Tahlia gave a great sigh of relief as Mistress Shantir's door closed behind her, signalling the end of her morning ordeal. Three of her fellow students were ensconced in a nearby window seat, chattering and giggling over the papers in their hands. One of them raised her head and glanced over at Tahlia, before whispering something to her two friends and causing a new flurry of giggles.

Tahlia scowled, her hands tightening into fists and crumpling her own work from that morning's tortuous lesson. She turned away and stomped down the corridor, the childish tittering behind her irritating her ears until she passed down a spiral stair, where the metal walls of the keep finally quelled it. She stopped by a narrow window half way down the stair, peeled open the scrunch of paper in her hand, and raised it to the light to study its creased surface.

It wasn't such a bad poem! Better than the smush the other girls had written, and definitely not deserving of the condemnation it had received. She read through the neat lines of writing once again, trying to figure out where she had gone so wrong. Maybe she should not have compared her hero's head to a lump of rock. Maybe she could have thought of a more flattering simile, but what else could you compare a man's head to?

She scowled at the memory of Luisanna's poem, which had described the hero of the piece's hair as being 'As dark as a fallow's night'; a line that had been received with unrestrained cooing from the other girls in the class. Tahlia wondered if Luisanna had been thinking about Grifford as she wrote such dreamy drivel. It would not have surprised her if she had, because a great many girls seemed to spend a good deal of their time obsessing over her brother, though Tahlia was sure there would be somewhat less admiration for him if they only knew what a true dunderhead he was.

She folded the paper, a little more neatly this time, and pushed it into the pouch at her belt.

"Oh heroic prose be damned!" she said as she set off down the stairs, the memory of her morning's torture already fading.

She decided to take the stairs down to the courtyard and avoid the upper embarkation hall, which was bound to be filled with more giggling young ladies on their own way down to wherever they were going. After their day's detention, the children of the Order had finally been granted permission to venture beyond the confines of the fortress' walls. Doubtless many of the older ones would be looking forward to an afternoon of riding, and the youngest, the boys especially, would be eager to visit the fortress-bailey to see the new excitement that was unfolding there. Tahlia, however, had other plans.

* * *

Grifford stood at the head of the stairs beneath the pemtagrin door, glowering at the confusion in the central-courtyard below him. It was a scene of utter chaos. Masdon carts, still bringing in the summer's tithe, filled half the space and trailed back through the gate to the barbican, and the other half was filled with large wagons pulled by towering juddra. In their midst was an immense war-engine with three of the huge beasts harnessed to it.

Everyone was shouting. The pantler's men were shouting at the farmers, the farmers were shouting at the Engineers, and the Engineers were shouting at the fortress guard.

"Hello, brother."

Grifford turned to find that Tahlia had appeared at his shoulder.

"What is happening?" she asked as she peered down at the mess, in that annoyingly quizzical manner that she had.

"Some fool over at the access-keep has let too many farmers through," he replied. "I would have the man thrown to the Pride! Look at this mess! Our war-engines can't get out!"

"Oh, look, here comes Jerrus. Maybe he will be able to sort this muddle out."

Tahlia pointed to where Pantler Heb's senior clerk was weaving his heavy bulk through the packed courtyard. He reached one of the farmer's carts, parked in the centre of the chaos, and hauled himself onto its driving platform.

"Silence, people, please!" he bellowed in his huge voice. "Gentlemen, I am sure we can sort this dilemma out. Calm yourselves please, or we will be here all day."

"That is not being an option," replied an Engineer, sitting on the high saddle of his juddra, the wagon harnessed to it loaded with the spars and beams of a dismantled catapult. "We have to be delivering our consignments before the end of this day, and these farmers are in the way."

"And I myself have to get more of my own supply wagons down to the bailey," said Jerrus calmly. "But we are not going to get anywhere by shouting at each other."

"The mud shovellers must be moving," replied the Engineer.

"We ain't got nowhere to move," replied one of the farmers angrily. "We can't go forward 'cause you're in the way!"

