The Deepest Poison Page 3

“I—­I hear something. Like hundreds of mice, gnawing at wood. There’s a rhythm to it.” Tears filled her eyes. “It’s the zymes. I can hear the zymes.”

  “That’s not possible.” And yet, I knew it must be true. Deceit of this nature wasn’t in her.

  I had devoted my entire life to the Lady’s work, to teaching her magic, her majesty. Now Miss Leander—­this mere girl—­had succeeded in this?

  Miss Leander was not listening to me. She was listening to music that no medician had ever heard before. She moved from circle to circle, whispering as if in a conversation with the Lady. With her glistening white robes against gray snow, she was a figure worthy of a stained-­glass window in a cathedral.

  It was at that moment I realized I loathed Miss Leander.

  I could have shattered that window, clawed every shard of glass from its leaden pane. Miss Leander had always been closer to the Lady than anyone I had ever known. A better healer, a more giving person. She was nice, oh so very nice, and pure and righ­teous. And here she had proven me wrong by simply thinking to ask something of the Lady.

  She finished her rounds and returned to her blanket to murmur her thanks to the Lady’s Tree. The circle disengaged. She looked up at me. Her expression mirrored that of the men around us, a mixture of terror and awe.

  “The music of the zymes is the same in the vomit and in the river, though the vomit is far more potent. As with many zymes, they multiplied inside the body. This first pail of snow is nearly silent—­we grabbed that from over there,” she motioned, “But this one here, from farther down the slope, it bears the same poison. They laced it into the snow itself.”

  “Bloody brilliant,” whispered one of the soldiers.

  She nodded, clearly assuming he spoke of the Wasters and not her. “They must have tainted a large stretch of snow above the river.”

  “Good work, Miss Leander.” I tried to place sincerity behind the words. “Your . . . eccentricity, your closeness with the Lady has likely saved many more soldiers. I’m certain the security of our sanitation efforts will be the highest priority of the command here and elsewhere.”

  But as I looked on her, I couldn’t disguise how I felt. My hatred flushed my cheeks, constricted my throat, trembled through my fingertips. My gaze was pure, bullet-­eyed envy, and I didn’t care that she knew. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed and turned away. I stood taller in satisfaction. I could still make the girl quail.

  “Saving the men is what matters most,” she said hoarsely. “I must speak with the Lieutenant Commander, or the Colonel, if he’s awake.”

  “You must speak?”

  “Your pardon, Miss Percival. I’m used to being the highest-­ranking medician here. That’s your jurisdiction, of course.”

  “Yes.” I paced around her, slowly, my boots crunching in the snow. “All of my medicians have toiled this day. I’ll tell them this is an extraordinary discovery in the name of our academy.”

  “They’ll know.” Her words were almost indecipherable.

  I stepped closer. “What was it you said, Miss Leander?”

  She met my eyes. “They’ll know this came from the Lady, not any of us. I was just the vessel.”

  My rage could not form words. I paced by her again and again. “Since you’re still laboring under the belief that you’re the lead matron here, you go tell the Colonel how your Lady has graced you. Leave the honeyflower circles here. I will listen to the zymes as well.”

  We both knew I would not be able to hear the zymes, that I was her superior in title alone, but I still had to try. She collected her blanket and walked downhill with her cadre of guards.

  “Miss Leander!” I called when she was about twenty feet away. She half turned toward me. “I found Officer Wagner, dead of arsenic poisoning. A suicide, complete with a note. The Wasters paid him to remove the rods. Be careful whom you trust. Your naivety might get you killed.”

  Grief flashed across her face. She turned away, wordless, and continued her march down the slope.

  I walked around the buckets in their circles. My own blanket was in my satchel, right at my hip. I had no immediate urge to pull it out and prove my inadequacies.

  “M’lady?” asked one of the men. I recognized him as the one who had made the “bloody brilliant” comment. “Would it be all right if we all had something to drink? I have these tea cans. You’re welcome to one, too.”

  From his haversack, he pulled out slender tins of Royal-­Tea, one of those newfangled commercial drinks.

  “No, thank you, though it’s wise of you to stay hydrated. Such tins should be safe.” Empty words, advice recited from memory.

  He smiled, the thick length of his mustache curving. “Do ask if you change your mind, m’lady. It’s an excellent drink. Good for health!”

  “Better than poisoned tank water, I’m sure.” I wavered on my feet, suddenly overwhelmed by weariness, by everything. The sick men who lingered. The injured from the battle and the nearby trenches. The dead, and paperwork that came with their demise. The security of our barracks, and the water tanks, and the camp itself. All demanded immediate attention.

  “She’s an amazing medician, isn’t she?” asked the soldier, his gaze turned to follow her downhill. “That Miss Leander?”

  “Yes,” I said, my voice hollow. “She’s the best.”

  And I was not.

  Don’t miss the next Octavia Leander adventure in

  The Clockwork Crown

  On sale June 9, 2015!

  Narrowly surviving assassination and capture, Octavia Leander, a powerful magical healer, is on the run with handsome Alonzo Garrett, the Clockwork Dagger who forfeited his career with the Queen’s secret society of spies and killers—­and possibly his life—­to save her. Now, they are on a dangerous quest to find safety and answers: Why is Octavia so powerful? Why does she seem to be undergoing a transformation unlike any witnessed for hundreds of years?

  Read on to find out more!

  Chapter One

  AS SHE RODE through the snowy wilderness of far southern Caskentia, Octavia Leander’s spirits were buoyed by three thoughts: that although she fled from assassination and capture, she was undoubtedly in one of the most beautiful places she had ever seen; that thus far they had survived a full week without any sign of pursuit by horse or buzzer; and that her companion in the hard journey was Alonzo Garret, a man who had forfeited his career as a Clockwork Dagger—­and possibly his life—­in order to keep her alive.

  Considering the dire circumstances, he made for delightful company.

  Alonzo rode ahead on a chestnut bay stallion, their gray packhorse following close behind. This far from civilization, the world was utterly quiet but for the jingling of tack, the horses’ breathing and the steady rhythm of their hooves, and the radiant life songs of the horses, Alonzo, and any wildlife within close range. In particular, she took comfort in the ever-­present marching-­band brasses of Alonzo’s life essence; she would recognize his particular notes in any crowd.

  Since childhood, she had known ­people’s and animals’ health woes by their music, but only in a generic sense. She didn’t hear specifics unless they had an open wound or she placed the patient in a circle to ask for the Lady’s direct intervention.

  The Lady’s Tree moored its roots to the very spirit of the earth. Through the Tree, Octavia could heal with prowess beyond any other known medician. Lately, however, the Lady’s magic had changed. Octavia had changed. Her power through the Lady had increased, and she wasn’t sure if it was truly for the better.

  As if he sensed her attention, Alonzo glanced back. A Waster’s fur-­fringed hood framed his face and contrasted with the warm nutmeg tone of his skin. A coarse black beard lined his jaw. His song was ragged in weariness, his heart steady in its anxiety. His mechanical leg—­though masterfully designed—­could not help but grind the joint against the flesh below
his knee. She had treated him with pampria and heskool root over the past few days to ward against infection. His leg pained him again now, but even so, his smile to her was tender. Heat bloomed in her own chest, along with a sense of terrible sadness.

  She had told Alonzo that she wanted to search the famed libraries of the southern nations to find out where the Lady’s Tree might be found. Alonzo knew that Octavia sought a greater understanding of her own magic through the Lady, but he didn’t know of all the ways that her power was changing. Or how it terrified her.

  How had Octavia’s blood, combined with a true branch from the Lady’s Tree, caused a massive tree to grow temporarily? That tree had acted in her defense and torn apart the men of the Waste who had tried to hold her captive. The branch that had done that was now tied to her saddlebag. It was green, as if freshly cut, and hummed with life like any person or animal.

  Then there had been the moment after she had pulled Alonzo from the edge of death. She had kissed him, and with the touch of her lips she had gone beyond her knowledge of his body’s song. It was as if she had become immersed in his very soul, as if she could pry apart his body’s instruments and manipulate his health without any restrictions from the Lady’s herbs.

  That had frightened her even more than the persistent threats of both Caskentia and the Waste.

  A flock of birds fluttered overhead, anxiety driving them as if they were pursued. Octavia craned around. The sky was a blanket of gray, the wind sharpened by early winter.

  “What is the matter?” called Alonzo.

  “Something alarmed the birds.”

  “To the trees, quickly.”

  Their horses pounded down the hill, the action reverberating through her constantly aching leg muscles. Thin snow sloshed underfoot. The forest welcomed them with a slap of branches and a shower of pine needles and ice. Roads had been scarce, signs of humanity scarcer. A good thing, in truth, though the long days of slow progress had permanently imprinted the saddle’s curve into her backside.

  “We should be nearing the Caskentian border. ’Tis a likely place for patrols to be wary for us.” Alonzo reined up.

  Octavia listened past the songs of wildlife around her. “I hear a buzzer.” That’s what I get for counting my blessings. I jinxed us.

  “Yes. He is likely flying amongst the low clouds. Our tracks are bold on the snow.” Alonzo pressed his horse onward, staying in the trees. She followed, brush scraping her legs. Trees crowded close.

  Because of the unusual strength of Octavia’s skills, the settlers of the rogue territory known as the Waste had sought to capture her and use her against Caskentia. The Caskentian royal court caught wind of this plot and, true to form, thought the tidiest solution was Octavia’s death.

  She had known all her life that her government was as rotten as unsalted meat left out on a summer afternoon—­the sort that looks fine to eat, and makes you pray for a merciful end hours later—­but she had never expected them to send Clockwork Daggers to assassinate her. But Alonzo Garret, in the guise of an airship steward, had refused to carry out his assigned task.

  “It could be normal Caskentian border patrol, right? Perhaps they don’t know to look for us?”

  The buzzer roared overhead. Alonzo looked up with a grimace. “ ’Tis my hope that our feint will last longer, but I dare not be too positive. Our circuitous route has taken us a week. By now they are well aware of what transpired aboard the Argus and have tracked the Wasters’ trail to where we did battle. If they suspect we are alive and free, our choices of destination are few.”

  “Well, we certainly couldn’t go to the Waste, though that’s where most criminals would flee. That leaves the southern nations as the obvious choice.”

  “An obvious choice, but not the only. There is always Mercia. ’Tis a warren. A person could lose their own shadow in those environs, and within a stone’s throw of the palace.”

  And many stones are being thrown that way, I’m sure, knowing how ­people feel about Queen Evandia.

  Mercia was Caskentia’s capital, a sprawling city of half a million, a place of countless factories and miserable refugees. Octavia had never been there—­never wished to go there, with its reputation for foul air, sickness, and utter lack of vegetation. Such denseness of humanity was the stuff of her nightmares; considering how she could hear Alonzo’s song now, she dreaded to think of what it would be like to be surrounded by the starving and sick.

  No trees lay ahead. Alonzo sucked in a sharp breath and reined up. “Damn.”

  She knew it had to be bad if he used that sort of language in front of her. She drew up alongside him. “What is—­? Oh.”

  They had reached the end of Caskentia.

  The ravine had to be some five hundred feet across, the basin of it far beyond sight. Sedimentary-­rock layers rippled in various tones of red and brown. On the far side, and farther south, steam clouds billowed into the chilly afternoon. “Factories,” Alonzo said. “There are said to be many on their side of the border.”

  “I don’t see any signs of bridges or roads.”

  Alonzo cast a grim glance at the sky. The sound of the buzzer had faded again. “No, and if there are, they will be well guarded. The southern nations have taken in many Caskentian refugees, but with restrictions.”

  “If all the unemployed and starving fled Caskentia, there’d be scarcely anyone left.”

  “Indeed.”

