“Oh, Lady,” Octavia whispered as she recoiled from Devin Stout. His body, his blood, pleaded for healing. The chemical stink of brain tainted the air. She set the parasol on the counter and backed away until she found the wall. Peeling paint crackled against her back.
Rivka shakily stood. She was tall and lean, her body still hesitant to bud into a woman’s curves. Her lips distorted in a sneer as she walked up to her father.
“You killed Mama! You killed her! You were my father all along and you never said . . . !” Rivka kicked Mr. Stout in the ribs, the gut. Octavia lurched forward to grab her around the shoulders and pull her back.
“No,” she said gently. Rivka sheltered her face in Octavia’s shoulder and dissolved in sobs. Octavia held her and stared at the two bodies on the floor. This poor girl. No wonder she knew terror every moment in his presence.
King Kethan did not die. His distorted song scarcely altered. It had flared when the knife sliced in, but as she listened, the tune dimmed as his abdomen came together again. The blood that had oozed out—thick as oil, the coloration as deep as copper—dissolved as if she had passed a wand over him. He sucked in a long, rattling breath.
Devin Stout continued to die. He needed to die.
If I were a better medician, a more compassionate person, I would use a leaf on him. He’s Mrs. Stout’s son. She loves him. Yet Octavia stared at him and didn’t move.
His blood’s cry dwindled to a whimper.
“He was my grandson.” King Kethan’s voice rattled like bared tree branches in a windstorm. Rivka stiffened in Octavia’s arms.
“Yes.”
“The war did that to him. My wars.”
“Only in part, perhaps. His mind . . . maybe something was always wrong there, in some deep place no medician could ever touch.”
“Octavia Leander, you need not feel any guilt. I absolve you of it.”
Her smile quivered. “It’s not that easy.”
“No,” he said. “It never is.”
Rivka trembled. “He’s not dead? The King?”
“No. This isn’t the first time you’ve faced death again since you returned, is it, Grandfather?”
He stood with a whisper of bones. “No. I tried to end myself in many ways, as did Evandia’s men, when they realized what had been done. No mortal blade can slice the seed from my flesh. No maggots can gnaw it out. This is why I stayed in the vault. In truth, we knew not what to do, not with the Tree still hidden.”
Mr. Stout’s body was silent.
Rivka pried herself away from Octavia’s hug. She walked a wide berth around Mr. Stout, as much as possible in the tight space, to the King. King Kethan’s face showed shock as the girl embraced him. He smiled as he wrapped his baggy-sleeved arms around her.
“You. You remind me of my Allendia,” he said.
“I’m glad he didn’t kill you, too,” Rivka said, words muffled against the robe. His song radiated a strange sort of harmony for the first time.
I killed Mr. Drury. Now I killed Devin Stout. And so many have died because of me—the magus and guards in the palace, the buzzer pilot, people on the street in Leffen, even birds. Lady, forgive me. In time, help me to forgive myself.
Her feet scuffed on the floor. It crackled. She frowned and stooped down. The tile floor, already heavily worn, was fragmenting into crumbs. Paint chips lined the floor, too. She brought her gaze to the walls. When she had been standing around earlier, she had noticed fissures and bubbling in the paint. Now it curled and littered the floor as if someone had been picking at it.
“Oh Lady,” she breathed. The sickly-sweet stink of Kethan lingered in the air. “The rot in the vault, the garden, maybe the whole city of Mercia. It’s from you, isn’t it?”
He patted Rivka’s shoulder and she stepped away. “When I was first confined in the vault, I thought that if there was any good in my continued life, it was that I at last would have time to read all the books.” Terrible grief draped over him again. “Then the books began to disintegrate between my fingers, turn to dust on the shelves. Everything in there, even the swords, the muskets, everything crumbled. I had thought the wards of the vault contained my . . . miasma.”
“The Lady’s Tree blesses all life. The seed inside you is wallowing in the leaf’s poison. You—you’ve become a kind of antithesis to the Tree.”
Grief, shame, shivered through him. “I am a curse to our valley, as the Dallows is cursed.”
“Wait. The curse on the Dallows—it’s real?”
“Yes. Over six hundred years ago—closer to seven hundred now—Caskentia warred with the Dallows. Magi were not as rare then. Hundreds marshaled their powers together to lay waste to the plains. Their dark enchantment spread as a pestilence among the people, the crops, the soil, but people healed once they returned to Caskentia. The Waste remained abandoned until my father’s time, when our growing population compelled people to cross the mountains again. The poison was not as potent and so they settled.”
