The Clockwork Crown (26 page)

Something chirped above and a green being floated down from the trees. Leaf, gliding down like his namesake.

“Oh, Leaf!”
This is better than any chocolate bar.
Being a trained war-­horse, her mount barely reacted as Leaf landed on the low nub of the saddle horn.

He chittered a greeting and leaped up to Octavia's shoulder. He pattered a rapid circle around her head and then sat on her left shoulder.

“Greetings to you, gremlin,” called King Kethan. Leaf chirped in his direction.

“Come to say good-­bye?” she whispered.

He made a crude noise that normally indicated a need to treat with bellywood bark.

Songs drifted out of sight.
Young, healthy, female. Slow to approach.
Octavia held up a hand to stop King Kethan. “Hello?” she called.

The girls emerged like a pack of wolves, slinking, wary. They wore black oilskin coats like so many Wasters, but many of these were singed by fire.
Salvage from when a Waster didn't show proper respect to a threem.
Their visible skirts were tattered and torn, their feet bare yet unhurt. “Hello,” Octavia repeated.

“I know you.” One of the girls stepped to the forefront, smiling. Her yellow hair was tied back in a braid, but Octavia recognized her from when it had been wild and free. The girl couldn't have been any older than fifteen.

“Yes! You were the one in the Waster camp two weeks ago! I was so afraid for you.” Octavia shifted to dismount but the girl held up a hand. Leaf groused and settled himself on her shoulder again.

“We'll walk you along this next rocky stretch but I don't want to delay you.
She's
waiting.”

Octavia counted nine girls as she rode on. The youngest looked to be about twelve, the oldest maybe sixteen. “The Wasters assumed you'd all been eaten by threems.”

“The bastards!” snapped the youngest.

The yellow-­haired girl nodded. “The threems don't bother you if you give them space and respect. The second anyone raises a gun, they're toast. Literally.”

“You're all from Mercia?” Octavia asked. They nodded. “Considering all the tea they make, there must be more girls.”

That earned scowls and expressions of dismay. “There are hundreds,” said a girl with dusky Frengian skin. “Most of them are so scared they do their job and get the bark. The Wasters tried to get lots of sisters, so while one is out working the other is kept hostage.”

Oh no. These girls must reside in the settlement. More lives to be lost in an attack.

“Is there no outcry in Mercia?” asked King Kethan, rage clear in his voice.

“Some,” said Octavia with a grimace, and nodded to the yellow-­haired girl. “I saw a newspaper article about you, with a picture of your father.” The path rose, strewn with boulders, and Chocolate slowed to place each hoof with care.

“Of course you did. Daddy has money.” She didn't look happy that she was missed; instead she seemed disgusted.

“The Tree is visible to the air now,” Octavia said. “Caskentia is preparing to attack. If they bomb—­”

“They won't,” said a girl.

“You're going to become a new Tree,” said the other.

“He has the seed. She's so happy he's finally here,” said another.

Eerie, how they all speak in a sequence.
“How do you know . . . ?”

“We're her daughters now,” said the yellow-­haired girl. “When we sleep here, we dream wonderful dreams.”

A girl with curly black hair held up her arms. “My hands are finally healed. I used to work a sewing machine twelve hours a day.”

“My step-­pa don't beat me no more.”

“I'm not ever leaving here!” At that, they all smiled and nodded.

I don't doubt that some of their situations have improved, but certainly there are ­people back in Mercia who love and miss them. But their minds . . . their smiles . . . they seem almost vacant.

The soft patter of a waterfall grew louder as they followed a switchback. The air—­it was so clean, so pure, it almost made her giddy. At the curve, Octavia reined up. “Oh Lady,” she whispered. That was not blasphemy.

The sight before her was the most beautiful she had ever seen. The waterfall began high up on the Tree, pouring from a shadowed crevice, and fell for at least a quarter mile. Shafts of light angled downward. Multiple rainbows wavered in the mist. The Tree's surface consisted of mottled, vertical strips covered with lichen patches that would have been meadows if stretched horizontally. Long-­necked pink birds glided past the water like cherry blossoms adrift. Far below lay more trees. Gnarled roots led down to a small lake that looked to be flecked with birds of every possible color and size. At water level, the roots had eroded to resemble tumbled river stones.

