The Clockwork Crown Page 28

  He placed his hand over hers on her belly, in what seemed like a sad mimicry of the tenderness of a man learning he was to be a father. “What is going to happen?”

  Another knock on the door. “It’s Miss Percival,” Octavia said. “May as well let her in.” She felt the potency of Alonzo’s frustration at the delay. Pain lashed against her. She reached for him, bracing herself on his biceps.

  “Oh, sweet Lady.” Miss Percival breathed the words.

  At least those words don’t attract my attention yet. I wonder how long it will take to accept that name? Miss Percival once said that it took her weeks, months, to adapt to being called that title. Yet Mother said it took her all of a day to adjust to my father’s surname.

  Octavia Garret. I could have adapted to that.

  “It’s really happening,” Miss Percival whispered. She stood over Octavia; her magic tingled around her like a swirl of gauze. “I’ve been healing in their wards here, and my circles won’t even awaken now. I—­”

  “The Lady’s nearly dead.” Octavia tilted her head against Alonzo. His hands stroked a line down her back.

  “Dead?! But the Tree looks fine!” Lanskay stepped toward the blacked-­out window and turned away with a guttural sound of frustration.

  “You can’t see a rotten core.”

  “You are to be the new Tree.” Alonzo’s voice was soft.

  Octavia couldn’t say the word. She nodded into him.

  “My God,” whispered Lanskay.

  “I wondered after you grew that tree two weeks ago. I wondered what it truly meant.” Alonzo held her as she gasped and cringed against him. “Lanskay, is there a bed here?”

  Her breath rattled. “I can’t stay. The Tree . . . if I accept the seed, it’s supposed to be fast. I can . . . I can hide the settlement, then Lanskay won’t have to . . .”

  “Damn Taney.” Lanskay stalked back and forth. “Prairie justice, to a man who’s already proven himself as honorable, and as we all face fire. You’re both . . . you’re both chosen by the Lady.” His song warbled off-­key at his internal agony. Octavia lifted her head in surprise. “No. I will not do it. I will not burn him, Octavia Leander. Not his fingers or toes. Not a speck of his flesh.” The pain of his insubordination eased some as he voiced the words. He knew he was doing the right thing—­what the Lady would want.

  Me. But not just me. The majesty of the Lady’s Tree, whatever that means to him.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  “There’s a cot down the hall.” Lanskay jerked his head. “Come.”

  Alonzo carried her. The cot was a sheet stuffed with straw tick, the whole thing reeking of mustiness and unwashed man. Not that she was particular at this point.

  “Tell Taney I’m watching the prisoners,” Lanskay said to the lingering soldier.

  “That’s it, sir?”

  “That’s it. Taney has plenty else to concern him. Go!”

  Miss Percival set down Octavia’s satchel and the green stick. Octavia managed a light laugh. “After all I’ve been through, strange how comforting it is to see that old satchel. You’ll need to take it back to the academy so the other girls can—­”

  “Stop, damn it!” snapped Alonzo. He knelt by the cot and clasped both her hands. “You will not distribute your belongings, certainly not your satchel, as if you are at death’s door.”

  “My goodness. You’re swearing. I do believe I’ve vexed you. Well, I’m not at death’s door. Quite the opposite.”

  Alonzo closed his eyes, his forehead and brows creased. “Of course. You cannot die.”

  “I could try a circle again—­” began Miss Percival.

  “No!” Octavia screamed with another bolt of pain. “Using any magic—­no. Can’t risk it, not now.”

  “Then can you please explain?” she asked. It was the quiet voice of a teacher waiting for a student to prove herself.

  “His secret is meaningless now, and most would not believe anyway.” Alonzo squeezed her hand. Octavia nodded. He looked up at Miss Percival. “The man we traveled here with was no Waster. He was King Kethan of Caskentia. The royal vault housed artifacts of the Lady, including a leaf and a seed. When King Kethan died in the Dallows’ infernal attack fifty years ago, Evandia’s court attempted to revive him.”

  “Imagine the compounded potential of the Lady, all bound in a single seed,” Octavia whispered. “King Kethan . . . carried that might, but it blended with the toxins of the crushed Tree leaf. He . . . he caused the sickness and rot that’s the hallmark of Mercia. He’s why bricks crumble, why no plants grow. And he . . . he couldn’t die. He was locked in the vault since. Until I . . . I got him out. Brought him here.”