“That time frame. Seven hundred years ago—that’s when the Lady was said to have lost her family and become the Tree.”
“In my reading, I encountered the same. ‘And lo, the Lady lost her final babe while it still suckled upon her breast, and she looked to God and cried for mercy, and for no more mothers to suffer. And so the bark began to grow on her skin and the leaves in her hair and she smiled, for she knew her shade would cool children at play.’ ”
Octavia stared, hot nausea roiling in her gut. I’ve made no such cry, yet I am still turning. “I recall that tale from Miss Percival. I . . . I have always heard about your knowledge of books. Is it true that you memorize most books upon first reading?”
“Yes. I set the life goal to read most every book in Caskentia’s great libraries.” His smile was ghastly and yet fond. “In my studies, I found that Trees are said to exist around the world, most always hidden. They produce a single seed, always at the end of their life.”
Octavia mulled everything over and tried to avoid rubbing her arms and legs. I am becoming a tree, but why? Did something happen when I bled onto that branch? I haven’t had to bloodlet since, and that is when my skin started to change. If my body is changing on its own, what’s the real purpose of the seed?
She looked at the dead man on the floor and turned away. “Let’s talk in the kitchen, please.” As she passed the counter, she grabbed her parasol. By its nature, the wand had already shed the bits of hair and skull, but she still felt peculiar with that familiar grip in her hand.
Rivka walked to a cabinet and grabbed a stack of sweet Frengian flatbreads. She passed two to Octavia. “Mama always said when life makes you cry, eat some bread, because it always tastes better with a little salt.”
“Your mother, she was Frengian?” asked the King. There was no judgment in his words.
“Yes. She came down to work the factories, and after she had me, she baked bread at home. Can you . . . are you able to eat?”
King Kethan stared at the sweet bread, longing in his eyes. Golden turbinado sugar crusted the bubbled top of the yeast bread.
Octavia listened to his song. “He can, actually. The seed is in his stomach but there’s room for food as well. I think he’ll actually gain muscle and energy if he eats.”
The seed. I can even feel the texture of it in his stomach. The hull is intact, even as it marinates in poison. If there were a way to remove it, it might still grow a new Tree.
And King Kethan would truly die.
Rivka smiled as she handed him the rest of the bread.
They ate and did not speak for a few minutes. Bits of turbinado sugar melted on Octavia’s tongue like tiny snowflakes, the bread’s texture soft, chewy, and thin. King Kethan closed his eyes and forced himself to eat slowly, though occasional murmurs of bliss escaped him. Even a day old, the bread tastes like heaven to me, but for Kethan . . .
“Either medicians have changed greatly in a few generations, or you are most gifted.” King Kethan brushed raw sugar from his fingertips. His cheeks had actually gained more color. His body has fed on itself for fifty years, with the seed keeping him alive regardless. He could eat nonstop for days and become more passably normal. But we don’t have days. I don’t. Her skin ached.
“The Lady has been too generous to me, especially these past few weeks. I had planned to journey to the Tree, even before finding you in the vault.”
He pondered that. “Our paths have merged in a peculiar way.”
“How far is it to the Tree?” asked Rivka.
“I don’t know, but if the army’s heading that way, it shouldn’t be too hard to find out.” Octavia looked down at her robes. “Winter is beginning. We’ll need to pack well.” She mentally ticked through the supplies they’d need. The gilly coins could buy them horses, perhaps—a cabriolet would never make it over the pass in winter.
“Our rooms are in back,” said Rivka. “I don’t have many clothes, but there’s all of . . . of Mr. Stout’s things. I can wear his clothes. So can the King.”
“Rivka, you can’t come with us. This is a dangerous journey,” said Octavia. She heard a very soft pop and looked up. The paint in the ceiling erupted in a long fissure. She grimaced. “We’re on the third floor of a ten-story building that was rotting even before I arrived. We can’t linger in the city, not with this aura around you, Grandfather.”
I can’t wait here for Alonzo. The realization physically pained her. What she wouldn’t give for his solid presence right now.
“Where am I supposed to go, then?” Tears softened Rivka’s eyes.