"So be going backwards."

"Backwards! Have you ever tried making a masdon walk backwards? You go back!"

"Our juddra are equally averse to walking in a backwards fashion. Has working under the sun baked your brain?"

Tahlia giggled.

"Well this is not going to be resolved any time soon," she said. "Come on."

She jumped from the top step and began to thread her way through the crowd of people lining the stairs, who were watching the scene below. Grifford scowled once more at the clutter of carts and wagons, and followed after, pushing his way through to the bottom of the stairs. He struggled to keep up with his sister as she dodged around the high wheels of the carts, and the legs of the beasts harnessed to them. He finally caught up with her as she paused beneath the bed of a juddra wagon loaded with a vast barapane tank.

"If you are not being a little more civil," came the angry voice of an Engineer sitting somewhere above. "I will be taking your cargo of jepsil and..."

"Gentlemen, please!" bellowed Jerrus again. "There is no cause for profanity!"

"No, but there's good cause for banging a few thick Engineer skulls together!"

"There will be no violence!"

The angry voice of one of the fortress guard cut the din of the argument.

"You are not one to be giving orders! It is your fault that this mess is here!"

The argument erupted once more above them.

Tahlia shook her head and grinned.

"I am not so sure if my assessment of the virtues of men was so inaccurate," she said. "Mistress Shantir should spend more time down here."

"What?" said Grifford. "What are you talking about now?"

But it was too late. Tahlia had already gone, winding her way back into the chaos.

* * * * *

The farmer's carts were backed up through the barbican, but the fortitude-bridge beyond was empty. The barbican itself sat on a long outcrop of stone which extended from the hillside between two of the fortress' shield-bastions. The fortitude-bridge spanned the expansive gap between it and the access-keep, where it stood on the high stab of rock at the centre of the fortress-bailey.

"Where are we going anyway?" asked Grifford, once he had caught up with his sister again. "Your message said it was urgent."

They set out along the bridge together, its metal surface hatched by the shadows of the chains lining its edge, which trailed high above to the two opposing winch towers.

"We are going to the final-field to find Master Hepskil."

"Why?"

"So he can tell us about the nadidge that attacked father."

"Is that all! What do you want to know?"

"Oh you idiot boy! I want to know who wants our father dead."

"The Order of the Heights want him dead. Obviously."

Tahlia shook her head in exasperation.

"But why do they want him dead?"

"Because," said Grifford, but then he furrowed his brow. "Well I do not know! They just do!"

Tahlia tutted and shook her head again.

They had passed the end of the bridge, where it joined the open road platform that sat on top of the twin towers of the access-keep, and they crossed it to where the road began its descent. It first curved to the right in a single turn down one tower, before switching back and falling another turn around the second tower, in a graceful eight figure to the fortress-bailey below.

Looking down from its height, Grifford could see to the far end of the bailey, where wagons were standing in the open ground on either side of the road. In the main they were masdon and grenkep carts, piled high with supplies and bound with tragasaur tarps. Parked on their own, away from the smaller carts, were a number of the Engineer's wagons, loaded with dismantled war-engines and their ammunition, barapane tanks and crates of cickracol powder.

"I still do not understand what father is doing!" Grifford growled.

"He is being clever. Either he will trick Pride-commander Galder into bringing his army home, or he will trick the North into attacking us."

"How do you know that?"

Tahlia shrugged.

"I hear things."

"I have heard in the barracks that Commander Galder is roaring mad at father."

"He is always mad at father because father keeps trying to stop the war. Maybe Commander Galder tried to kill him!"

"Do not be a fool, sister!"

"I was just thinking!"

"You spend too much time thinking," said Grifford and turned his back on her.

They began their descent of the keep, first spiralling down one tower, and then the next. Each time the road went between the two towers, it passed through a small barbican with a heavy gate and portcullis at either end, but they were all standing open and the guards there ignored them as they passed. Only once were they stopped, when they reached the last gate and a Squad-leader, looking worried and put-upon, asked them what was going on in the fortress above

"It is a complete mess," said Tahlia cheerfully. "Some fool down here has let too many carts up, and now no one can move."

