ARC: Sunstone (17 page)

PART THREE

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I

Procella sat with her back against the wall of the barn and wrapped her arms around her knees. The place was filled with the usual smell of horse and cow dung, and the rustle of animals in the stalls, the skitter of rats across the rafters. But at least in her corner the straw was clean, and the night was warm, so it didn’t matter so much that she didn’t have a bed for the night.

Not that she could have slept anyway. Although the tiny hamlet was silent, the candles in the dozen or so houses were extinguished, and the Light Moon shone down on the empty streets, the comfort of sleep eluded her. She kept thinking about the events of the previous night, and wondering what was happening to her children.

Her head fell back on the wooden plank as sadness filled her heart. Although she had done plenty of guard duty at night in Heartwood and on the Wall, she had spent very little time alone in her life. In the Exercitus, army life had always been communal and busy with even basic tasks like eating and bathing carried out together, and she had always found comfort in the presence of others. It didn’t necessarily have to involve speaking – the Militis were brought up to follow rather than question, and talk would revolve around armour and weapons and tactics, or occasionally storytelling in the evenings to pass the time. Emotions were not high on the list of topics discussed, and she had grown used to keeping her feelings to herself.

Meeting Chonrad had meant a vast change in her daily life. The destruction of Heartwood as she had known it, getting married, having children – her whole way of life had been turned upside down. And she had borne it as best as she could, because there was little place for a soldier in peacetime, and she had enjoyed for a while the task of raising her children and being a wife to the man she loved.

It had taken time for her to learn to share herself with someone. Chonrad was probably the best knight she had ever met save the mighty Valens who had trained her, but he had not led the life of a soldier the way she had. He had been married before he met her, had raised two children, had rebuilt Vichton and learned about trade and the economy, had had the responsibility of looking after the people of the town ever since he was a lad, raised to follow in his father’s footsteps. Although he had admitted to her that his relationship with his first wife had not been close, still he had been used to sharing a bed with another, to listening to her dreams and complaints, to helping her through the days, bad and good.

At first, Procella had baulked at Chonrad’s gentle encouragement to share her innermost thoughts. What was the point? Why burden him with her worries when talking about them didn’t do anything except mean that both of them ended up worried? Physical intimacy was one thing and she enjoyed sharing her body with him, but emotional intimacy was something entirely different, as was adjusting to being part of a couple. She didn’t like compromising and adapting. And she was never sure she liked him knowing what was going on in her head. He had understood her so well it scared her, and she had fought against that closeness for a long time.

Fights she could deal with and almost enjoyed, and there was no doubt that his temper – although hidden deep inside him – flared with as much brightness and heat as her own. She preferred to tease it out of him, to goad him into a vocal and passionate response when they disagreed, because first they would shout, and then things would turn physical, and then he would kiss her to shut her up. They would end up making love, which she enjoyed and which ultimately diffused the friction between them.

But Chonrad was calm and patient, and as the years went by, he had learned how to deal with her frustration, and to understand that ultimately she was scared of sharing herself, and of learning to love. In her world, a soldier lived for the day, because no matter how strong and fierce the warrior, a stray arrow could easily take one’s life away in the blink of an eye. She had loved and lost Valens, as well as many of the men and women who had served under her, and she couldn’t bear the thought of losing Chonrad too. And he had understood this and slowly teased her out of her tight shell like a periwinkle. He had encouraged her to express her love for him and her children, and the harsh and regimented soldier had gradually relaxed into motherhood and family life. She knew she had been strict with her children, and that Chonrad probably deserved someone who returned his love with the warmth and affection he himself portrayed, but he had never once expressed regret for taking her as his wife, and she had grown to love him deeply.

And then he had left her. She closed her eyes and her hands tightened into fists as the grief that she had thought would be long past welled inside her once again. How could the knife of pain still be as sharp as when it had plunged into her ribs the day they brought Chonrad home, inches from death? The force of her feelings had shocked her. She was a soldier – death had always been a part of everyday life. Why had it come as such a blow? But it had shaken her world like an earthquake, and after he died, she knew he had taken part of her with him.

Her children had gathered around her, but she had turned away from them rather than pulling them close and allowing them to comfort her. Never again would she allow death to affect her so, she had vowed. They were all but dust in the wind, and love was an emotion she had no interest in and no desire to continue to nurture like a seedling.

She pressed a hand against her heart. It felt hollow, like an old tree stump, a resting place for mice and hedgehogs. She had grown used to being cared about, she realised. To leaning on others like a crutch and letting them support her. To caring. But no longer.