  They urged their horses to trot into the woods parallel to the ravine. The horses knew their anxiety; it showed in their quickened hearts and flickering ears. Octavia stroked her mare again. The white horse appeared delicate with her tapered legs and quick stride, but had revealed incredible endurance and a steady temperament over their long trek. Octavia’s growing fondness for the mare was bothersome.

  I must resist naming her. Maybe that will make our eventual parting that much easier—­a lesson I should have learned with Leaf.

  The thought of the little gremlin caused her to glance up in case she might see him for the first time in a week. Birds cawed, but there were no mews or chitters from man-­made biological constructs.

  The trees thinned out and showed open ground to the west. With another wary look to the clouds, they rode into the open. Clicking her tongue, Octavia encouraged her horse to gallop. Melted snow created thick mud that spattered her legs and chest; the enchantment on her robes would wick away the filth within minutes. Another stand of trees loomed a quarter mile away.

  That high mechanical buzz returned to the clouds.

  Octavia lifted herself higher in the stirrups, crouching low over the horse’s neck. Mane lashed her face. She gritted her teeth against the burning tension in her thighs.

  Alonzo looked over his shoulder. His hood had blown flat against his back, his bound hair blowing out like a miniature horse’s tail. His mouth was a hard line. She almost expected the buzzer to be mounted with an automatic gun like the one that pursued them in the marsh outside of Leffen, for gunfire to follow them into the woods. They slowed as they entered the tree cover. Alonzo wheeled around. The buzzing grew louder yet.

  With a grunt, he heaved himself out of the saddle. Octavia scrambled to do the same, and landed just in time to provide him with an arm for extra balance. His half leg warbled with strain. Octavia grabbed both bridles.

  “My thanks,” he said. His walk was stiff as he headed toward the edge of the woods.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I want to get a good look at the pilot.” He unholstered the Gadsden .45 from his belt.

  “That’s a particular kind of look. This—­this likely isn’t a Clockwork Dagger. It’s probably just a soldier.”

  “A soldier must perform his duty. Our whereabouts will be reported.” His expression carried both regret and resolve. He walked on.

  Alonzo had reminded her more than once that Caskentia would pursue
them across the border. That land across the ravine was their destination for the sake of information, not as a haven.

  She calmed both horses, shushing and rubbing their muzzles as if she could soothe herself as well. This pilot would be like any of the thousands she had tended at the front—­a boy who simply drew a bad billet this morning.

  The gunshot jolted her and the horses.

  She turned as Alonzo fired again. He had crouched at the tree line.

  “ ’Tis going down,” he said.

  Treetops snapped in the canopy above as the craft roared by. As awed as she was by his marksmanship, her stomach twisted with guilt. Another life lost because of us. Lady, be with the pilot. Show him mercy at the end, please.

  “Come! Let us follow.”

  Grief gnawed at her as they rode through the woods. “Octavia.” Alonzo seemed to read her thoughts. “With fair winds and a good engine, ’tis a mere two days from Mercia to the southern nations. If he landed and relayed a telegraph, our odds would be more dismal by the hour.”

  “If the pilot’s hurt—­” The whine of the buzzer continued, though the sound did not seem farther away. Odd.

  “You know the state of your supplies better than I.”

  Octavia grimaced. The deplorable state. After her brief journey on the Argus, she was low on everything except wet Linsom berries to restore skin. Her supply of her most vital herb, pampria, was very low, and though she had a full bag of the dry herb she had had no chance to grind any.

  “I’ll try to use discretion,” she said. Alonzo arched an eyebrow, clearly not believing she was capable of such a thing.

  The buzzer had landed in a small clearing, engine on and roaring. Alonzo dismounted, gun drawn. Octavia followed suit, but her first priority was to untie her satchel from the saddlebag. Only with that secured across her torso, bandolier-­style, did she reach for the gun in her trench-­coat pocket. It was one of the Wasters’ pistols, the crosshatching on the grip almost worn smooth by use. She took both reins as Alonzo edged forward.