original? Hah! If I knew that, I’d tell you. Was there ever one? Nobody knows, apart from the trees, and they won’t tell.”

“There may be a way of finding out,” said Silva, settling down next to him. “The Mazer could tell us.”

Marchus’ face grew serious. “Oh, no, Silva. Best to use the Mazer only when absolutely necessary. Where is it, anyway? And what were you all doing upstairs?”

“Receiving the Order of Isleaf!” It was Harold, holding Marchus’ wreath. “Here you are, Marchus. Official recognition for those brave and true.” He arranged the leaves around Marchus’ neck, then ran to help Rath and Trevello carry benches across the room for them all to sit on.

Marchus scratched his neck. “These leaves do tickle, Harold! Bravery, eh? But let me return to my question: where’s the Mazer now?”

“In its box and under lock and key in my office,” said Trevello.

“Oh, Trevello,” said Harold. “I, er…I have something of yours here.” He held out the spare key to the laboratory.

Trevello nodded slowly. “Very good, Harold, very good! Why don’t you keep it? You’re the Librarian’s apprentice, after all. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I did notice it was missing. But only after Bassan left for Ashenwood. By then, I was beginning to have second thoughts—but back to business.”

He shifted forward on the bench. “Bassan is being held downstairs. He’ll be taken to Ashenwood this very night. The house in the hillock by the river shall be his home until his trial. Rath and Harold shall accompany the guard. We shall not allow him to visit Great Ash, obviously. But it is better for him to be away from the city at this time as I’m sure you’ll agree. Arpad will remain at Yewlith to protect the keys until we decide what to do with them. They are, as you requested, Silva, still in place. What can you tell us about the trees, Rath?”

Rath got to his feet. “The treesmoke should diminish without Bassan’s meddling. The Oak and Yew will be left in accordance with the Almanagic’s instructions. He has tended to Master Aspen. He says our great tree shall soon recover. And when he does, he’ll be happy to name Silva as rightful Legator once again.”

“Another ceremony, then!” said Trevello happily. “Arpad told me where he hid the bells in the Hintermounts, so we’ll get those back here tomorrow. Can’t have an occasion like that without a bell. We’ll have to train a new bell ringer, Harold. Who would you recommend? One of your brothers, perhaps?”

Harold’s eyes shone. “Yes, sir! But Rath—what about the Maple? Did the Almanagic say anything about her?”

Rath sighed. “No. Nothing. I think that after we leave Bassan in Ashenwood, you and I should take another trip, first, to Oakenwood, then to Old Elm and his beloved Maplesong. What do you think?”

Silva held her breath. Father!

“Yes,” said Trevello. “I’ll come with you to Oakenwood. We’ll search for Zossimo’s remains and plan a suitable commemoration. We’ll get rid of the fig, of course—”

“You most certainly will!” said Winifred, getting up from the bench. “Chop it up! And give the pieces to me. I’ll boil them right and proper, I will, Silva, before throwing them into the sea! You’ll have to bring me my pot back from the Hintermounts, Trevello.” She plumped down on the bench again. “One of my best pots, that is!”

“Excellent idea!” Trevello patted Harold’s untidy hair. “There! That’s everything, I think.”

“Not quite!” Marchus shuffled over to the Legators’ tables, and returned, bearing two scrolls.

He lifted his head and smiled. “All stand!”

“What? Do I have to get up again?” grumbled Winifred.

“You do, Winifred Whiteacre. This one’s for you. And this, my esteemed Treasurer, has your name upon it. My heartfelt compliments to you both!”

Winifred opened her scroll. “My! Words fail me. Filibert Muchbright! What’s this? Spice and apple and honey? I hope you’re not suggesting—”

“Winifred my dear! Such prose! Such passion!” The Treasurer roared with laughter, tossed his scroll into the air and hugged Winifred, who burst into tears.

Trevello’s eyes twinkled. “I see a special celebration on the horizon. But come! We must eat, and the kitchen lacks its finest cook!”

“I’ll be in my office,” said Marchus, retreating to the door. “I think it may be time to start work on a fresh version of
Tree Tales
. Bring me as much soup as you wish, Lisette. I’ll eat the lot!” And with that, the archivist padded off into the dark.

Trevello rescued the candle and together they went downstairs. Guards, islanders, and Session members looked on curiously as Winifred and Filibert crossed the Great Hall and scurried into the kitchen hand in hand. Lisette bustled after them, casting knowing smiles at those lucky enough to have found seats at the tables.

Harold tugged Rath’s arm. “Are we going to set off soon? Are we going to go down and get Bassan? Are the guard ready?”

“Patience, Harold!” said Trevello. “Why don’t you two have something to eat first?”

“That sounds good!” said Rath. “Look, Harold—your family are over there.”

“Oh! Father’s back. I must show him my wreath and shoes. Rath, you must meet him. I know! We can take you fishing one day. Would you like that?”

Harold dragged Rath into the Great Hall.

“Silva?” asked Trevello.

She watched as Fabia shooed her children along the bench to make room for Harold and Rath. She couldn’t eat a thing. All she wanted to do was go home. She ached for the sound of the sea upon the sand, the rattle of the shells on the door, the smell of her own blankets on her own bed. If the cabin reeked also of scorched wood, so be it.