She thought of her children and wondered where they were. Her daughter, Horada, lost deep in the countryside, tied to the Arbor by the same silken strings as Chonrad, and responding to the tug of the holy tree whenever it felt like pulling, just like he had. Procella knew she was too impatient with her daughter, that she didn’t know how to talk to her, because she was so different to herself. Where was Horada now? Had she got to Heartwood? Or had she been caught by the fire demons Julen had told them about?

Thinking about her youngest son brought a pang of angst, and she rested her face in her hands. Julen had always been independent and fearless, and she had no worries about him coping alone. He spent weeks travelling by himself doing Gravis’s bidding – preferred his own company, in fact. And she had seen him defend himself, had privately been surprised and pleased at his inherent skills. But still, he was her son. And now he, too, was Arbor-knew-where in the countryside, chasing his sister. Perhaps both of them had already been caught, been killed? Would she know? Would she be able to feel when they left the earthly world?

And as for Orsin… Procella regretted being so rough with him earlier on their journey. She had embarrassed him – had done it on purpose, impatient with his foolishness and embarrassed by his idle boasting. All he cared about was wine and women, and while she appreciated these things were at the foremost of most normal men’s minds, still she had expected her own son to have some appreciation for the more important things in life. In nearly all ways he fell short of Julen, and she had never bothered to hide her disappointment. Now, though, she wished she had not been so harsh.

She wrapped her arms around herself and fought back the tears that she had shed so little of throughout the years. She missed Valens. She missed Chonrad. And she missed her children.

For the first time in her life, Procella was lonely.

The tears ran silently down her face. In the barn, mice rustled, a horse snorted, one of the working dogs got up and shook itself, turning around a few times before settling back down.

Procella’s thoughts were turned so inward that for a moment nothing seemed out of the ordinary. As she leaned her cheek on her knees, she could see through a wide crack where a plank had slipped, where a sliver of Light Moon lay on a puddle like the blade of a scythe, stars around it glittering like white stones. Chonrad
…
she thought, fighting the ache inside her. I miss you
…

It was the age-old warrior’s instinct she had carried for so long that finally made her stiffen, her senses sharpening. For a moment she remained motionless, holding her breath, straining her ears to catch whatever it was that had alerted her. A jingle of horse’s reins. A whisper of conversation on the wind.

She pushed herself quietly to her feet, her tears drying on her cheeks. Silently, she crept to the doorway and peeked through.

At the end of the street, a fire burned. She blinked and focussed, trying to make out the men who stood around it. Several figures, Wulfian obviously as she was still north of the Wall. One she recognised. She would never be able to rid herself of the memory of his huge frame pinning her into the dirt, the smell of his breath on her cheek. Hunfrith would die at her own hand – of that, if nothing else, she was certain.

Two of the men with him she thought she recognised from Kettlestan – other lords of the lands north of the Wall, greedy and desiring money and land over peace. They must have escaped the burning castle, and now Hunfrith was on the hunt for her.

She turned to the horses watching her patiently, went over to the one she had decided earlier would be the most suitable for her purposes – a riding horse, a gelding, fifteen hands high, solid and sturdy. She had already selected a saddle and reins from those hanging on hooks to the side, and she took them now and saddled him quickly. An expert horsewoman, it took only minutes before she was leading him out of the wide doors at the back.

The gelding was dark grey with a black mane and blended nicely in with the long shadows and bleached landscape. Procella led him around the barn to the west and mounted him swiftly. Then, casting a final look over her shoulder, she urged the horse towards the forest.

Within seconds, she heard a cry behind her. Kicking her heels into the gelding’s flanks, she sent it racing towards the trees.

Voices yelled behind her. She leaned forward, urging the horse to pick up its speed. Its hooves thundered on the dry ground, and then trees flashed by her, branches tugged at her hair, and the welcoming darkness of the forest closed around her.

Procella turned immediately south, heading for the Wall. She needed to get back into Laxony, although the nearest fort and passage through was several miles west. The Wulfians would know that was where she was going, and would try to head her off before she got there. She had a long hard ride ahead of her, on a horse she didn’t know, at night, in a land less familiar to her after years spent south of the Wall. The odds weren’t in her favour.

But those were the kind of odds she loved, the kind of risk that made her heart race and her blood pound in her ears.

Feeling more alive than she had felt in the past twelve months, Procella hugged the horse’s neck and prepared for a challenging journey.

II

Catena had never been so deep into the jungle. The going was tough – they had to fight their way through creepers and vines that laced between the trees, and they were obviously nearing the base of the mountains because sometimes huge boulders forced them to detour. Tropical flowers grew thick and lush, and multi-coloured birds also hopped between the ferns, a kaleidoscope of primary colours amongst the dark green vegetation.