  “That sick old man was King Kethan?” Lanskay’s voice was soft with awe. With a wave of his hand, he illuminated the two lamps in the room.

  “The Lady forced me to swallow the seed.” Octavia met Miss Percival’s gaze. She paused, breathing through another torrent of agony that lanced through her hips and chest. “The Lady isn’t at all like we were taught. She was bitter. Angry.”

  “All the stories said she was human . . .” began Miss Percival.

  “She came into her full power, but her soul is still human, and everything that means.”

  Alonzo kissed Octavia’s knuckles. She stared at her hands, almost numb in disgust at the thickness of the bark on her skin.

  “Octavia—­”

  “Alonzo, I love it when you say my name, but . . .” Breathe through it. “Names have power. It hurts to hear it.”

  That seemed to pain him in turn. “I am sorry.”

  Octavia panted heavily. “I have to do this. I don’t have any choice now. If there’s no Tree, there’s no magic, only doctoring. The herb shortage . . . it wasn’t just the war. The Tree, it heals the whole continent. Lanskay, the stories are right. The Waste was truly cursed by Caskentia, but the Lady’s been fighting to heal the land for seven hundred years. Then Mercia . . . the King . . . argh!” Alonzo gripped both of her hands as Octavia’s spine arced.

  “Fifty years.” Miss Percival shook her head. “Everything goes back to then.”

  Sweat sopped Octavia’s brow. “Once I’ve rooted, ­people will be healed, and the land will be healed, and—­”

  “Do not talk like this!” Alonzo yelled. His breath rattled and he rocked forward, placing his forehead on their entwined hands. “I am sorry, Oct—­I am sorry.”

  “Oh, Alonzo Garret. Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

  Tears flooded his blue eyes. “Likely as much as I love you, Oct—­’tis infuriating to not be able to say your name.”

  “Then say it.”

  “I will not hurt you.”

  “That’s what started this whole thing, isn’t it? I’m very grateful for your reluctance to see me hurt or dead, Alonzo.”

  Miss Percival began to sob quietly.

  “I need to get out into the woods. I’m not sure how quickly a true Tree grows, and if . . . if it’s anything like that branch . . . Alonzo, if you can’t help me, then Lanskay . . .” Octavia sat up. She pressed a hand to her abdomen. It had gone hard like a belly in early pregnancy.

  “I will stay with you as long as you will have me,” said Alonzo, standing.

  “Then I’d have you forever, but I won’t ask that of you. You need to lead a full life.” You need to love again. I can’t say it now, but I understand it. Octavia took a deep breath as she stood and leaned on the wall.

  “Stop it!” Miss Percival’s voice was shrill. “You can’t do this, Miss Leander. You can’t.”

  “I don’t have a choice. I’m the Tree’s heir.”

  “You may be the best medician, but I’m bound to the Lady as well.” Miss Percival fumbled with her button at her cuff, then with a snarl, jerked up the cloth. The button pinged onto the floor.

 
Miss Percival’s forearm was mottled with brown bark.

  CHAPTER 21

  Miss Percival stared at her own arm. “My skin began to change a few days after you left the academy. The other girls complained of the same symptoms—­the itchiness, the brown coloration. The more powerful the medician, the more pronounced the symptoms. But I’ve seen this happen before.”

  Octavia struggled to focus through the wavering pain. “When you were a child. You said your mentor was called to Mercia.”

  “Yes. She was called, but she wasn’t the only one. Then the bark grew up both my arms and along both calves. I was the most powerful girl in training, more powerful than even my Miss Percival. She dreamed that the Lady needed me at the palace, but when we journeyed there, the King denied that there was anything of the Tree in Mercia.”

  “You found Mrs. Stout as you returned north. But what . . . what happened with the bark on your skin?”

  “It continued to slowly grow for months, until we had word of the infernal attack on Mercia. After that, we all healed.” She took a deep breath. “I knew my skin had looked like bark, but I had no idea why. I never would have thought that I was intended to be the next Tree. But now I can be.”