“The southern nations. Your grandmother is there, as well as your aunt and a new baby. Mrs. Stout would be delighted to have you there.”
“I . . . She saw me here at the bakery, but we didn’t know . . . She might not . . .”
King Kethan crossed to Rivka and tapped her chin to force her head up. “Show no shame. ’Tis not deserved.” She granted him a little nod and a shy smile.
“Mrs. Stout won’t care. She’s as fierce as a threem. She’ll take care of you—no one will dare give you grief with her around. I can buy your passage south.”
“He . . . he carried money on him, too. I bet there’s more hidden in his room,” said Rivka.
Pain sparked through the marrow of Octavia’s arms. She froze, breathing through the pain as in her Al Cala. The change is deeper than my skin. She rubbed at her arms as the agony faded, even as she felt the itchiness along her calves.
“We need to go,” said Octavia, surprised at her own voice. She actually sounded calm.
“ ’TIS THE SAME, yet so different,” murmured King Kethan. He stood at the iron railing along a tower roof overlooking his old domain.
Octavia felt the weight of the night on her like God’s fist. The palace, the King, the death of Devin Stout. All she knew now was that they had to keep on moving until daylight, when they could escape the city. Escape . . . to the Waste. Such an incomprehensible thought.
Rivka had given them directions to catwalks on high that were not restricted by curfews. The tramways would be shut for a few hours yet, but from here Octavia could see the track and the hop-skip of the trestles through and around buildings, all cast in the eerie light of glowstones. Windows gleamed like cat eyes in the blackness.
Trash littered the rooftop. Bottles, mostly, as broken as the men who drank from them. No one was sleeping on the roof tonight, but she couldn’t afford to let down her guard. She shivered at the memory of the train ride to Tamarania—the feral glints in the women’s eyes, the way they hacked apart her medician blanket. Thank the Lady that the circle shielded her.
The medician blanket.
Octavia fluffed out the damaged blanket. “Grandfather? Come and sit in the circle, please.”
His stride was stronger than before; the food had done obvious good. He carried one of Mr. Stout’s knives at his waist and had told her he’d spent many hours practicing the movements of the Five Stars while in the vault. In his youth, he had been known for his athleticism and horsemanship. Such skills could only help them now.
“Medicians attempted to treat me many years ago, to no avail.”
“I’m not going to treat you. I have something else in mind.”
King Kethan sat in the circle, legs crossed. They had raided Devin Stout’s meager wardrobe. Thank the Lady, the two men were of a similar build. The King’s scraggly long hair was tied back at his neck; that alone made him look more civilized. Octavia again wore the green coat over her uniform.
Her fingers grazed the circle. “Pray, Lady, heed my call.” The heat descended on her, cozy against the cold of the night. She breathed as in her Al Cala. The Tree flared in her mind. There was no moon. The Lady was black on blackness, the wind was as weary as Octavia. No airships, no visible changes.
The King’s song grew stronger in the confines of the circle, as it should. His chaotic, clacking melody sounded as if a classroom of toddlers had been handed musical instruments and told to play. She wondered what other court medicians had thought, hearing this, and how long Evandia’s council had let them live afterward. His illegitimate offspring had never opened the vault again either. Gossip had never spread. Evandia had surely silenced anyone beyond her trusted circle. Lovely thought, that.
“Lady, days ago you guarded me within this circle. You know well the King’s condition. You have likely fought to balance it for fifty years.” In answer, the full canopy of the Tree seemed to bow. Branches cracked like gunshots. Octavia froze. What just happened? Swallowing, she continued to whisper, “We cannot leave Mercia until curfew lifts. We require respite like that offered by your branches. Let this circle contain his aura of decay, and let us remain here in safety.”
The Tree did not move again. Octavia pressed a fist to her chest and then opened her eyes. The King was studying her with curiosity, rather like Alonzo. Don’t think on him. You know you can’t linger in the city in wait for him, even if this works.
She walked to the edge of the roof and grabbed a splintered board a bit larger than her hand. She set it just beyond the circle and then crossed the boundary. Warmth flashed on her skin.
“We’ll know if this works by watching this wood,” she said.
“Then we had best set my pack and yours outside of the bounds.”
She bit back a curse. He was right. She helped him to ease off his pack, which they had fully stuffed with more clothes, food, canteens, and most anything else of potential use. She slipped off her overloaded satchel as well; it’d do her no good if her jars cracked and food spoiled.
