13

DESTRUCTION

From my personal experience, there’s nothing like a hot meal to lift the spirits. And a spirit. But alas. We’re stuck in the middle of the woods (just east of the Feralstorm coast, Malachite surmises after a jaunty scout), in which the only thing resembling alcohol at all is the single half-muddied puddle of deer piss not ten paces from our fire.

The rabbit’s blood is gone, but its meat isn’t, and I rotate the shoddily made spit on which it sits browning in its own juices. A stew would be better, to spread the nutrition around the three mortals, but we don’t have many options in terms of cookware, let alone a decent pot. Perhaps magic could conjure one up, but I dare not propose it what with Lucien looking half dead already. After he healed Fione, he rolled over and almost immediately went to sleep under a tree. The rest of us gathered around the fire are quiet, Fione most of all.

“Talking hurts,” she rasps.

“Then don’t,” Malachite asserts, wiping his broadsword down. “Just stare into the flames and think about deep shit. That’s what fires’re for, anyway.”

“How many nicks?” I jerk my chin at his sword.

The beneather frowns. “Way too many, considering those things were just made of glass.”

“Magic glass,” Fione croaks, and I hold up a finger to shush her.

“Don’t make me gag you, archduchess. T’would be a vastly unbecoming accessory with this season’s color palette.”

Fione huffs, a glimmer of that impertinent, impatient huff she used to make in the before-times, in the “innocent” days of Vetris court life, and grumpily goes back to staring into the fire. I look at the green-bound book sitting at her side—she hasn’t touched it, but neither has she let it out of her sight since she came back from the dead. Near-dead.

Malachite’s thinking it, too.

“We were gonna Heartless you,” he says without looking at her. Fione’s gaze darts to a sleeping Lucien, then back to the flames.

“That would’ve been the logical choice,” she agrees.

“But it wouldn’t have been what you wanted,” I say, then stop myself when she slashes a look over at me. “Not like I can know what you want, obviously. I was more worried you wouldn’t get to choose it for yourself.”

“Then…” Her lips curl in a tiny smile. “I’m grateful to you.”

“If,” Malachite starts. “If you did get turned Heartless, would your leg thing go away?”

“Mal.” I sigh. “You can’t just—”

“No, I’m serious. It’s like, a logistics question. The magic heals everything on a Heartless when they die, right? Would it heal that? Or does it stay? Did you have anything that went away when you got turned, Six-Eyes?”

“Not that I remember,” I say. “But that’s not really the point, is it?”

“Then what is?” he fires.

“Gods. You always get so testy when Lucien’s injured,” I quip.

“Look who’s talkin’.”

We glower at each other through the firelight for a while, and then Fione’s voice interrupts quietly.

“Whether or not my leg would heal or remain the same, I would still be me.”

“Would you want it to go away?” Mal presses.

“No,” she says. “And yes. It’s not a simple answer. But it’s mine to give—and mine alone.”

Malachite studies her face for a long moment and then makes that lopsided smile, the triple claw-scars I gave him crinkling. He hefts off the root he was sitting on and goes to check on Lucien’s sleeping form.

“You haven’t read the book yet.” I nod at the green-backed thing. She makes a small frown.

“Of course I haven’t.”

“I thought you could read Old Vetrisian. Or, not without Luc’s help?”

“I need more than Luc’s help,” she says. “I can’t translate an entire thousand-year-old manuscript in a void. No one speaks Old Vetrisian anymore. It’s a dead language. I need reference materials, codices, Vetrisian-beneather generalized ciphers to scrape the barest sliver of information from it.”

“Then we get you those.”

“How? The only place that has such things is the Black Archive, and they would never—” She sees the glint in my eye. “No. Zera, no.”

“What? It’s just a little sneaking in and stealing.”

“Do you think you’re the first thief to think of breaking in?”

“No.” I laugh.

“Have you ever heard of a thief stealing from the Black Archives?”

I pause. “No.”

“And why do you think that is?”

“Because they’re not me. Because they’re bad.”

“Because they’re dead, Zera,” she says, hard. “They get killed.”

“I can’t be killed.” I scoff again. “And anyway, killed by what, dust inhalation? It’s just a library.”

“It isn’t just a library,” the archduchess insists. “Not like you’re thinking. The polymaths in the Black Archives guard the information there with their lives. They’re highly skilled warriors, every last one of them, equipped with the best polymath machines and strongest knowledge in the world. They can stop a body cold with the tiniest of poison threads—and their mastery of white mercury is on par with Cavanos. They can fight with all the combined knowledge of three thousand years of honed techniques from all around Arathess. You can forget about stealing. The only way we’re getting any information from the Archive is if we have a kingsmedal. And those aren’t given out to just anyone—”

“We’re a prince!” I motion to Lucien. “And an archduchess!”

