Brant searched around the curve of the hollow. Another knight stood at the base of the next tree. Had there been another at the tree behind them? He glanced back. It would’ve been easy to miss someone hiding in the deeper shadows.
Straightening forward, he almost ran into the chest of the knight. The woman had flowed so silently out of the shadows.
“Pardon me, ser,” he said shyly, starting to step around.
She blocked him. “You are the boy named Brant, are you not?”
To find his name uttered by the likes of a shadowknight unnerved him. He lost his tongue.
“Yes- mess, ” Harp rhymed, eyes huge on the knight. “He is, ser.”
An arm smoked out of the darkness and gripped Brant’s shoulder. “The school said you were headed here. We were sent to fetch you.”
“Why?” he asked, finally freeing his tongue. “I-I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Never said you did. And I can’t say why you’ve been summoned. Only that you have been.”
“Summoned by who?”
“By the Huntress herself.”
Brant was drawn away with the knight. His two friends gaped after him. Harp looked on with awe, while Marron wore an expression more confused.
Shock silenced Brant all the way around the curve of the hollow. The knight gathered another two of her cloaked brethren, falling into step with him.
Brant heard them mutter behind him.
“What does she want with the boy?” one asked.
“Who can say? Of late, there’s no predicting her mood. Even her Hands have been whispering of her irritable dispositions and strange, prolonged silences.”
“What’s so strange?” the other said with a snort. “Sounds no different than my wife.”
They reached the ancient tree and passed through an arched opening between massive roots. Sunlight vanished. The knights melted into the darkness on the stair, fading into whispering shapes. But once they passed up to the first level, sunlight returned, dappled and in a thousand shades of green leaf. The rising levels from here seemed to have grown out of the wood itself: stacks of balconies, hollowed rooms, snaking staircases that wound through the open air or delved deep through the outer layers of the trunk. It was hard to separate what hand had hewn and nature had grown.
And none more so than the High Wing.
Here in the canopy of the very world, the crown of the castillion appeared like a carved flower atop the tree, all surrounded by a wide terrace, whose polished planks of pompbonga-kee glowed with a molten warmth. A delicate railing framed the balcony, sprouting leaf and tendril, while the High Wing itself had been sculpted into curves and archways, appearing more like petals. Here straight lines had given way to more natural arcs. Even the rooms and halls bulged out of the central trunk as though they were born of the wood itself. Only when very close could the lines between planks be seen.
Brant traced a finger along one as they climbed the last stair to the upper terrace. It reminded him of the curve of a flippercraft’s bow. Was it from this example that the ancient wrights had learned to craft the mighty airships of Myrillia? Brant intended to ask Master Sheershym, the chronicler of Saysh Mal.
When at last they reached the great terrace, Brant caught a glimpse of the Grove below. Flags fluttered and cheers rose. The games had begun. But Brant had all but forgotten them.
“This way,” the knight ordered.
Brant was led through a great carved archway into the High Wing proper. Even after they crossed the threshold, the sunlight seemed to follow them, flowing through windows and reflecting off mirror and crystal. The air almost danced with the spring light. Brant inhaled the spiced air, heady with the natural oils of the pompbonga- kee.
Despite the beauty and wonder of it all, Brant’s legs had begun to tremble. He was not worthy. He grew acutely aware of his poor attire: leggings patched at the knees, a loose jerkin that was missing two hooks. Even his soft boots, gifts from his father two years ago, were scuffed to a dull brown. He combed fingers through his hair, working away some old knots. At least he had bathed two days ago.
He lost track of the turns through the High Wing.
Suddenly he found himself before a set of tall doors, carved like a single leaf of the pompbonga-kee, but split down the middle in an S-shaped curve, following a vein in the leaf.
The knight pulled a twined rope of leather and a bell rang beyond the door. Moments later, a thin woman, wearing an ankle-length white dress sashed at the waist, pushed open one leaf of the door. Her eyes, pinched at the corners, glanced over them, then she bowed them inside. Only Brant and the lone knight, the woman, stepped through.
“Matron Dreyd,” the knight said. “We’ve come with the boy your mistress asked us to bring.”
“Thank you, Ser Knight. The mistress will be pleased.”
The matron’s words were spoken staidly, as if she doubted them herself. Brant noted how she glanced out the door as she closed the way, almost as if she weighed fleeing through it and away.
Still, she turned and offered a wan smile of welcome.
The chamber here was lit by an arched window to the sky. It shone down upon the floor, where the graining was so fine that Brant could not discern the individual planks. Smaller archways branched off the hall, some open, others sealed.
“My mistress has instructed that she would like the boy to join her in the Heartroom.”
“Truly?” the knight said, unable to mask her surprise.
A nod answered her.
The knight stepped back. She placed a palm on Brant’s back and gently pushed him. “Go. Do not keep the Huntress waiting.”
Brant tripped a step, then followed his new guide, Matron Dreyd. She led him straight down the hall to another set of doors, a smaller version of the ones through which they had entered. The matron led him through those and deeper again down a narrower hall. Here lamps flickered on wall hooks as the sunlight was left behind. The spicy scent of tree oil grew stronger.
Brant realized they must be within the very trunk itself.
Gooseflesh prickled his skin.
They continued to the end…where a single plain door stood closed.
Matron Dreyd knocked softly. “Mistress, I have the boy named Brant.”
Silence answered her.
The matron glanced back to Brant, then back to the door. She lifted her arm to knock again-then words whispered through.
“Send him in. Alone.”
The matron nodded, though her mistress plainly could not see her assent. She stepped back and motioned Brant to the door. “Go inside.”
Brant took a deep breath, then reached for the latch.
Fingers gripped his shoulder, stopping him.
“Do not upset her.”
Brant glanced up to her. She clasped a hand over her mouth as if surprised the words had escaped her. His shoulder was released, and he was pushed forward.
Hands in full tremble now, Brant tried the latch, found it unlocked, and creaked the door open. A slightly foul smell wormed through the spiced oil.
Brant glanced again to the matron. He was shooed inside, but the matron’s words were stuck in his head. Do not upset her.
He had no choice. He stepped into the room.
The space was small, almost cozy, oval-shaped, with a low-domed roof and a hearth on the far side that glowed with red embers, the flames long died away. Still, it was the only light in the room. The glow washed over the walls and roof, bathing it in dark crimson. Brant noted the graining, all whorls and rings. This was no planked construction, but a chamber hewn from the tree itself.