The oval was large enough for an adult to lie down, legs and arms slack, so there was adequate space for the two of them to sit and face each other. The King’s rank odor was unpleasant, but she’d live. The wards at the front hadn’t exactly smelled like honeysuckle.
“My guess is that you come from the North Country.” King Kethan folded his hands together.
“Yes. Far north, though since I was twelve I lived at Miss Percival’s academy.”
“Ah, the academy. I visited there several times as a boy. ’Tis a beautiful place, especially with the tulips in bloom. Do they still grow there?”
Homesickness stuck in her craw. She nodded so that she wouldn’t speak and sob. Even with the coldness of the other girls, even with Miss Percival’s aloofness in recent months, she missed that place fiercely. Her fingers twitched as if she could feel the tulip bulbs, the grit of the field.
“Yes,” she finally managed. “It’s planting time now. Selling the full plants in spring still brings in much of the academy’s income.” Maybe, with the money from selling me and Mrs. Stout, the girls are eating better. They will need the energy for these long days in the field.
“A curious thing. Miss Percival came to Mercia mere days before my Allendia vanished.”
“What?”
King Kethan stared beyond the blanket, as if into the past. “She asked about the Lady, if there was anything at the palace that connected with the Tree. She said something about dreams pulling her there. I told her no, of course. My senior Daggers were most concerned that rumors of the vault’s contents had spread. ’Tis something I thought on, in my time in the vault, as I pondered anything of relation to the Lady. I have wondered why Miss Percival came and what she wanted.”
Octavia’s mind raced. “Mrs. Stout—your daughter—told me Miss Percival and one of her students found her injured outside of Mercia. They saved her life and took her to the academy. They were going to bring her back to Mercia when . . . when the infernals attacked.”
He bowed his head. “Then I thank God she stayed there with the Percivals. The dreams of the headmistress must have brought her to Mercia for that very purpose.”
“Maybe. I’ve had several strange coincidences like that now, such as meeting you. Until a few weeks ago, I thought I had a perfect understanding of the Lady.” She pressed her arms closer together. “Now her nature is changing. She’s visible to everyone. You carry her seed inside. You can’t die. So many things.” The Lady, reviving that dead woman in Tamarania long enough for her to speak. The way her vines ripped apart the Wasters. The way she is changing me.
“Garcia’s History of World Trees said that seeds only formed near the end of a Tree’s lifetime. The Lady made this seed over seventy years ago, at least. If her life was intended to end, my miasma may have strained her all the more. Perhaps the magic that veiled her has now failed.”
“That . . . feels so wrong to me, to think of the Lady dying. Blasphemous, really. It goes against everything I know. It doesn’t seem right.”
“The Lady is grandiose and magical, but she is a Tree, and trees by their nature are finite.” He tilted his head toward her. “So are you, Miss Leander. The sun will not rise for several hours yet. You must rest.”
“But I—”
“Octavia Leander.” He said the words, not with regal formality, but like a father. “I do not sleep. I will be on watch and will wake you if anyone comes to the roof.”
Blinking her bleary eyes, she touched the piece of wood beyond the circle. It was still solid. She folded herself forward, her body inches from his tumultuous song. Her eyes closed.
“MISS LEANDER. AWAKEN. A strange creature lurks beyond the sanctity of your circle.”
She sat upright. I was asleep? She could have sworn that she had just closed her eyes. Kethan pointed over her shoulder, and she turned.
Sunrise blushed the eastern sky as pink as a healing scar. Like a miniature gargoyle, a silhouette sat on the railing. Batlike wings flared out. The dismal light reflected on a silver object, like a bracelet, at the base of its wing.
“Leaf,” she whispered.
At his name, the gremlin chittered and glided at her, landing inches beyond the mended edge of the blanket. “Leaf! Oh, Leaf! It really is you!” She touched the circle. “Thank you, Lady, for extending your branches,” she stammered without a pause to breathe.
As soon as the barrier dropped, Leaf was on her. He dashed in a crazy circle from shoulder to back to shoulder to breast, chattering all the while. His stubby fingers clutched at her clothes as his wings grazed her ears. His body was the size of a young kitten’s, his weight as heavy as a handful of eggs.
