The Clockwork Crown (18 page)

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.

“M
ISS
L
EANDER
. A
WAKEN.
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.

 

C
HAPTER
15

Octavia had thought the
train into Tamarania had been a rickety old thing, but the tramway line through Mercia made everything else look gleaming and bright. The cars rattled like a cabriolet rolling on bare rims. Windows had been knocked out and replaced by iron bars or nailed-­on boards or nothing at all. Wind howled through the gaps, whirling hair and skirts and drowning out the sound of woeful songs from bodies all around. Wooden bench seats had been worn smooth by derrieres.

It was a wonder the whole thing hadn't been scrapped in the last war, with metal so precious, but its necessity was soon clear. Mercia was massive. She knew, logically, that half a million ­people lived there, the bulk of Caskentia's population, but she had no comprehension of how far it sprawled, how many towers scraped the bruised sky, how many factories squatted across wide blocks.

The entire city wears black and gray, as if it's in mourning.

King Kethan was quiet as he stared out the window, his aged face stoic. She recalled the stories her parents had told, that during their parents' day, the city of Mercia had abounded in gardens. The Golden Rose City, they once called it, after a creamy orange rose cultivated as a symbol of the Golden Age of King Rathe and King Kethan.

Octavia's village had grown such roses. They burned with everything else.

The tram braked with a squeal like an injured horse. Leaf lurched in her satchel, and Octavia disguised the movement by bouncing the bag on her lap. No one had noticed, though. Workers shuffled out, hats pulled low. She and Kethan exited last. The King's legs had left an imprint on the wood, like a burn.

How will we do this? He'll rot any saddle, rust any cabriolet. It will take long days to cross the pass, even if the weather is decent, and I dare not think how far the journey across the Waste will be.
A nauseous ball of fear rested in her belly. It seemed that each positive development was countered by three negatives.

The far eastern fringe of Mercia was lined with massive boxes belching black smoke. Beyond that towered the Pinnacles, the snowcaps heavier than when Octavia last saw them. Bodies wailed of burns, black lungs, choked bronchioles; children's bodies were stunted by lack of food and knew abuses no one should know. She forced back a sob and walked faster. She pressed Rivka's straw hat more firmly against her head, as if she could grind the headband beneath it into her skull and make it work better.

I want to save them all. Once, I thought I could. Alonzo would be relieved to learn that I'm more prudent, but it only makes me sad. Like I've given up.

Black military lorries rolled by, more and more as the blocks passed. Soldiers in Caskentian green strolled the streets. Many of the uniforms showed wear—­indelicate mends, faded color, poor fit—­obviously retrieved from some trunk or wardrobe, or another body. She was surprised to see so few horses. When a cart finally did approach, the gelding in the shafts reared and lunged away from them. The whites of the horse's eyes showed, terror screaming in its song and lungs. Octavia and Kethan shared a grim look.

What now? What will we do?

“Fort Wilcox is just ahead,” she murmured to Kethan. “When I served at the front, I stayed at the northern pass, but I knew many men who were processed through here. This will be the ideal place to find out where the Tree can be found.”

Please, Lady, let the southern pass be the best route. If we must go north as well . . . I don't know.

“Infantry cannot have journeyed there yet. We need sailors. Let us walk toward the mooring towers and find the closest pubs. 'Tis the perfect time for the night's pilots to settle in for a pint.”

Black masts lined a far edge of the brick-­walled fort. Not far away they found a tavern.
CID'S WRENCH
, read the sign, and showed a carving of a bearded man with thick goggles. Men's voices boomed through the windows as piano keys bounced to some ragtime tune. Pillars flanked the door, each plastered with sheets bearing images of airships and lists of names.
ARE
OUR BOYS
, read the barely legible scrawl above.

“No.” King Kethan stopped Octavia's approach to the door. Mr. Stout's black hat cast a heavy shadow across his face. “You do not belong in there and—­do not argue—­you know well that they will not talk with you as a peer.”

She grunted and looked at him askance. “You know little of recent history, Your—­ah, Grandfather.”