She was glad she had brought the ointment they used in the mines to counteract insect bites. The oil contained some kind of herb that repelled mosquitoes and other insects, and without it she was sure they would have been eaten alive. Atavus snapped constantly around him, irritated by the buzzing, and eventually she put some drops of the oil on a cloth and tied it around his neck. He seemed better after that.

She tried not to laugh every time she looked at Demitto. Clearly, he was also hating every minute of their journey west. He had stripped off his leather jerkin, rolled it up and strapped it to his backpack. His linen undershirt clung to his upper body with sweat, and he had pulled his long scruffy hair back off his neck and tied it with cord. Deep frown lines cut into his forehead, and she could hear him muttering from several paces away.

Still, in spite of his obvious resentment, he pushed on, and she was pleased that he seemed so determined to rescue the Prince. She had wondered whether he might have told her that, because she had taken the Prince away, he would not help her rescue him and would in fact return to Heartwood to find another sacrifice as she had originally hoped, but he hadn’t. However, he had hardly said two words to her since binding her shoulder, and he was clearly angry with her.

She rolled her shoulder as they walked. She wasn’t quite sure what he had done to her before binding her shoulder. He said he had ‘directed the Arbor’s love’ when she queried him again, and she had seen him push the pendant into the ground. Was it true that energy travelled beneath the earth from the Arbor? Had he truly channelled that energy into her? Her shoulder was sore, but it should have been throbbing a great deal more, and there was no sign of infection, the skin already healing nicely.

She mused on the enigmatic emissary as he stopped to hack at a trailing vine with a dagger. He portrayed himself as a sword-for-hire with less spirituality than a piece of rock, but that didn’t explain the way he had healed her, or the fervour that shone through him at times, lighting him up like a lantern.

He pushed forward through the greenery, Atavus leaping elegantly over a fallen log, and she trailed after them, wondering what Demitto would say if she asked if they could stop for a while. She was thirsty and could do with a bite to eat to keep her strength up, but his rigid spine and stony face discouraged her from asking. She would wait until he had to stop. Surely he would have to stop at some point?

On cue, he came to a halt so suddenly that she bumped into his back. A query hovered on her lips, but before she could voice it, he sank to his haunches and gestured for her to do the same, putting a hand on Atavus to stop him running forward.

Catena moved forward and parted the undergrowth, peering through to the scene in front of them. Two men stood there, in the middle of the jungle, motionless as if carved from the rock that reared behind them. They wore plain brown clothes with various fancy pieces of plate armour engraved with a design Catena had never seen before. It was only when she looked at their eyes that she realised what the design was, because it was reflected in their gaze – dancing flames, the red and orange irises sending a shiver down her spine.

They stood with hands braced on the hilt of their swords, the point resting on the ground. For a moment, she thought they
were
statues, but then a beautifully coloured butterfly alighted on the pommel of one of the swords. The knight twitched, and the butterfly flew away.

Demitto studied them silently, then withdrew back into the undergrowth, pulling Atavus with him. They walked back silently the way they had come until they were sure they would not be overheard, and then crouched beneath a huge fern, hiding in the shadows.

“Who were they?” Catena whispered.

“I do not know.” Demitto fumbled in his jacket for the pendant. He pulled it out, then hesitated. “I need to speak to Cinereo. Do you promise to remain quiet?”

She nodded, wanting to see what he did, pleased that he wasn’t going to send her away. His eyes met hers briefly. Then he lowered them and plunged the pendant into the ground.

She sat with her back against the trunk, one arm around her knees, one around Atavus’s neck, and watch Demitto concentrate, his eyes closed, his head bent. A lock of his hair that had escaped the tie at the back fell forward, curving around his cheekbone. He was too thin, she thought – he looked as if he could do with some good home cooking and a woman to look after him. Too much time spent on the road missing meals, existing on ale and hunks of dry bread from his saddlebag. What a life he must have had. Part of her envied him, part of her felt sorry for him. Was he lonely? He couldn’t be any lonelier than her, she thought, and she’d spent a lifetime surrounded by people.

She blinked. The air before him was shimmering. For a moment she thought she was imagining it, but then it grew stronger, the air blurring as if she were looking through heavy rain. Atavus growled low in his throat, and she murmured to him and stroked his fur reassuringly.

The shadows around them lengthened, thickened, darkened, and she felt the same sense of something crawling over her skin that she had felt the previous time she’d watched him do this, the rising of hairs all over her body. A shape began to form before them, sinister in the twilight – a figure cloaked and hooded in grey, his lower arms covered by leather bracers, leather straps across his body. She shivered, trying to ignore the fear that rose within her.

Demitto raised his head and opened his eyes. “Cinereo,” he acknowledged.

The man nodded a greeting. “You have reached the mountains?”

