The Clockwork Crown (22 page)

Octavia started walking. Leaf landed on her shoulder again and tucked his wings close to her shoulder. “Yes. Which leaves one more matter. Let's get the others.”

Farrell shakily stood at their approach. The two little ones huddled under a blanket at her feet. A meager burlap bag of salvaged belongings sat to one side.

“Lady,” Octavia whispered. The presence, the essence of the Lady, lurked close to her consciousness. If she closed her eyes, she knew she would see the Tree, feel the same breeze she was feeling on her skin right now. “The horse. I need it, but I need it to save this family. Please. So many have died today. Let them be saved.”

A strange certainty rested in her gut. She knew the horse approached.

Octavia faced Bruna and Farrell. “There's a strange horse coming. It's . . . okay if you find it terrifying. It scares me, too, but it won't hurt any of you. It's part of the Lady's Tree.”

The two women looked at each other uncertainly, their hands clutched. “Magic, then. The good sort?” asked Farrell.

“Yes,” said Octavia.
I hope that's not a lie.
Hoofbeats approached. Alonzo sucked in a breath.

The remains of the mare, twined in wood and growth, looked like a macabre equine sculpture in the dim light of Alonzo's glowstone. Octavia cradled the horse's muzzle between her palms.

“These two women and children will ride you,” she whispered, her voice carrying in the tension of the night. “Make the saddle fit them. Keep them safe. If they need to stop briefly along the way, let them. Deliver them to the nearest Dallows ranch. Once that's done, go to the Lady's Tree and let my beautiful horse's body know peace there. Let white-­star jasmine grow on her grave.” Octavia paused. Leaf was a soft and solid weight on her shoulder, his mew a hot breath by her ear. “I should have named her Jasmine.”

“Theyridetheyridetheyridetheyride,”
whispered that excited voice.

“Yes.” She found the reins where they tangled in the growth of the mane. As she stood there, the horse's back distorted, stretching with the groan of branches and snap of brittle bones. Octavia swallowed down her revulsion and sadness. “Farrell, Bruna?”

They approached with trepidation. Alonzo and Kethan helped Farrell up first. A stirrup of vine extended to encompass her foot, a gentle vine draped over her lap. The same occurred with the two children and Bruna. Their terror, the rapid beating of their hearts, echoed through Octavia. She pressed the crutch to the horse's flank, and vines immediately twined to hold it upright like a banner.

With all four settled into the saddle, the horse wheeled away, transitioning from canter to gallop in a matter of strides. They vanished into the dark plains.

“I feel,” Alonzo said, “as if we have much catching up to do on our walk.”

Octavia nodded as she looked to the men lit by the frail yellow light. “First things first, then. Let's do this properly. Alonzo Garret, you were right to see the resemblance to Mrs. Stout in Grandfather here. I'd like to introduce you to King Kethan of the Fair Valley of Caskentia. King Kethan, Alonzo Garret.”

 

C
HAPTER
17

Octavia had never been
afraid of the dark—­only of the way that blackness made fire seem all the brighter. However, she had never before been in blackness so absolute, so oppressive. Their glowstones glinted like mere fireflies against the midnight ink of an entire ocean. Even more, she couldn't escape the keen awareness of the weight and press of the cold earth above—­a weight that could crush them in an instant. The wyrm's tunnel didn't smell like a pleasant, freshly turned field either. No, its dank flavor coated her tongue and irritated her lungs as if it could crush her inside and out.

The Lady continued to pull them along like marionettes, but that didn't make anything certain. Octavia could still die. There had been too many close calls. Back in the Waster camp, she had already defied the Lady's will once; the blood-­watered tree had tried to force her to take shelter in its branches, and Octavia had refused, knowing she must save Alonzo instead.

At the end of this, I'll defy the Lady again.

That certainty left bitterness in her gullet that was far worse than dirt. First Miss Percival's betrayal, and now this turn from the Lady. The itchiness of bark growth had now spread to her hips and prickled along her shoulders and chest.

In the dim halo of light, Alonzo studied the walls, the floor, the ceiling. The wyrm—­the root—­had created an almost perfectly circular tunnel. Dry dirt clumps and debris crunched underfoot. The path zigged and zagged. It had been about a ten-­foot drop into the pit, followed by a slow downward slope, though it didn't take long for the route to level off. Leaf had not entered the tunnel at all. He hovered at the edge of the pit, his chirps echoing for a time. She could only assume he'd flown on to meet them at the far side.

The walk had given them abundant time to summarize what had befallen King Kethan and what they each had endured in the past week. That done, they had fallen into a silence miles long. They had likely walked ten miles already, or maybe it was a hundred. There was something about the timelessness of such darkness that could drive a person mad.

King Kethan's boots made rubbery smacks as they disintegrated beneath his feet. His breaths were a tense rattle. His anxiety had increased as they walked, and she wondered if that was more because of the dark confines—­so like the royal vault—­than because of their actual destination.

