The Golden Specific

by S. E. Grove

  “A little better. Still tired,” she admitted.

  “It will take some time to feel rested,” the Eerie said reassuringly, pressing Sophia’s hand. She led her to a stone bench beneath the trees. “You shared thoughts with an old one. That requires great endurance.”

  “Is that what you would call it? Sharing thoughts?”

  “I still do not understand it, however many times my Faierie explains it,” Errol said, seeming not at all bothered by his lack of comprehension. He smiled at Goldenrod.

  Goldenrod smiled back and then turned that smile to Sophia. “Ausentinia read your memories of the route through the Dark Age.”

  “It is strange to think—now I know how a map feels when it is being read.”

  “That is how Ausentinia found its way out.”

  “But I also—saw things. Remembered things.”

  “The memories of an old one are long and powerful. You glimpsed pieces of them when Ausentinia shared your thoughts.”

  “I sensed that. But there is so much else . . .” Sophia shook her head. “Has Ausentinia spoken to you? Do you know more about how it came to be trapped within the Dark Age?”

  “Yes, it has,” said Goldenrod. “You speculated that the Dark Age was made by human hands. Ausentinia has told me that this is so. The Dark Age is not a Clime, any more than a puppet is a person. But in some ways it behaves like a Clime. And this explains why it has expanded. It was created to sustain natural life—to support the native life within it. Indeed, its only purpose is to support such life; if no creatures remained in it, the Dark Age would fade, like a tree rotted at the root. Once there were many native beings—people, plants, and animals. As it stands now, the entire Age supports only a single native creature.”

  “The fourwings?”

  She shook her head. “The wanderers—the plague. The fourwings were made to sustain them. They are home to it. But, as you know, the people of the Papal States have hunted the fourwings to rarity. Soon after the Disruption, when people first encountered the Dark Age, they attempted to cut down the dangerous spines. The fourwings defended their homes, attacking at the edges and finally flying farther and farther to deter invaders. People of the Papal States destroyed as many fourwings as they could, thereby also destroying the creatures upon which lapena survived. And so the plague looked elsewhere—left the Dark Age and wandered to others so that it might survive. Those others, people in the Papal States, are not as strong as the fourwings; they do not bear its presence well.”

  “So if the fourwings are allowed to live, the plague will return to them?”

  “Perhaps. It would take time.”

  Sophia sat in silence.

  “There is another possibility,” Goldenrod said.

  “The goldenrod,” Sophia guessed.

  The Eerie nodded. “Any Eerie bloom would do. I happen to have goldenrod.” She opened her palm, revealing a small yellow blossom.

  “Over the years, the people of the Papal States have spent a fortune on gold,” Errol said. “Gold thread. Gold chains. Gold masks. Such a waste.”

  “It is an old manner of thinking. Shielding oneself from a sickness instead of speaking to it. You cannot blame them for trying,” said Goldenrod.

  Sophia smiled. “I can imagine the Dark Age filled with goldenrod. It would be very beautiful.”

  Errol snorted. “The flower would be the only beauty in that wretched place.”

  “But it would grow differently,” Sophia reflected. “If the soil is man-made.”

  “It well might,” agreed Goldenrod. “We will see.”

  Sophia watched as Goldenrod scattered the yellow petals to the ground beside them. “I want to go with you.”

  “You need to rest,” Errol objected.

  “She will rest,” Goldenrod told him. “And then we can all go together.”

  “Every day more people die of the plague,” Sophia said. Errol and Goldenrod did not reply. Sophia bit her lip. “You should go soon. What does it look like, Goldenrod?”

  “The plague?” She pursed her lips. “Imagine a tiny moth made of light.”

  Sophia contemplated the existence of such a creature and wondered at the creation of an entire Age to sustain it. As she pictured the small moths, their wings flickering, her eyes closed. She leaned back against the birch and drifted, her breathing easy.

  45

  Rescue

  —July 3: 12-Hour 21—

  I will confess to the reader that I have traveled as far as the border of the Dark Age, and I have gazed into its depths. I find myself wondering, with optimism rather than dread, what the Age would yield if we did not prohibit further exploration.

  —From Fulgencio Esparragosa’s History of the Dark Age

  SOPHIA AWOKE IN her room at the Astrolabe, a pale green blanket tucked around her. Rosemary sat nearby in a wooden chair, looking out through the open doors to the balcony. She held a length of blue fabric in her hands that she fingered absently. Sophia lay quietly for a moment, content and unwilling to move. Rosemary’s expression was thoughtful. She drew her hair back with a practiced movement and braided it loosely, then pulled the braid over her shoulder and brushed the tip across her palm, as if writing something onto her skin. Then she took up the blue fabric once more and held it up before her appraisingly. Sophia pushed herself up to sit.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “You are awake,” Rosemary said, turning to her.