“Nobles.” Her voice softens. “Of a kingdom that may no longer exist.”

“I know somebody who works there!” I protest. “Yorl. He’ll definitely help us.”

“If he’s been accepted at the Black Archive, he’s theirs now. His loyalty is theirs. Besides, from what you’ve told me of him, I doubt he’d risk everything he worked for just to help us.” She looks up from the fire, blue eyes sparking. “There’s only one way to get a kingsmedal into the Black Archive.”

“And?” I press. “What’s that?”

Her fingers wander to the book and tighten. “The polymaths of the Black Archive deal in one currency: knowledge. You have to offer knowledge they don’t already have.”

It makes sense, in retrospect. That’s why Yorl did all that he did: trap Evlorasin beneath Vetris, torture it, send me in to die repeatedly and talk to it, teach it to Weep. He knew the valkerax research of his grandfather was special, unique—and if he could prove it with results, with a real and true controlled experiment, it was a golden ticket—er—kingsmedal—into the Black Archives. He did everything Varia said, every last sordid thing, all for a single kingsmedal.

Fione’s right. Even if Yorl and I did grow close, I can’t ask him to give up all he’s worked for—all of his grandfather’s lifework—just for me.

The way Fione falls asleep on the pine needles with the book wrapped tight in her arms makes me think she wants to keep it. It’s our only clue in the world to stopping the Bone Tree and saving Varia. And she’s afraid. Afraid she’ll have to give it over to the Black Archive in order to translate it. She could do that, but something tells me it’s not just about the information inside. She’s smart. She’d remember everything she’d translate, including how to destroy the Bone Tree. But to her, it’s the physical book that’s important, too. A symbol. A tangible object of hope in what feels like a hopeless situation.

I snake my hand up to my heart-shaped locket, to the one that lets me go a greater distance from my witch than just a mile and a half. For a while, in Vetris, the locket was that symbol for me. Something to hold on to—a taste of hope. A taste is all you need to keep moving forward sometimes. To do what needs to be done, no matter how afraid or exhausted you are.

Malachite gives a guttural snore and rolls over, flinging his uninjured arm around a root, and for the millionth time my anticipation for the moment when my guard shift ends and I can kick his arse awake builds even higher. Not that I need to sleep. But Malachite wouldn’t hear of it—we were going to do shifts like normal people do. Like mortals do.

I grip the locket tighter against the warmth in my chest. Being treated like a mortal…is nice. Being given consideration, my condition and life treated as something important. Worth preserving, instead of throwing away. It’s all very nice. Too nice, maybe. Maybe I’m getting spoiled. Soft.

Or maybe I’m growing. Growing up. Growing older, like I never thought I could.

The Blue Giant reaches zenith, and I gleefully lodge my booted toe in Malachite’s spine. He jolts awake, muttering obscenities, and blearily staggers to take over the log I was sitting on. He stokes the half-dead coals, sparks eating air, and I make my way to Lucien’s side. Still sleeping. I watch his chest rise and fall, his hair smeared with blood on the ends but his skin clean after I took the liberty of using the leftover hot water on him. He healed his own wounds—and Malachite’s—all in the same moment he healed Fione. That’s why he was sweating, exerting so much. And his magic healed my wounds, too, funneling into me like pure energy. I’m fine. Everyone is absolutely fine, thanks to him.

I watch his working hand twitch in his sleep as I lie beside him.

“But at what cost?” I breathe, my words brushing at his bangs. He’s not a High Witch. The Glass Tree hasn’t encased him, suspending him. What body part of his won’t work tomorrow? His other eye? His nose, or his lips? Or maybe something more internal—his voice, his lungs, his stomach? How many parts can he risk, until he hits something critical and dies?

Until the both of us die, together; me as his Heartless, him as my witch?

to kill him now would be an easy thing. to end both your suffering, all your suffering. you could kill them all and spare them this impossible fight.

The hunger can’t touch me. Not in Lucien’s arms. I carefully brush his hair aside, fingers glancing on his cheek. I press a kiss to his forehead and snuggle beneath his chin. The night sky twinkles down on us, and I know somewhere up there is Windonhigh—Y’shennria, Nightsinger, Crav and Peligli. I can’t see it. Hidden by magic, probably. All I can see are stars, and the blueness of the Giant, and my fear of falling asleep again…of dreaming. Of being connected forever to Varia—to the Bone Tree.

Malachite had a point. If I have the blood promise, the six eyes, if his eyes light up when I Weep and he smells me…am I a valkerax? Am I one of them?

Am I one of Varia’s tools?

No matter how afraid I am, life still comes. Lucien is still here, with me, warm and real and handsome as ever. That feeling of safety comes, like nothing can touch me, and I drift into the darkness of oblivion.

This time, in this dream, I can feel Varia’s excitement.

It’s not just hers—it’s her hunger’s, too. That twin hunger of mine, not-same and not-different. We—she—is so proud. I can feel her pride blossoming in her chest like the world’s biggest flower. She’s done well.

Because through her eyes, I see Windonhigh.

In flames.

She’s so happy—the voice is quiet for once. That terrible, aching hunger to destroy, to ruin—it hasn’t spoken to her once since she set the last witch city on fire. She’s done it. She’s obeyed, and more than that, she’s found out how to silence it. Zera—I—had Weeping. But she—we—have this.

Destruction.

As long as she destroys, it stops swallowing her mind whole. That’s when the tides of the Bone Tree’s power even out and she can surface above the waves of chaos. She can see the mousy-haired girl’s face now and remember her name—Fione. Flashes of memory—of stolen kisses beneath cherry trees, of slow, never-silent touches beneath silk sheets. The smell of her is the lightest of perfumes, clover and lemongrass, and she tastes of beeswax and copper, especially when she comes in from her uncle’s workshop.

Lovely Fione. Loyal Fione.

Loyal no longer.

Varia’s heart pangs, but we keep our chin high. We will carve the world—a better world, a safer world—for her.

We must.

And so, we listen happily to the flames and the screams of the witches as our white wyrms circle the floating city.

Circling, in rainbow halos.

Flying.

My unheart—just mine—shudders. Flying?! How are they flying? Only Evlorasin knows how—how to Weep, how to fly. Peligli, Crav, Y’shennria—no, I just found them. I just left them, safe in their beds…

I’m thrown out of her body. Her eyes aren’t mine anymore. I’m behind her, floating somewhere above her, and I watch in slow, dripping horror as she turns around and looks right at me. Up, and at me, with a smile.

“Blood, Zera,” she says with a little laugh, motioning to the flying valkerax like I’m a dense child. “Remember? Blood is a conversation for them.”

She can see me. Talk to me. A conversation. Evlorasin gave me its blood, and I know where the Bone Tree is at all times. Forever. I know where she is, forever. Evlorasin’s wound on its hind leg, telling me other valkerax bit, that they followed. That’s how they followed Evlorasin, that’s why it struck me as strange that they could follow Ev at all—they learned. Through Ev’s blood, they learned to fly.

And they’ve attacked Windonhigh. My friends. My family.

Varia’s eyes search me, her gaze resting around me, and she breaks out in the most piercingly beautiful of smiles.

“Shall we find where you are?”

She reaches out to me, her fingers rich with animate midnight, and I panic. I step back without stepping back, trapped in the motionless torpor of the dream. My body won’t respond—I don’t even think I have a body. She’s going to touch me, and it’s going to end. Everything. If she touches me, I know she’ll come to us, to Lucien and Malachite and Fione in the camp, and hurt them. Capture them. Using my body. Using her magic. And I can’t even move to stop it.

Just as the shrill panic in my head crescendos, she freezes, fingers inches from my unface. Something slithers on the floating grass island where she’s standing, between her boots, and her own horror is clear as she looks down slowly. Something clear on the edges, cloudy in the middle, glinting like porcelain.

Glass.

Raw glass grows inch by inch around her boots, up, consuming it like a living thing, like a glass plant in fast motion. A thick wedge of it, boxy and smooth, encasing her leg up to the ankle. Trapping her, as I’m trapped in the dream. She tries to yank free, tries to point her blackened fingers at it to free herself with magic, but the glass stays, still and gleaming in the fire bursts from the distant battle in Windonhigh.

“What—” Her onyx eyes narrow. “What is this?”

I can’t say a thing. My mouth won’t move, or I would’ve told her. I would’ve told her the Bone Tree choker made of valkerax fangs—pressed around and into her throat like organic jewelry—is moving. Growing.

The fangs elongate, fanning down and outward like a birdcage around her. Bone, like vines. Living and bending and moving past her shoulders, and as the bone tendrils reach the bottom of her legs, the thick glass wedge around her foot starts to branch off. Little glass nubs like sprouts grow up to the bones, reaching for them. Both of them, like plants reaching for the sun.

Yearning for each other.

Varia’s eyes suddenly widen, and her hands grow midnight up to her elbows in a split second. I don’t see the magic, but I see the aftermath—a cut hanging in the air between the glass and bone tendrils, separating them, shattering them. Bone splinters and glass splinters rain down. The bone choker shrinks rapidly, back to its normal size, and the glass wedge melts away into the grass like water, freeing her.

The princess looks up at me, haggard, her hair in sweat-soaked spates on her face, the dark circles around her serious eyes magnified as she tries so hard to hide her fear with a sudden gleam of deadly determination, the dark pressure of all her incredible magic pointed at me like claws.

“You. You did this. You’re trying to undo all of this, aren’t you?”