“Yes. There are two knights in the jungle, guarding something. I think it might be the entrance to the caves.”

The caves? Catena frowned. She hadn’t seen the entrance to any caves.

“The Prince lies within,” Cinereo confirmed.

Demitto nodded. “You wish me to enter?”

“The Prince must be retrieved at all costs.”

“I understand. But the guards suggest the Incendi have more followers bound to their will. I know neither where they have drafted these from, nor how many they have. We are but two. If–”

“At. All. Costs.” The words dropped from the grey-cloaked figure like stones.

Demitto dropped his head, subservient for once. “I may not be able to contact you within the caves,” he murmured. “The ground will be rock and the pendant will be unusable. Do you have any further instructions?”

“Pyra is attempting to force the Apex to a location and time that gives him the advantage. We must avoid that. Do not fail me.”

“I will do my best.” Demitto hesitated, and Catena had the feeling he was suddenly conscious of admitting a weakness in her presence, but he went ahead anyway. “I am uncertain how to find the Prince once we are inside the caves.”

“Use Catena,” Cinereo instructed. “She is a Saxum.” The figure shimmered. “I must go, I have much to do.”

Abruptly, the figure faded like early morning mist. Atavus rose and went over to sniff where he had been.

Demitto slid the pendant beneath his clothes and glanced across at Catena.

“Well, he was friendly,” she said. The manner in which he had spoken to the emissary had shocked her. Suddenly she understood the pressure Demitto was under, the responsibility that rested on his shoulders. Why was he doing this? What was he getting out of it?

His mouth curved wryly. “He has his reasons.”

“Who is he? How do we know we can trust him?”

His mouth curved more. “Oh, we can trust him. Do not worry about that.”

“Have you met him? In person, I mean?”

He sat back, arms around his knees, fingers linked. “No. But I do know he speaks for the Nox Aves. And I trust them with my life.” He spoke simply, and his eyes were clear. He was telling the truth, she decided.

“So what did he mean, ‘use Catena’? What is a Saxum?”

Now Demitto’s eyes turned thoughtful, his expression interested. “It is a term I have not heard used for a long time. Tell me, your father is a miner, yes?”

“Yes. So?”

“Has he ever spoken to you about his work?”

She gave a laugh that held no humour. “My father rarely speaks to anyone or anything except his tankard. Why would he talk to me about his work?”

“Was his father a miner before him?”

“And his father before him.” Now she was confused. “I do not understand.”

“Often within families of miners, there runs in the blood a kind of…” he thought about how to describe it, “special ability. The miners themselves are not always aware of it, and it is stronger in some than others. But some people have the talent for listening to stone.”

She stared at him. “Now I know you are jesting. ‘Listening to stone’? Are you telling me I have to have a conversation with the rockface?”

“Maybe,” he said, a sliver of humour in his words. “I do not have the talent so I cannot tell you how it works. It is an innate ability, like how some people can paint the likeness of a person. We cannot explain why one person can sing and another makes us cover our ears. So it is with those of us who connect with the elements.”

She shook her head, still disbelieving.

He frowned. “It is like when I channel the fire as I hold the sunstone. How can I explain it…? Although I do not have an elemental inside me, I can feel the fire in my veins, and I only have to think of it and it bursts through my skin.”

“So what are you saying – that you think I can connect in a similar way with… what? Rock?”

“Saxum traditionally have the ability to sense the harder elements – they can often find the ores, gold and copper and such, within the mountains. They have a skill with gems and crystals – they know where to find them, and how to cut them to avoid flaws. Hanaire people have a high percentage of Saxum, which is why they are so skilled with silver work. And traditionally those from Harlton and the far south have been known to have this connection. Perhaps they have absorbed it into the blood over the years of working in the mines, like breathing dust into the lungs. Who knows? But it seems that Cinereo thinks you have the talent. And maybe that is why…”

She stared at him. “Why…”

He shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. “We should go. It will be dark soon and, with you injured, I would rather we fight these men while we can see them.”

“It will be even darker in the caves,” she said, rising with him. What had he been about to say?

“True, but I will be able to use the sunstone to guide us.” He drew his sword, being careful not to let the steel sing as it came out of the scabbard. “Are you ready?”

She withdrew her own sword, hefting it in her right hand. She could feel the pull of the weight on her shoulder, and she knew she would feel the wound once they started to fight, but she would not let it stop her. “Ready.”

“Then let us do it.” They moved forward until they saw the glimmer of the men’s swords through the leaves.

Demitto met her gaze. Above their heads, the Light Moon climbed high in the sky and his eyes glittered, making her shiver.

“Now,” he said, and they leapt forward with a yell.