She couldn't speak. Words could never have done it justice. Leaf's little body rumbled in an honest-­to-­goodness feline purr.

It took effort to prod her horse onward and drag her own gaze away, but even then, she looked over her shoulder until the vista was obscured by rocks and brush. The path grew steeper. The girls followed, picking their way among the boulders, their feet sure as goat hooves. The way was littered with dry red bark fragrant like a fine spice mix—­a dash of cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg, reminiscent of all the glories of a Fengrian bakery. Octavia thought of Rivka with a quick prayer. Up another rise, and she could see the Tree itself ahead. The path led directly to a cleft in the trunk.

The Lady is there.

Tingles warmed her skin. Redwoods lined the grassy path, their shaggy tops extended far beyond sight. She had only seen such trees along the northern coast. She smiled until she rode alongside.

They were rotting, and not a dry rot—­their trunks oozed a viscous gray substance like motor oil, the smell of greenery replaced by a foulness like rotting fish. The needles were still green but somewhat limp, as if suffering from a sudden drought.

“It's affecting the entire forest, like a disease. Even some of the animals are getting sores like this,” said one of the girls.

“This is the sickness of the Waste, even after all these years,” Octavia murmured. “The Lady is still here, yet this is happening.”

“Not for long,” said the girls in unison.

They passed the final normal tree, its stink heavy in the air. Only the darkness of the cleft lay ahead. She and the King dismounted.

King Kethan stood before his horse and stroked her long muzzle. “I am glad to have ridden one last time,” he murmured. “Thank you.” Doxy snorted at his hand, no longer afraid. He smiled.

Octavia looked around, at a sudden loss. “I don't want to set the horses free. I want to think that I'll need one to ride back.”

“We cannot go beyond this point,” said the yellow-­haired girl. “We'll stay here until nightfall. If you don't return, we'll take good care of them, and so will you, after.” Her bright smile sent a vicious chill through Octavia as she handed over the reins.

“Miss Octavia Leander. Granddaughter.” King Kethan opened both arms in an unmistakable gesture. She didn't hesitate with her hug. His arms were thin cords, gentle in their strength. Leaf hopped to his shoulder and did a quick circuit around both of their heads. “ 'Tis my sincere hope you shall ride away, and ride on with Mr. Garret. You possess my eternal gratitude for your kindness to me, but even more, to the land I love greatly and have burdened so.”

“Peace and mercy to you, Grandfather.” She pulled back, the dust of his deteriorating clothes falling away from her enchanted robes. With a small chirp, Leaf leaped from Kethan and glided to Octavia's shoulder. He sat upright, his wings tucked close.

Side by side, Octavia and Kethan walked into the darkness.

T
HE ENTRANCE TO THE
Tree evoked the blackness of a dank basement at the end of a long, wet winter, when the root vegetables are starting to soften and the mold grows fuzzy and bold. A cold breeze stroked Octavia, like the breath of a frozen god. Even if she had pulled out her glowstone, it would have done little good against the spirit of this place.

Octavia's feet knew to walk on. She could hear Kethan beside her, his new Waster boots clomping heavily. His song showed anxiety and calmness together. She waved a hand in front of her, worried about walking into something. Her steps slowed at the thought of walking into nothing at all, even if it seemed unlikely at this stage.
Make it this far, fall into a crevasse. That does seem like my sort of luck.
Leaf chittered by her ear.

Soft light lay ahead, like the first blush of dawn behind thick clouds.

Rough cloth brushed her face. She recoiled with a gasp, swiping it away. The object tore off in her hand and she recognized the smell then—­tree moss. It fragmented in her grasp. Against the light, she could see more swaths of moss ahead. They fell in mighty tufts, like heavy curtains in a fancy hotel. She tried to dodge the moss, as did Kethan, but it seemed to dangle every few feet. Looking up, she couldn't see a ceiling. Moss stretched up as if it attached to an invisible sky.

They emerged in a domed chamber. Polished wood formed the walls, the brown and red whirls begging to be touched. Swaths of moss dangled down but most of it stopped well above their heads. The floor was the same wood as the walls, though covered in a sheen of dust and disintegrated moss. Theirs were the only footprints.

“Foremost of all, the answer is no.” The woman's voice emerged from nowhere, everywhere. She sounded young, her accent foreign.

“No?” echoed Octavia, spinning around to find the source.

“You are the most appropriate vessel for the seed. You have been since you were born. I knew the instant your mother and father came together. I knew you in the womb. I knew your first breath. I knew that someday, you would come here. I would make sure of it.”

How, Lady? Why me?

“I will answer the best that I can. Yes, I heard your questions. I can hear you when you think of me, just as you now hear ­people close by when they speak of you.”

A spirit Octavia's height formed in the center of the chamber. The white mist was tinted in color as if the being stood in fog. Beautiful caramel skin and luxurious thick, coiled hair showed her Tamaran heritage. She wore an antiquated version of medician gear, the robes accented in Dallows sky blue, the body beneath curvaceous and strong. As she stepped forward, the contents in her pockets chimed in various notes, the sounds of glass jars and coins and various other treasures.

Beyond that, the Lady had no song. No life.

“My human body, of course, is long gone. I am projecting my form as I best remember it. It took me centuries to make this sanctuary, a place to house the echo of my humanity, the only place where I can still speak aloud.” She faced King Kethan. “No, no. I'm not ignoring you. Never. Not even when you were locked in the vault. I couldn't afford to ignore you, or the seams of life would have utterly unraveled.”

“I am sorry.” The words escaped his throat with a sob. King Kethan collapsed to his knees.

“Oh, Kethan.” The Lady said his name with the intimacy of a wife, a mother, a sister. “This was never any sort of judgment against you. No karma, no divine retribution. This was all Evandia's very human desperation to have you live again as king, and her impatience as you fought against the seed. I have seen many ­people die when they chewed the Tree's leaves, but not even I knew what would happen to someone who ingested both the seed and leaf.”

“I have only yearned for mercy. For my Varya and Allendia,” he whispered.

“I know.” The Lady walked up to him, jingling with each step. She glided like a dancer, no footprints in her wake. She laid a hand atop his head and he leaned against her hip as he sobbed. Though she appeared vaporous, the Lady was solid to him.

“There was no way to save him from afar?” asked Octavia.

“You are going to learn that there are great limits to what we can do. We encourage life. We're zymes in the soil, chewing through decay. We're gremlins, and know each piece of their living flesh.” The Lady grimaced. “We're aware of everything, but it's impossible to focus on more than a few things at a time.”

“Hence the use of a circle,” said Octavia.

“Yes. Circles grant us a space to focus. To act outside of a circle, to act outside of our direct influence, is draining. To scratch your cheek to save your life, to make that boy in Leffen speak with you, taxed months of my life away.”

Scratch my cheek?
Octavia struggled to understand, then remembered the odd sensation of a branch scraping her face when she stood on the street in Leffen—­it seemed like so long ago. The invisible branch at her cheek had caused her to turn just in time to dodge an assassination attempt.

Minutes later, Octavia thought she had saved a small boy struck down in her stead. The boy had come back to life long enough to utter the enigmatic phrase
“Listen to the branch, look to the leaves.”

“You prognosticated,” said Octavia. “You knew I would encounter the Tree's branch and the leaves.”

“No, I didn't,” the Lady corrected gently. “Nothing is as straightforward as that. I see dozens of paths. I saw many where you may have met with either the branch or leaves, or none at all. As Kethan astutely noted, the Tree is finite. I don't see beyond my continent. I have lived. I will die.”

“What of God and—­”

“God? What of God?” The Lady burst out laughing. The hysterical pitch of her voice caused Kethan to jerk away and Leaf to edge back on Octavia's shoulder. “Don't go into this expecting divine insights from above. The prayers you hear—­and the curses—­are the ones that go to you. That means very few outside of the battlefield wards, these days. As for what comes beyond life, Kethan would know more than me.” She shrugged, her black hair swaying. “In all my years, he's the only one who fully crossed beyond and returned to stay.”