“I’m going to the cabin.”

Trevello’s nose twitched. “Alone?”

“Yes. And I’m taking the Mazer with me.”

To her surprise, Trevello made no comment. He nodded, unlocked his office, and gave her the box.

“As I told you once before, you are Legator now, Silva. But return tomorrow. With the Mazer. And we shall talk again.”

“Ah.” She should put his mind at rest. “The years may have eaten into your flesh, Trevello. But your lovely voice and mind remain. And until you drop, you’ll be my chief of the guard!”

“Be off with you!” he said gruffly. But he was pleased, for he tightened his belt, straightened his shoulders, and marched away, commanding the guard to finish supping and prepare for their trip to Ashenwood.

Down the steps she went, past the sleeping Sundial Tree, across the square, and towards Papery Bridge.

Skeps Wood held little trace of treesmoke. She picked her way along the path to the hollow where she’d found Bassan.

Leaves rustled. Something moved.

“I didn’t think you’d come back here tonight.”

His eyes gleamed.

“I wanted to see…what I saw before. Whether it’s still there.”

The Almanagic climbed out of the hollow. “The poison dies. The trees will live. The island survives. Again.” He smiled.

“And what will you do now? Sail away? What were you doing at the Round Tower?”

“Perhaps Isleaf will tell you,” answered the Almanagic. “You have him to thank for speaking of the Mazer in the first place. You choose your friends well, Silva.”

She thought of Bassan. “Not well enough.”

The Almanagic laughed. “Nonetheless, I hope I count among them! But what have you brought with you? That box? Treasured by a man who found little to treasure, I think. And that which he treasured, he lost, did he not? And while I remember, let me give you this.”

She put the box down. The Almanagic placed a small book into her hands. A copy of
Tree Tales
. A long scratch ran along its spine. How Father had scolded her for that! And inside, his writing: This book belongs to Zossimo Leon.

“It’s yours, now, Silva.”

“Where did you find it?”

“Bassan took it from Ashenwood. I found it…a while ago.”

“And Hortus? You said he created the Mazer. He must have made the keys, too. Did he make our trees? Did he—”

The Almanagic jumped down into the hollow. He gestured to the trees around them. “Could a man make these? I think Hortus was as surprised as you or I when he discovered what these trees could do. And I think he’d be very proud of what his trees have accomplished without him.”

He picked up his stick. “Good-bye, Silva. May your legatorship be…” He frowned, touched his earring, then beamed at her. “…As memorable as your Father’s!” He bowed his head, leapt up to the path and vanished into the wood.

She laid
Tree Tales
upon the box and hurried down towards Isleaf. Did he know she was here? How quietly he stood, no wind this night to shake his beautiful leaves.

“I am Silva Leon.”

“Welcome back, my friend! You found the gardens, the key, and the Mazer. You stopped the traitor killing us. And you saved the island. Thank you, Silva.”

She had to find out if Father had moved the key from the Round Tower or whether it had ever been there at all.

“Those parts of the key, Isleaf. One in the gardens of darkness. One in the old water gardens of Maplewood. But I never found the third garden. Where is it?”

Only now did Isleaf’s leaves tremble.

“By stones of black and silv’ry gray

‘Tween henge and sea, a garden lay

Of flow’r and tree, whose deathly glades

Were guarded by the Palisades.”

The leaf separated from its twig.

What had she expected? A straight answer? Isleaf hadn’t changed! She should be thankful for that. Thankful, too, that he’d let her keep this leaf and not swallowed his words again. She had a lot more to ask him. And lots to tell him! But that was enough for now. This day was at an end. And her cabin lay below. Home. At last!

“Let’s see…a little damage to the back wall there, and a broken door handle here. Hello, dear shells! And—oh. This place is a mess!”

All her remaining belongings had been dumped onto the bed. The floor was damp. A black, sooty puddle sat in the bottom of the hearth.

She pulled a blanket from the pile and went to sit on the sand. Above the horizon to the south shone three bright stars in a row: the hunter’s belt. Silva smiled happily up at it, then opened the box. As soon as she touched the Mazer, clouds swirled around its base. They cleared to reveal the five trees. Master Aspen’s branches looked much livelier. Good! Master Ash…hah! She wouldn’t be talking to him for a while. Master Oak wriggled no longer. Was he asleep? And in Yewlith, their Great Yew. A stump, yes, but with green sparks shooting from his middle. He must be growing again!

She hadn’t forgotten her pledge. She’d write Zossimo’s name on the bark of the Yew. The Zabal records would be complete. And then…

“You shall sleep in peace.”

No peace for the Maple, however. Still fluttering. Still upset.

“Lady Maple!” Silva set the palm of her hand into the light that flickered above the tree’s crown. “All is well. It is I, Silva, daughter of Zossimo and Eldis.”

The other trees were gone. Maple stood alone. Tiny letters streamed from her roots, forming words that evaporated into thin air. Then the tree began to sing. Maplesong! Her beautiful voice carried across the sand, over the waves, far out to sea and up to the stars, to the Tree Star herself, no doubt, for the words of this song belonged to Mother, and they were as close to Silva’s heart as any words could ever be: