White Heart of Justice (11 page)

We stared at each other. And then I frowned at him, easily turning it into a scowl.

I should be used to
almost
dying by now,
I thought.

I switched my gaze to the operating table, wondering for a moment if coming in here was such a good idea after all. The last thing I needed was to suffer a crisis of confidence just when I needed my courage the most. The Laurel Crown wouldn't be won by someone who was afraid of dying.

“Maybe the arrow tip isn't cursed,” I said. “Maybe it's blessed. Maybe the archer's shots routinely go astray and so he pays an Angel to bless his tips, just in case. Maybe my getting shot was an accident and it was the tip that saved me.”

But Night scoffed at this suggestion. “It's not blessed,” he said simply. “It feels malignant. And if you haven't felt that yet from it, you will.” He placed the book he was writing in back on the shelf. “No, it wasn't the arrow tip that saved you, it was your Guardian.” Night may not have approved of Rafe's rebellious breakfast talk, but it was clear he admired his spellcasting skills. “Even Linnaea says she's never seen anything like it. She thinks he's in love with you and that was the reason he was able to keep you alive for so long.”

I'm sure my face registered the surprise I felt upon hearing Night's words. Rafe had great affection for me, as I did him. But love?
True
love? I doubted it.

“Well, Linnaea's young,” I said, trying to put Night's statement in perspective. “There are probably lots of things she hasn't seen yet.”

But Night was shaking his head. “She may be a young monarch, but unlike me, she's spent her whole life around Mederi hospitals and healing wards. In any case, while I can say for certain that the arrow tip is harmful, I can't say for certain that it was meant to kill you. Kalisto said it was shot from a very great distance. Under the environmental conditions of the Crystal Palace it would have taken an archer of consummate skill to have successfully hit anywhere near your heart if you were the intended mark.”

I walked around the room, only half focusing on the items in front of me—a chalkboard, empty ceramic bowls and pitchers, shelves full of linens, anatomical drawings, clay models of various body parts, an old scale, a stainless steel sink—as I digested what Night had just told me.

“So Kalisto wasn't able to find the archer who shot the arrow?”

Night shook his head. “She questioned each and every one of the archers who were on the floor that day.” I grimaced. The way Night said the word
questioned
led me to believe that Kalisto had done more than just interrogate the archers.
Did bear-force “encouragement” to provide information make someone's credibility more or less suspect?
Probably more, but since no such information had been provided it was a nonissue.

“It was most likely one of the other racers,” I said. “One of them must have asked his Guardian to cast a curse into the arrow tip. Who else would want to curse or possibly kill me?”

Night's forbidding look was back. “Do you really
need
to win the Laurel Crown, Noon? Your best option now would be to decline your race invitation and stay here until I can find a way to remove the arrow tip.”

Which was exactly what the archer who'd shot me wanted me to do—bow out of the race, whether due to death, inability to compete, or just fear of going forward.

I picked up the model of a human heart and held it in my hand, marveling at the complexity of the human body. All my life, until relatively recently, I'd said I wanted to be a healer, and yet, I had no idea what any of the parts of the heart were called. I wouldn't know the first thing about how to fix one that was broken. Or how to purge one of a curse. If I'd been so hell-bent on being a healer, why hadn't I read more anatomy books or studied more herbal lore while I was growing up?

The answer seemed simple. Standing here now in Demeter's springhouse surgery room holding a clay replica of a human organ I knew nothing about, surrounded by mysterious bottles full of liquids and powders I knew even less about, it occurred to me that my choice to become a Maegester hadn't been made only a year ago. I'd been unconsciously making it all my life.

I
wanted
to be a Maegester.

But I also wanted to work with people I knew, liked, and trusted.

“What if
you
made a mistake,” I asked Night, “and as a result of that mistake you were threatened with never being able to work with Linnaea again? How far would you go to prevent that from happening? What would
you
risk to be able to continue working with her?”

I could tell by the expression on Night's face that my words affected him. Night infrequently made mistakes. But my hypothetical helped him to understand one of my biggest motives for wanting to race. Finally, he nodded.

“All right then,” he said. “Let's get you healed up and ready to go. I know just the place, and the person to take you there.”

Chapter 10

I
hadn't realized my mother was in Maize and her presence underscored anew how perilous my grasp on life really had been. In the last year or so my mother had been increasing the number of trips she took into New Babylon, but as far as I knew, this was her first trip south of Etincelle in over twenty years. She likely hadn't stepped foot in a Mederi tribe outpost since before Night and I were born. Aurelia had spent Tuesday night at Demeter's springhouse, but last night at the hospital. Night explained that, while Aurelia hadn't started using her magic again, she would want to see me now that I was awake and would be more than willing to accompany me to Maize's other, larger, outdoor healing spring. So, after a short rest at the springhouse, I awoke to find my mother already dressed for a winter hike in doeskin pants, thick tunic, and mohair vest. She'd brought suitable clothes for me too: soft leather leggings, underclothes, a heavy wool sweater, fur-lined cloak, and snow boots. After one brief, fierce, heartfelt embrace and some initial bland pleasantries, my mother and I laced up our boots and left the cozy confines of the springhouse.

Since I'd spent the last forty-eight hours inside, the air felt extra sharp, almost like a splash of ice-cold water. But it wasn't unwelcome. We set off along a snowy path that was lined with a split rail fence through woods with trees so spindly and bare they looked like they'd been drawn onto the opalescent landscape with a pointy piece of charcoal. My breath puffed in front of me in small white clouds. If Rafe were here, no doubt he would have shaped them into something. A rabbit or a shooting star or even toasted marshmallows.

I kept my signature open, to detect any unannounced waning magic users, but felt nothing during our hike. About an hour later, we stood at the lip of the spring, huffing and puffing from our exertions. For someone who didn't get out of the house much, Aurelia was in pretty good shape. Me, on the other hand—
Ugh.
It was like all of the training and conditioning I'd worked so hard at these past couple of months never happened. I was doubled over at the waist, hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath amidst the frozen beauty of the place.

The hot water from the spring bubbled up out of the snowy landscape and formed a rough oval before meandering off into the woods via a small, steaming stream. I imagined, to anyone with a bird's-eye view, that the spring would look like a giant beryl-colored balloon with a string attached. Some ways away, a dozen oak trees lined the spring. Their dark silhouettes were draped with icicles. Sunlight beamed from behind, casting long, jagged shadows across the expanse of white and, here and there, was a sparkling prism of refracted light. Inside the ring of sleeping oaks were orchard trees and topiaries. Tons of them. More than there had ever been in the Aster garden back home in Etincelle.

“Night said a spring. I didn't think there would be a garden too,” I said, still panting.

Aurelia snorted delicately, tucking a stray strand of her dark hair back into the knot she'd tied it in earlier. “Maize is a Mederi outpost. Expecting an absence of gardens here would be like expecting an absence of fire at St. Lucifer's.” She started walking the perimeter of the spring, as if she were looking for something. “Besides,” she said almost absentmindedly, “you'd be hard-pressed to kill anything here. The spring waters have as much magic as we do.”

Interesting that she'd used the word
we
. Aurelia hadn't practiced medicine in at least as many years as she'd been south. I followed in her wake, trying to identify the topiaries as I had the snow demons during the Festival of Frivolity.

Right away, I spotted the familiar shapes of Mephistopheles, Michael, and Mary. A few feet away from them were Lucifer and Lilith. Lucifer sat astride a large warhorse with his infamous triple-tipped lance in hand. Lilith rode a barghest. She was standing up in the saddle brandishing a sabre. During Armageddon their weapons would have been made of fire and waning magic, but here they were made of aged copper.

I don't know what made me look up. Instinct maybe. A prickling feeling that I was missing something. Something big. Suddenly I glanced up and saw the shape of a drakon. Even though it was only a drakon carved out of shrubs, my signature pulsed and my heart spasmed momentarily. The arrow tip in my chest burned as if it was made of fire. I stood rooted to the spot, my hand pressed against my heart, staring up at this garden's most glorious creation—Demeter astride a flying drakon. Instead of a weapon, she held a single branch. I took a deep breath and steadied my magic. When my heart was safely beating again, I walked closer.

And the illusion vanished.

There'd been no drakon topiary. Just my imagination.

“Did you see something, Noon?” my mother asked.

I turned to her. “Was I supposed to?”

She gave me a puzzled smile. “The only magic here”—she made a sweeping gesture with her hand that encompassed the entire clearing—“is in
there
”—she pointed at the spring—“and in
here
”—she thumped on her own chest with her fingertips—“inside of us.”

Did my mother still have magic . . . inside of her? Was it sleeping like the sentinel oaks that lined this spring? Or had it withered and died from lack of use?

She walked over to where I was standing then and, almost as if she'd known what I was thinking, broke a branch off the tree. The same branch that I'd imagined the drakon-riding Demeter had held.

“It's a pear tree branch,” she told me. In Halja, pears were often considered peace offerings because they could be served to a mixed gathering of Host and Angels without offending.

“Watch,” she said.

And with that one-word warning, Aurelia reawakened that which had been dormant—the branch for a season, my mother's magic for a lifetime.

Watch I did as the branch sprouted buds and then white blossoms. She held the branch with one hand then and stripped it of its petals with the other. Cupping the petals in her hand, she then blew them onto the surface of the spring where they fell like snow. The pear blossoms then became water lilies and suddenly the entire surface of the spring was covered with lily pads and white star-shaped flowers.

She looked at me, her mouth quirking up at the corners. I couldn't be sure, because it was something I'd seen so rarely, but I think Aurelia was enjoying herself. I was too. Until she asked me to use
my
magic.

“
Here?
How?”

“Make a fire offering,” she explained. “To Demeter. Demeter was the patron demon of a Mederi outpost, so the last thing she'd want is your spilled blood.

“Noon,” she started, paused, and then continued more cautiously. “I'm sorry about your magic. I did what I did because I wanted you to live. Maybe it was wrong to pray to Micah, the Angel's Savior, as well as pleading to Luck that you and Night would be born healthy. And maybe it was wrong to promise Micah that, if he saved you, I wouldn't raise you to be a part of the Host. Because my promise denied you so many things. But it granted you
life
. And I'm glad you're here now—
as you are
.

“I want to see you shape your magic into something more than rough flames or crude fireballs. I never have before. I couldn't. Because I was too afraid it would be encouraging you and I couldn't break my promise. But my oath is no longer binding. You declared your magic without any interference from me.

“And now I want to see you use it,” she repeated. It was a request, not a command, however.

How was I supposed to make a fire offering here?
I thought. I doubted Demeter would appreciate my burning the trees or the topiaries, even if she had been a demon. And that would hardly be the elegant offering my mother was hoping for. But then I remembered a fiery peace offering I'd made last semester. Sailing on a dahabiya to the Shallows, I'd formed a fiery dove and offered it to Estes, the Patron Demon of the Lethe. That fiery dove had harmed nothing. I'd willed it to circle me and then had made it dive harmlessly into the Lethe. So . . . maybe I could create another animal out of fire . . . and simply will it into the spring.

I searched for inspiration and found it in the lily pads Aurelia had just created. I closed my eyes and centered myself. It wouldn't do to make a mistake here. I felt my waning magic surge, and then I combined it with other emotions—
gratefulness
, that I was alive;
joy
, at seeing my mother use her magic for the first time; and
compassion
. I forgave Aurelia for my mixed-up birth and my unhappy childhood. It was an absolution that I'd been working toward for a year now and, once I gave it, it was blissfully freeing. When I opened my eyes, fiery frogs leapt from lily pad to lily pad. Some went into the water, where they fizzled and “died” only to be reborn moments later a few lily pads away.

Who knew frogs could be a symbol of forgiveness?

My mother laughed, the sound of it like tiny silver bells echoing throughout the clearing. I wanted to laugh too, but the arrow tip in my chest was burning again. I knew then that something was wrong. That it
was
cursed. And that it was interfering with my magic. But I pushed those thoughts away. Because it was so much easier, and more pleasant, to simply enjoy the
now
. To save the memory of this moment for any dark days that may lie ahead.

Aurelia and I stood and watched until the waning magic I'd thrown petered out. When the surface of the spring was dotted with only lily pads and lilies once again, Aurelia continued wandering around the spring's perimeter.

“What are you looking for?” I asked her.

“A marker.”

Interested, but somewhat wary (markers, signs, and symbols in Halja were not usually as innocuous as fiery frogs leaping across magically grown lily pads), I followed her and saw that she was uncovering stepping stones. A skeleton was carved onto each of them, although each was holding something different in its bony hand: a scythe, a sword, a shield, and a pickax. I realized they were death markers for Halja's four magic classifications: Mederies, Maegesters, Angels, and Hyrkes, respectively. The pickax, no doubt, was a reference to the Verge's southern magicless miners. A Haljan death marker for Hyrkes up in Bradbury, where everyone was a longshoreman or fisherman, would likely carry a filleting knife.

“Did Night ever tell you the history of Demeter?” my mother asked.

“Just that it was formed much later than Gaia or Hawthorn were. He said the tribe had a liberal reputation. And that they were more accepting of the unconventional.”

Aurelia smiled thinly and then nodded conciliatorily. She'd been trained by Hawthorn and there was little doubt about what Hawthorn thought of Demeter and its liberal practices. But Aurelia wasn't on the best of terms with her tribe, and hadn't been for twenty-two years.

“Unlike Gaia and Hawthorn,” she said, “both of which can trace their origins to pre-Apocalyptic times, Demeter wasn't founded until a few hundred years ago. In the middle ages, Maize was called Requiem. It's between New Babylon and Mount Iron so initially Requiem was built to feed, clothe, and outfit the settlers who were headed even farther south—”

“The miners and their families, who formed the Verge's mining and blast towns.” I'd gotten the impression from my history classes that, in its heyday, the Verge had been like an ant mound that had been kicked by a frost giant, with settlers scattering every which way over land on its way to a permanent winter.

“Eventually, there was a need for a hospital,” Aurelia said. “Which led to the need for a cemetery. Thus Maize's former name. Haljans have been resting here for one reason or another since people first ventured south after the Apocalypse.”

“So what happened to the original Requiem settlers?” I asked. “Are there any Hyrkes here now?”

My mother shook her head. “They either died, left, or were cursed. Long before Demeter arrived.”

“Cursed? Did Night tell you about my arrow tip? Let me guess, this hike up here has something to do with trying to purge the curse from it.”

My mother gave me a sharp look. “Yes, but there's more to it than that. Karanos told me that your race target is
Album Cor Iustitiae
—the White Heart, right?”

“Yes . . .”

“This hike, and your introduction to the spring here, is really about teaching you everything I know about perennial magic.”

“Perennial magic?
You practice perennial magic?
” I couldn't keep the surprise out of my voice. I didn't think my mother practiced any magic anymore, let alone magic that was as ethereal and mysterious as perennial magic.

“No,” she corrected. “I'm not sure that anyone practices perennial magic, although the Amanita make a practice of trying to learn its secrets.”

“If you don't practice it, how is it that you know about it?”