  Alonzo looked between them. “What is it you are saying, Miss Percival?”

  Miss Percival bowed her head. Wisps of silver hair draped from beneath her white cap. “Tell me, student of mine. What was my favorite saying?”

  “I’m supposed to choose just one?” The sentence ended with a hiss of agony.

  “Very well. What was my favorite when the soldiers decided to sip whiskey and race horses, or smoke while on front-­line patrol?”

  “ ‘Sometimes they deserve a little pain.’ ”

  “Yes.” Miss Percival looked down at her hands, blinking rapidly. “I sold you to the Wasters. I knew you might be caught in cross fire with our own boys, or live a terribly short life like most women in the Dallows, but I told myself that it was all for the welfare of the school.”

  Miss Percival’s gaze met Octavia’s. “This—­this is the right thing for the academy, for you. I will take your burden.”

  She does love me still. Lava seemed to burble in Octavia’s stomach. She screamed, the world flashing in black. Arms strong as steel snared her before she struck the floor.

  “I have you,” Alonzo whispered, his voice husky at her ears.

  Always.

  He lowered her to sit on the floor. Miss Percival crouched to one side. By the door, Lanskay watched, his slender arms crossed over his chest. The limited light that was cast on the sharp angles of his face gave him the exaggerated visage of a puppet.

  All medicians are heirs of the Tree. It makes sense. We all bloodlet. We all carry that magic, that potential for something more. “I . . . appreciate the sentiment, Miss Percival, but unfortunately, the seed is inside me now. Evandia’s minions tried to cut the seed . . . out of King Kethan and they never could. The seed wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t die.”

  Alonzo’s fingers gently stroked her face. “Yet King Kethan is dead and the seed is now with you. How did this occur?”

  She stared at him. “Oh. Oh! The Lady’s branch gutted him.”

  They stared at the walking stick on the floor, its hum of life so quiet she had almost forgotten it was there. A new tidal wave of pain rocked through her. Her vision dappled in black.

  With a few strides, Lanskay had hold of the stick and unsheathed a knife at his waist. Octavia’s brain fogged over in pain. He’s going to try to steal the seed like Devin Stout did, but he knows how to succeed. She tried to speak and only a soft creak emerged.

  “I’m a fast whittler. I’ll make it into a short spearhead for you.” Lanskay snapped off a portion of the stick as he granted her a tight grimace of a smile.

  The pain abated. She deflated, sensing the trust and conviction in his words. “Thank . . . thank you, Lanskay. I judged . . . I judged you harshly before. Because of when you burned me.”

  “No, you didn’t.” His tone was brusque as he began to carve. Octavia flinched at the branch’s high scream. He carried on, unable to hear it. “I burned you for that exact reason. I have taken great pride in my job as an infernal. I’m good at what I do.” He shrugged. “I just wish—­I wish I had the chance to be good at other things as well.”

  Miss Percival motioned to Octavia’s satchel. “You said before it was best not to use a circle. Therefore, this must be done with no blessed herbs, no calling on the Lady for direct aid. May I use your tools?”

  Octavia nodded. A bell pealed in the distance. They all paused.

  “Damn it all,” Lanskay said softly. “Caskentian airships are in sight.” The bells stopped. In the lingering quiet, Octavia heard the distant roar of airship engines.

  Everyone else has evacuated. We’re sitting ducks.

  “I’m sorry,” said Octavia. “You should all—­”

  “If you suggest that we should abandon you, I will be compelled to scowl at you,” said Alonzo.

  “Could run for the woods,” said Lanskay.

  Octavia remembered the horrible sensation of her blood welling against her skin as if roots were about to burst out. “No. Bloodletting already causes . . . if I bleed directly on the ground now, if my skin touches it . . .” She paused, breath ragged, and lowered her voice. “But we’re not completely without the Lady’s aid as the attack begins. Alonzo, I still have two leaves.”

  “We number four,” he murmured.

  Miss Percival passed the wand of Octavia’s parasol over a swath of floor, and again over the surgical implements laid out to one side.

  “Miss Percival . . . I . . . you . . .”

  “Student of mine.” Her tone was brisk. “I need to do this. I may be second best these days, but I’d like to think I’ll still be adequate for the job. What I did to you was wrong, even if it was for the academy. This . . . this is right for all of you.”