“Oh, Leaf! Where have you been all this time? I heard you’ve been gossiping about me.” She shook a finger at him. His long, tapered ears wobbled. “I can’t say I mind terribly since it led us to a good friend in Tamarania, Chi. I imagine you’ve heard of Chi already, too, since people are even speaking of her in Mercia.” Octavia cooed and scratched at Leaf’s chin.
King Kethan politely coughed into his hand. “If I may inquire, what exactly is this creature?”
“Oh! Of course. This is a chimera, a construct out of Tamarania, a mix of magic and science. They were originally created in laboratories but they nest now and create their own young. Leaf here is a mere baby, but he’s bright and he’s already saved my life once.” The Lady may not have bestowed the weight of a life debt, but I will never forget.
“A biological creation? How fascinating. May I?” He extended a hand, palm up.
Leaf stared at King Kethan. One long ear was higher than the other. He mewed and leaned from Octavia’s arms, his little black nose sniffing. With a small hop, he landed on the King. Leaf didn’t seem quite sure how to react to a man neither living nor dead. He crept up the King’s shoulder, sniffing all the while, mewed again, and glided back to Octavia’s arm. He rubbed at the glove over her knuckles as he perched on her wrist.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Do not apologize for his survival skills. I know well what I am.” The King looked away, that grief in his eyes. “I wonder if even horses will fear me?”
I hope not. “The sun’s up now. We had best get a start. Leaf, are you here to make the journey with us?”
An affirmative chirp. The gremlin’s song was much stronger now—disturbing, how different it was after just two weeks.
“Leaf, if you’re spreading more gossip, can you somehow connect with Alonzo and let him know where we’re going? Perhaps send him a gremlin to guide him our way?” She paused to swallow down her worry for him, her need to see him. “I wish I could leave him a note but I’m not Mrs. Stout, who grew up with royal spy codes, or Adana Dryn, with her mastery of Waster ciphers. Such things make no sense to me.”
“I would help, if I knew what codes he might comprehend.”
“I appreciate that, Grandfather.”
A smile carved canyons in his desiccated face. “This man, he means a great deal to you.”
“Alonzo Garret.” Octavia said his name like a prayer. “A veteran of the recent war. He was an apprentice as a Clockwork Dagger, sent to kill me before I fell into the hands of the Waste. He defied his orders, and the past few weeks . . .” She spread her hands. “Clockwork Daggers now have orders to kill us both.”
“To kill a medician of your skill.” The King shook his head. “The rot in Mercia is not fully mine.”
“No. It’s not.” She bobbed her arm up and down, causing Leaf to extend his wings for balance. “Can you help Alonzo, little one?”
Leaf placed his tongue between his sharp little fangs and blew a perfect raspberry.
“Well then,” she said, laughing. When did I last laugh and smile this much? “I’m not sure if I taught him that. I do hope you remember how to hide in my satchel, Leaf?”
At that, he sprang to land in her open bag. His stubby tail waggled in the air like the tip of a thumb.
“Bright creatures,” said King Kethan. He stood, joints creaking. His hair draped across his shoulders again; the leather tie fell to the ground in pieces. That effort was in vain. “You must tell me more about them.”
“I just spent some time with their creator in Tamarania. I’ll tell you what I can.” She stood and straightened her coat and skirts. At the tug on her coat’s hem, the seam gave way. She leaned to look. The threads had loosened. She checked the seams at her shoulders and the pockets. The threads were weak, and the weave of the thick cloth itself had softened. Light powdery residue covered her fingers.
“The cloth is decaying,” she said. “Yours will do the same.” Winter will be harsh enough, but how are we to survive if our clothing rots from our bodies?
“I am sorry.”
She checked her medician robes and the blanket as well. The enchantment afforded them extra durability, but she wondered how long they would truly hold up. The magic was woven for endurance and cleanliness, not to confront years of elemental decay within a span of hours. She packed the blanket away. Leaf writhed in an effort to create a new niche in an already fully loaded satchel.
“You can’t help it, Grandfather,” she said. She gave Leaf’s head a quick rub and pulled the flap shut.
The piece of wood by her feet had splintered into chunks.
Her hand went to her face, as if to find new lines. I wonder what his presence is doing to my body? Her arms and legs ached, the feeling now almost familiar. I wonder if I will end up looking like an old tree?
She said it in her mind as if it were a joke, but she didn’t laugh.