“I know pilots,” he said, and with surprising swiftness he pressed through the heavy door. At least his smell didn't stand out with the factories nearby, and any airship crew would reek of aether.

“Balderdash,” she muttered, looking around. She couldn't linger out front. Little traffic flowed down the street, pedestrian or otherwise. She walked to the next storefront, a shuttered tobacco shop, and tucked herself in a niche on the portico.

She pressed a hand to her satchel. “How are you doing in there?”

It writhed in response.

With almost no one else around, it was easy to focus on Leaf and his body. Exhaustion strained his wings from long days of flight.
Where did you go, little one? I should place you in a circle later, provide some pampria.

“—­hard to believe, the Wasters taking a direct stab like that,” said a man, his voice carrying down the street.

“You daft? 'Tis not hard to believe at all. They killed the whole royal family in my grandpap's day.”

“True enough. At least they never made it past the garden. Thank God for Clockwork Daggers last night, or Evandia . . .” The voices faded away.

Interesting.

A few minutes more and the King emerged. He looked both ways in search of her. Octavia crept from her hiding place. As they reunited, she noted that his body sounded the same as before, with a small alteration.

“Beer?” she asked, an eyebrow arched.

“You could not expect me to blend in if I ordered an aerated water, did you, Granddaughter?” He motioned with his head and they resumed their walk east. “ 'Tis customary for young pilots to buy a pint for an old man. I daresay that was the finest drink I have had in all my life.” He covered his mouth as he emitted a small burp. “Your pardon.”

“You're excused.”
Oh, Mother. What would you think of this scenario?
“Two soldiers walked by, discussing a Waster assassination attempt in the palace garden last night.”

“Yes. Talk abounded. 'Tis a necessary and sound strategy for Evandia's court. Propaganda has its purposes, especially on this eve of war.”

“Was there any other footle?”

“One of the pilots claimed to have seen the Tree. His peers ribbed him on the subject, but by his manner, I judge he told the truth. 'Tis due east of us, only a few days' ride on the plains. Caskentia is astonished. The Tree is along a major flight route south of the Arlingtons, where our dirigibles often dropped bombs to discourage settlement. Wind shears always pushed airships away from that particular point. Now they theorize that the wind was part of the enchantment.”

“A solid week of riding, then, more with snow.” Her calves and arms throbbed.
If I have that much time before I'm ready for planting.

“The pass was never improved? No rail? No. Of course not, not with the wars.”

“I've never even heard of a rail being considered there.”

“We had many grand plans.” His voice was so soft she almost missed his words against the rattle of wheels.

Octavia's grand plans seemed just as fruitless. No horses were to be found; not that any would have let the King ride, anyway. The livery stables were shuttered, the proprietors gone, or in one case, drunk.

“Every horse, every damned one, requisitioned without a coin to me. Needed for the war, they say. Needed to feed their damned soldiers, I say.”

The King read Octavia's mood and stayed silent as they walked beyond the fort, beyond Mercia. The snowcapped Pinnacles lay directly ahead.
What would Alonzo do in this situation? He could pilot a buzzer, though three-­seaters are very uncommon. He probably wouldn't have qualms about stealing a horse if necessary, though I haven't even seen many horses today to steal, if one would even tolerate the King. Lady, what do we do?

Octavia's legs throbbed, and not merely from all the walking. Every little itch across her body reminded her that the bark was thickening, spreading.

Leaf squawked and rustled about. She glanced around. Paved roads were far behind them. Ahead, the dirt road contained ruts deep enough to hide small children. Farmhouses were few, traffic minimal, all of it going east.

“I'll let you out,” she said. “But you must hide from other ­people.”

Leaf burst out of her satchel like a green fireball, chitt­ering all the while. She tried to smile. Leaf's wings stretched as he soared higher and she felt a pang of worry—­was he leaving so quickly?

“There were more woods in my day. More farms.” King Kethan studied the green countryside. “Such land stretched all the way to the marshes at Leffen and down to the Giant.” He faced south to where the volcano dominated the skyline, its deep crags permanently white.