  “The academy . . .” Octavia began.

  “I’ve listed you as primary heir for five years now, since you proved yourself as a ward matron in our first stint at the front. Mind you, the solicitors will likely give you grief without full proof of my death, but with that lot it’s always something. Can’t expect them to include a clause regarding clients turning into giant trees.” Miss Percival granted Alonzo the sort of matronly glare that could make generals squirm. “I’m assuming you’ll be there to help things along.”

  “Most assuredly,” said Alonzo.

  “Good. Let’s stop dithering,” said Miss Percival, clapping her hands as if to gather the girls-­in-­training. The roar of engines grew louder.

  I wonder if the Lady saw this as one of the possibilities for the future. If she did, I doubt she cared. I doubt she cared about anything that would happen after she forced the seed on me.

  Alonzo set Octavia down. He leaned over her, almost completely blocking the light. His magnificent ponytail draped over his shoulder, just as it had when they first met. She still yearned to bury her fingers in the kinky strands, though now she had neither the strength nor the energy to do so. It was all she could do to clench her fists at her hips and breathe through the pain. Lanskay crouched beside Alonzo with the walking stick portion in his hands. Its fine point resembled an oversize green pencil.

  “The seed . . . will keep me alive up until . . . the leaves . . .”

  “I know.” Alonzo rested a palm against her cheek. She could scarcely feel a tear as it coursed down the crevices of her face and met his fingertips. “Live, Octavia.”

  The pain at hearing her name was a gnat’s sting compared to everything else.

  “Men. We must begin,” Miss Percival snapped. “You must step back, Mr. Garret.”

  Alonzo’s grip withdrew. His fingers dipped into Octavia’s apron pocket and emerged with the two remaining leaves. His eyes searched hers one final time, and
then he retreated.

  Miss Percival began her doctoring in brisk moves. She untied Octavia’s medician apron and tossed it aside. “It will expedite things if I cut through your dress.”

  “I . . . I trust your judgment.”

  Miss Percival’s hard expression softened. “Thank you for that.”

  Octavia felt the tug of her robes as they were sliced through. “Dare not . . . use the chloroform breather. Not sure how that . . . would affect the seed.”

  “I agree, though it means you’ll feel everything.”

  “I already do,” she whispered, writhing at another spike of pain.

  Guns fired. Hoofbeats pounded down the street, men yelling. The roar increased overhead. It must be Caskentia’s whole fleet. The ground forces will only linger a few days behind. They . . . they never made it this far into the Dallows before, not with a concentrated drive like this. They never had a target so close, so vital.

  “We’ll have fire drop on top of us,” she heard Lan­skay say.

  “You need not stay.” Alonzo.

  “I feel as if I should be here. I can shield with fire, for a time.”

  For a time. The words echoed through the ripples of agony, as if they traveled down a long tunnel. Not that blasted tunnel again.

  “Mr. Garret. Mr. Infernal. I’m afraid I need your help to hold her down. She’s convulsing.” I am?

  Octavia knew their songs as they came to either side of her. Alonzo’s marching band rang with sound health, even as it struck a frantic pace that could outrace a threem. Lanskay’s presence sparked against her skin as if he would burn her again. That scene flashed in her mind—­Lanskay utterly still with death, Alonzo’s screams from torture still echoing, Lanskay’s gratitude in the form of a searing mark on her wrist. She lurched away from him, from the pain of memory.

  “Octavia! Stay still.” Miss Percival’s voice stopped her, as it had stopped her cold so many times. Did I forget to put the bandage roller away? Did I leave a jar open, or forget to apply a wand, or—­

  A line of heat traced down her gut. She knew that kind of heat: blood. She saw a flutter of bodies in memory. Soldiers, green uniforms burned and sliced away, their stomachs bared for treatment. Skins in hues from milky to caramel, wiry hairs tracing downward from their navels. Others exposed far more than mere skin. Pinks and reds, a narrow spectrum hidden within their abdominal cavity. Pain. She understood their pain, the agonies in their songs. It bothered her. This kind of pain was wrong; it needed to mellow, to calm, to find its pianos and soft strings again.