The Clockwork Crown (17 page)

“The seed didn't react fast enough, so they used the leaf as well,” Octavia murmured, her mind racing. “Did the seed need time to germinate?”

King Kethan shook his head. “I awoke, fighting against them. Fighting against the seed. A deep sense of peace is all I remember from my time beyond the infinite river. I hope my Varya would have been with me there, and I—­I expected Allendia to be there as well. I did not wish to return to life.”

“Of course not,” murmured Octavia.

The leaf is poison if it's chewed. The Wasters learned that same lesson.
And the seed . . . The Lady's Tree oversees millions of ­people, animals, flora, across hundreds, thousands of miles. The seed holds that full potential within its shell. If that kind of concentrated power is melded with the toxins of a misused leaf . . .

Mr. Stout frowned. “If I understand this correctly, you carry a seed in your gut that brings back the dead? Even the dead and burned?”

“Yes,” said the King.

In two long strides, Mr. Stout had the King by the hair and pinned him against the counter. Octavia and Rivka cried out, Octavia reaching for her capsicum flute yet again to find it gone.
Lady!
She grappled with her satchel to shift it behind her. The parasol's handle smacked against her hip.

“Here's how I see it,” said Mr. Stout. “You're dead. No one will miss you. But I can use a seed. I can sell it. I can leave this damned place, buy a dirigible, go over the sea where no one looks at me and thinks, ‘Look at the poor soldier some infernal counted coup on.' ”

“Devin, no!” snapped Octavia. “He's your grandfather!”

“My grandson?” whispered the King, really looking at Devin Stout for the first time. He had been too distracted by the outside world. “Through . . . Allendia?”

“Yes. Allendia. Viola Stout. The famed missing princess.” Mr. Stout said it singsong. “The war you started over her has gone on for fifty bloody years. You burned and died. Seems fitting, really, that I'm burned, too.” He pulled back the knife long enough to rip away the face mask. His lips were a deep pink smear of flesh. “See the legacy of your war? I heard my own blokes stand over me and leave me to die. ‘Face like that, not worth living.' By the time I crawled to the road, no doctor, no medician could mend this damage or stop the pain.” With his facial muscles so tight, his words slurred as they rushed together. Spittle trailed from the corner of his mouth.

“I came back to Mercia, burned like this. I found the bird I knocked up years ago. I see the babe we had, almost grown up, near as ugly as me.” He wheezed a laugh. “To think, I could have been born a royal. Should have been.”
Racing heart. Adrenaline. The ugliness of rage.
“The ­people in the city want a revolution, they want Evandia off the throne. I tell you, it won't be me sitting there. Caskentia can rot to nothing, far as I care.”

The knife entered King Kethan's gut with a brittle, juicy sound. His blood didn't scream—­it wailed like banshees trapped down a mine shaft. The King moaned, his head falling slack.

“No!” screamed Rivka. “No!” She threw herself at Mr. Stout and flailed his back with her fists. He dismissed her with a single mule kick. She pounded against the floor, addled but unhurt.

In one slick motion, Octavia had the parasol free of its loop and switched her hold. She brought the polished wood and copper wand down on the back of Devin Stout's head. She knew precisely where to strike. She knew the pressure behind her arms—­strong by farm labor—­and the density of his skull.

She knew where best to crack through to the soft gray matter beneath, just as if cracking an egg.

 

C
HAPTER
14

“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.

“ 'T
IS 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.”