Octavia reached into her open satchel and pulled out bread rolls. She passed one to the King, and kept the other with tiny bite marks in the crust. Kethan's teeth crunched into the stale roll.

We must press on. If nothing else, I can help the King cross the pass. If he can make it to the Tree, where all of this began, there must be something that can be done for him, for Caskentia.

A military lorry rattled past. Her next taste of the roll was all dust.
The Wasters mentioned they had a settlement near the Tree. That will be Caskentia's focus of attack. Judging by the bustle, the airship bombardment will happen within days, with ground forces following.

How many will die in the battle? How many more because they try to chew the Tree's leaves? Oh Lady, I'm glad you're visible for our sake, but your presence is going to create a massacre on all sides.

“I spy the gremlin again.” King Kethan pointed southward, where a small blip moved in a way unlike any bird.

“Good, I'm glad he—­” She stopped as if choked.

Something approached them from a fallow field in that same direction. She saw a blur of movement and heard a familiar high-­pitched voice, like that of a teenage girl.

“Ridemeridemeridemeridemerideme.”

“The branch,” Octavia whispered. “It can't be.”

“What is it?” asked King Kethan, a hand to the knife at his waist.

It galloped over the slight rise in the field: Octavia's glorious horse, brought for her by the Wasters, the faithful mount through her trek to the southern nations. The mare was no longer white but green and brown, formed of ropes and gnarls of bark. The horse was underneath, dead beneath living barding. Chlorophyll pumped through a body that still wore flesh. Constricting vines bound a broken foreleg and made it function. The mane and tail were tattered masses of hair blended with vines and leaves.

“God have mercy,” King Kethan whispered. “Is this some kind of chimera from Tamarania as well?”

“No.” Octavia could barely speak through her horror.

The horse bounded over a fence and stopped before them. Blank white pupils stared her through, hooves dancing on the hard dirt. The saddle was still there, stirrups and all, as if the growth had been very careful to preserve it. The branch was no longer visible on the saddlebag—­it was just another piece of wood, a part of the greater whole.

“Ridemeridemeridemerideme.”
The horse's lips did not move to speak, but rigor mortis bared the teeth as if it posed for a dramatic statue for some town center.

“What happened?” The King looked to her for an answer.

Leaf chattered and landed on Octavia's shoulder. She was too numb to even greet him. “I . . . this was my horse, the one I was riding to Tamarania. At the ravine, I had to leave her behind. In my hurry, I left a true branch of the Lady's Tree tied to the saddlebag. The horse . . . is dead. No normal horse could gallop that far, that fast. This . . . this is a different sort of chimera.”
One like me.

She pressed a fist to her chest in acknowledgment of her beautiful mare. The branch must have goaded the horse onward, leading to starvation or sheer exhaustion, and had taken over the body at some point. It was impossible to tell now.
Lady, let that horse have known mercy.
It was not a prayer or request, but an order.

“We have our horse,” the King said quietly.

She nodded. “We do.”

They rode.

T
HE MARE, GRAFTED WITH
the Tree's branch, galloped with the snap and rustle of wood as if in a windstorm. Twigs prodded the muscles to movement. Octavia bowed over the saddle horn, greenery lashing at her face. The King sat behind her with one arm around her waist. Her satchel thwacked her lap in constant motion.

King Kethan sobbed those first few minutes of the ride. She turned her head to question him, but before she could ask, he said, “To ride a horse again, even this horse, after so long . . .”

She patted the hard strings and knobs of his knuckles to show she heard and understood.

Each long stride covered tremendous stretches of ground. The hills, which would have been a day or two's walk away, surrounded them within hours. The horse did not slow. Did not need food. Did not need rest. It needed only to gallop east. Farmers with wagons stopped to gawk. Soldiers roared and blared horns as they zipped past. More than a few took shots at them. Octavia submerged her hands in the tangle of greenery to grip the reins. The pressure of her thighs and heels still found some of the softness of the former horse as she directed it to zig and zag. Their mount immediately resumed its steady course.