Alonzo tripped on a fragment of root and caught himself on a knee. He waved her back before she could come to help. Octavia knew he was unharmed. She studied him with her more mundane senses.

His black coat, battered as it was, had an elegant flare with each powerful stride. The oilskin gleamed in the dim light. His thick long hair, bound at his neck, still managed to look magnificent even after his trek; she envied someone with hair that could maintain such body.

Silly, to think on such things after all they'd gone through, all they still must do. But at least Alonzo was here. His presence soothed her, gave her the same feeling as sitting on the porch of the academy after a day of treating patients and seed sowing, a hot mug of honeyed apple cider in hand, a full moon on the horizon. He was
comfortable,
even if all of her life expectations had collapsed into rubble as soon as they met
.

Miss Percival had counseled her to shun the presence of men, as nothing useful or proper could possibly happen in their company. Octavia snorted softly. She still excelled at being useful and proper, even if she was in love.

That's what this was. She was in love with a half-­Caskentian, half-­Tamaran former apprentice Clockwork Dagger, a temporary airship steward, a man with a maniac of a sister and a regal mother, and a peculiar knack for sewing.

He tripped again. King Kethan helped him up this time. “My thanks,” said Alonzo, somewhat abashed. “I plead exhaustion.”

“As do we all,” said King Kethan. “ 'Tis noteworthy when even the deathless grow weary.”

Alonzo was tired, true, but that wasn't what was causing his steps to drag. It was more like he was being tripped.

She bent to touch the object his foot had found. It was a loop of root. At her touch, it lashed like the tail of a surprised cat and withdrew into the ground with a soft rumble. No need to confirm the identity with a drop of blood.

Sudden fear made her all the more cold. “She plays favorites,” Octavia whispered. “This is a warning.”

The Lady is finite, as Kethan said. She's also limited in her power. Most medicians would spend an hour trying to accomplish what I do in minutes. She obviously hated the Wasters—­her vines shredded the men apart in their camp—­and when I tried to revive Mr. Drury with a leaf, she refused to let it work. She . . . reinforces life, but death is harder. She cannot simply kill someone from afar. If so, surely Mr. Drury would have dropped dead long before I even met him.

With her parents dead and Miss Percival estranged, Alonzo was her family. He represented the grand potential of the future. The Lady had let her leaf work on him before because Octavia needed him to survive. She had even needed him hours ago at the sod house.

What if he has fulfilled his usefulness? Oh . . . oh God. Like my mare, my Jasmine. Like Chi. A courier, a lorry, that's to be discarded at its destination.

The tunnel was suddenly all the more menacing.

The ground wouldn't collapse beneath him, not with her just steps behind him. Tripping could injure him, cause him to require a healing. If they were a few feet apart, a cave-­in could easily separate them, with her on the Tree's side. The Lady couldn't manipulate things physically before—­she could only speak through those on the cusp of life and death—­but now they were nearing the actual Tree.

A few quick strides and Octavia hooked her arm around Alonzo's as if they were about to stroll through town together. He looked at her in surprise, then smiled.

I'm going to keep you safe.
She pressed her arm closer. “We couldn't see the Tree from the homestead, so how far away could it still be?” The words echoed.

“The Dallows is famous for its visibility, though it was a hazy evening. It must have been at least fifty miles distant, likely more. We could not see the mountains either.”

Hearing the possible number of miles ahead worsened the burning in her feet. She should probably apply iodine to her soles soon. “And I thought our walk through the swamp was bad,” she said, trying to lighten her voice.

“My legs fully function this time.”

“Always an advantage,” she said. “Though I would have help to carry you now.”

“I would be glad to be of assistance.” She couldn't see Kethan's face, but the smile was in his voice. King Kethan paused to pull off Devin Stout's old boots. The soles had finally eroded through.

Something echoed. Something none of them had done or said. Octavia stopped. “Listen.” She scarcely breathed for what felt like five minutes. The sound came again.

Alonzo stiffened. “Hide your light,” he whispered.

“The root could be returning,” Octavia said, but she didn't believe it. By the men's expressions, they didn't either.

King Kethan motioned to a ridge on the left side of the tunnel and then gestured behind him. Alonzo opened his mouth and Kethan cut him off with a wave of his hand. “I know well that you are offended by the need to hide behind your liege, yet I can catch bullets in your stead and live.”

Alonzo nodded grudgingly. Octavia ducked behind him, one hand on his back, and tucked her glowstone into a pocket of her satchel. A second later, Alonzo's light vanished as well. The world turned absolute black. Octavia couldn't help a small squeak of fear as she scooted closer to Alonzo. His fingers found her arm and they gripped hands. Her gloves, cut and abused as they were, allowed more of his song to reach her. She willed her breaths to be slow and steady and tried to focus on the rough texture of his skin, the heat of his body.

It's so dark, I wouldn't even know if I closed my eyes. I could fall asleep while standing, like the boys on guard duty who'd come into the ward with an embarrassed flush on their cheeks and a busted nose.

“I spied a distant light.” King Kethan's whisper was barely audible.

Alonzo's body shifted as he pulled out his gun. Octavia adjusted the satchel strap so she could slip her parasol free. The weight was heavy and reassuring, even as she grimaced at the thought of the last time she had used it as a weapon.

Voices echoed. Words jumbled together. A light blinked, pure and white—­most definitely more powerful than glowstone. Alonzo's body was coiled like that of a cat stalking a bird.

“—­goes on all eternity. We'll get back, and the bairns will have bairns.”

“It only feels like eternity because you can't shut yer yap.”

“ ‘Better to speak, to speak out loud,' ” sang a voice, husky and pretty, “ ‘than in darkness go mad.' ” The verse earned a smattering of applause.
There must be five, six men.
“I could sing more, but only in trade for more water rations to soothe my throat.”

Octavia knew that voice. She bit her lip to swallow a gasp, her fingers immediately going to the small burn on her wrist where the man had counted coup.

“Lanskay, the infernal,” she whispered, as low as she could.

“Wasters,” Alonzo whispered to Kethan.

Of course it was Wasters. They possessed a settlement at the base of the Tree. It only made sense that they would investigate, especially with Caskentia's attack looming. A tunnel meant vulnerability. Anyone who read copper novels knew that—­the heroes always infiltrated the castle through the sewer to take the enemy unaware.

Octavia, Alonzo, and Kethan might have an advantage of surprise, but she knew the Wasters were excellent marksmen. They didn't survive the wilderness otherwise. Her fingers tightened over the cloth of the parasol.

A white light suddenly emerged around a bend. Octavia cringed and looked away, retinas burning.

Alonzo shot first.

The Wasters cried out, feet scrambling on dirt. She could just detect the songs of their bodies. She glanced back. A large, round lantern, the sort used for nighttime airship landings, lay on the ground some fifty feet away. Its beam was aimed toward the far wall, granting gentle illumination. She could barely make out the gray movements of the men. A bullet pinged their way, then another, but not close.

“Let me,” Octavia whispered, nudging Alonzo.
Miss Percival always used to say that some ­people got what they deserved. This is one of those times.

He hesitated a second and passed the gun to her. She raised it and followed Lanskay's song, the sheer heat of him. He kept moving, likely whispering strategy with his men.

She fired. Lanskay cried out, his song rising in crescendo with fresh blood. “Fiddlesticks,” she muttered. “I was a better shot as a child. Yet again, it's not a fatal blow to him, but at least he won't be able to shoot with that hand.”

“Lanskay?” Alonzo asked.

“Yes.” She could well imagine Alonzo's thoughts: that she had asked for the gun, willingly fired it, then regretted that the shot hadn't killed. “I remember what his men did to you before,” she said in a small voice.
They burned you. I smelled the flesh of your arm, cooked as if on a campfire.
Her stomach twisted at the memory.

He could have whispered so many things. Reaffirmed that the Lady understood self-­defense, that Octavia shouldn't do anything that made her feel guilty, that he would take care of her. Instead, his hand found her shoulder then fumbled to her cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear she hadn't realized was there.

“We're Dallowmen!” called Lanskay. He inhaled with a hiss—­one of the other men was binding his hand, quieting his blood. “Hold your fire!”

Stalemate.
Retreat was not an option, not this deep into the tunnel. “Even if we make it past them,” Alonzo whispered, “they likely placed more guards at the entrance.”

“We may even enter at their settlement,” added the King.

Octavia ground her teeth together. “I've already been held captive by the Waste. I'm not keen on repeating the experience.” They had wanted to use her to obliterate Mercia before. What would they do with her now?

The Wasters retreated beyond the beam of their fallen light.
They already know we must be enemy Caskentians since we didn't immediately hail them. We should have had the King speak up immediately.

We still can.

“Grandfather,” whispered Octavia. “You're unknown to them. Many settlers out here are from Caskentia. Your accent won't seem that strange.”

“Hmm. Yes,” said Alonzo. “Say you have been our captive, our guide into the Waste. You will be treated kindly by them.”

“I have little concern for kindness right now,” King Kethan said slowly. “I must journey to the Tree with Octavia, and before they know of my miasma.”

“Our immediate concern is just escaping this tunnel alive,” said Alonzo.

“Whatever being alive means in my case. Yes.” King Kethan shifted in the darkness. “Help me! Help!” he cried, voice raspy.

Octavia felt the Wasters' songs shift in alarm, adrenaline spiking anew.

“Who goes there?” called Lanskay.

Alonzo scuffed his feet on the ground and King Kethan played along, with some grunts for good measure.

“They're coming closer,” she whispered. “Lanskay will sense my magic soon.”

“They made me guide . . . them!” cried King Kethan.

If Octavia had been able to hear her own song, she knew it would have radiated terror.
I escaped them once with the Lady's help. I will again. She wants me to get to the Tree. She'll do whatever she can so that I can continue.