That news did not seem to make the young man look any happier.

"I would not like to be in that person's boots when his Section-commander finds out."

Tahlia smiled as a pained look crossed the man's face, then she continued down the road where it disappeared into the tunnel that carried it through the rest of the access-keep.

"What is so funny?" asked Grifford.

"Oh just about everything," said Tahlia as they entered the glow-lit interior of the keep.

* * * * *

The end of the ridge where the final-field lay was wide and flat, but the plain's rock clawed and stabbed through the earth in places, so the slopes bordering it were broken with small ravines and steep faces. The streams from the spring, which kept the roots of the great tree watered and healthy, fell and pooled among the harsh crevasses, filling them with cool spray and peaceful sound.

The path that Grifford and Tahlia followed crossed bridges which spanned the countless streams. It curved up over broken ground to the plateau at the final-field's height, where the old cherossa stood. The tree was of such age that its spreading boughs had bowed to the floor and cast new roots into the earth. Its branches had spread to cover the ground with their shade, entwining and fusing with the boughs of its younger offspring, seeded over centuries, so it was impossible to distinguish one tree from another. The darkness cast by the spread of its leafy boughs was so great, it was impossible to see far into the darkness beneath its branches.

"He told me to meet him in there," said Tahlia as they climbed to the very edge of the ancient tree's shadow.

Grifford looked around uncertainly.

"Are you sure it is safe?" he asked. "There are a lot of old beasts lurking around here."

As if to prove his point, an old female raised her head from the long grass at the verge of the tree. Her body seemed thin and frail. The pattern of her pelt was faded and ghostlike, yet the yellow eyes glaring at them were still those of a huntress.

"Are you scared?" whispered Tahlia.

"No," replied Grifford defensively. "But we are in their territory. We should be careful."

The old female gave a low dismissive growl, and her head was slowly lowered back into the grass.

"See. They are too old to bother with us," said Tahlia.

"But Madriel-master Chen says the field is dangerous," replied Grifford, still watching the grass where the female was lying.

"I thought you said Master Chen was no good."

"Yes, well, we should still be careful."

He approached the tree cautiously and peered beneath the branches, into the darkness.

"We should probably let our eyes adjust..."

Tahlia pushed passed him and stepped under the tree.

"Come on," she called back over her shoulder. "It is fine!"

Grifford scowled at his sister's back, but still followed her, and they entered a world of cool rustling shadow, pierced by lances of hazy green light. Colourful insects explored the leaves and branches about them, or basked in stillness in the small pools of sunlight. One long sinuous creature, with dozens of legs, scurried away from them, its rainbow scales glittering like jewels. In silence they followed a well-trodden path leading through the verdant shadows, between the thick clumps of badliss root and whitestep that thrived in the humus beneath the tree.

They passed more slumbering madriel, all as old and torpid as the female that had been guarding the tree's edge. Their ears twitched as the children passed, but none raised their head or opened an eye.

"See!" said Tahlia. "There really is nothing to worry about."

A low scrub bush, which overhung a gulley ahead of them, moved with a sudden violence, and an old male rose up from beneath it, issuing a grating growl of displeasure. It tossed its head, and one great horn caught the branches of the bush, sending leaves and fragments of bark tumbling through the still air. Its other thick horn had been severed half way along its length, and the broken end was worn and twisted.

His sister froze as the animal, a scarce two metres away, pulled itself from the gulley to tower over them, the continued growl rattling deep in its ancient chest. Its eyes were not dull and sleep clouded. They were sharp and pale; ancient with years of violence.

"What do we do!" Tahlia hissed.

Grifford pushed her behind him.

The beast lowered its haunches, ready to strike, its growl rising to its throat. Its ridged muzzle pulled back to reveal yellowed canines.

Tahlia took a step backwards, but Grifford stood his ground. He had no idea how he would protect his sister. All he knew was that any effort he made would be nothing but futile.