  “I must have fallen asleep in the garden.”

  “Yes. Errol brought you here.” She looked down at her lap. “This is my mother’s silkshell.”

  “I’ve heard about silkshells, but I’ve never seen one.”

  Rosemary held it up. “Would you like to?”

  “What does it do?” Sophia asked.

  “When you feel the silk, you will have a sense of who she was.”

  Sophia pulled herself to the edge of the bed and took the silk in both hands. The moment she touched it, she felt herself in the presence of a woman—laughing, gentle, easily affectionate. The longer Sophia held the silk, the deeper became her sense of Rosemary’s mother. She had been a little too indulgent with her only child, and she felt, with some embarrassment, unrepentant about it. She had struggled all her life with doubts about whom to trust. She had been strong in her faith and flexible in her opinions. She had no fear of death, but she feared, at every moment, pain or hardship for her child.

  Sophia handed the silk back, overcome that Rosemary had shared with her something so precious. “It is almost like a memory map,” she said. “But without the memories—just powerful emotions.”

  Rosemary nodded, carefully folding the precious fabric. “It was kind of her to leave it for me at the end.”

  “And she wore it for you, too,” Sophia said. “For many years, it seems.” She paused. “I’m sorry we have not found her yet.”

  Rosemary smiled. “I am sure we will.” She stood up. “Are you hungry?”

  Sophia realized that she was. “Very much so.”

  “Alba says you are to ask for whatever you like. She is the elderly woman who brought us to the inn. She is a member of the council of Ausentinia, and she says the city is greatly in your debt.” She smiled again. “So what would you like to eat?”

  “Anything.”

  Sophia and Rosemary ate soup and bread and cheese in companionable silence, and when their plates of pudding with honey had been scraped clean, Rosemary suggested they walk the short distance to the border of the Dark Age so they could see what Goldenrod was planting. “That is,” she added, “if you feel well enough.”

  There was no question Sophia would go. It was more tiring than she had imagined to change into her now clean clothes and lace her boots, and she tried to conceal her labored breathing as they walked through the streets of Ausentinia. Everyone they passed smiled
, often waving their thanks to the traveler without time.

  When they reached the gates, they rested in the shade of the stone wall. “We should go back,” Rosemary said. “I do not know why I did not bring the horse.”

  “It is only a short distance,” Sophia insisted, starting along the path that she had taken, only half-aware, the night before. Rosemary followed her reluctantly. “Would you . . .” Sophia hesitated. “Would you tell me what they were like when you met them?” She paused. “Minna and Bronson?”

  Rosemary did not answer right away. Her footsteps sounded heavily on the packed earth. “They were very kind,” she finally said. “They feared for their lives, and yet they behaved with great compassion. I could see that this was born from their manner of loving. Each other, and, I am sure, you. When I spoke to your mother, I felt reassured.” She smiled. “Can you imagine? Though behind bars, she was reassuring me. They were—they are—wonderful people. They came all this way to rescue a friend. I recognize it does not make it less of a loss to you, but they acted with great selflessness and humanity.”

  Sophia felt tears spilling onto her cheeks. But she also felt that her feet moved more steadily and with greater energy, and soon they had reached the hill where Ausentinia had extended into the Dark Age, drawing a dirt path through it to the Papal States beyond.

  As soon as they crested the hill, Sophia saw what the Eerie had done. In the soil of the Dark Age, the goldenrod had taken lush, explosive root, and great, golden canopies hung over the spines like clouds. Sophia gasped. “So beautiful!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Rosemary agreed. “Very beautiful. She and Errol are walking the path to the Papal States, and the goldenrod will grow on either side of it.” The golden boughs wove through the Dark Age as far as they could see. “A golden specific in a dark Age. The most beautiful remedy for the most brutal plague.”

  They sat at the top of the hill and watched the blossoms nod and sway in the breeze. When Sophia felt recovered, she rose and looked back at the valley of Ausentinia. Now she could see what had been invisible at night: a path encircling the city, bordered by cypresses and spruce trees. “Rosemary,” she said, heading downhill, “let’s take the path around the city.”

  “We should go back so you can rest.”

  “It will only take a moment,” Sophia insisted. The quiet among the trees was profound, disturbed by the occasional conversation of birds in their branches. Sophia felt more energy in the shade, and they walked slowly but steadily. Stopping to lean against the trunk of a maple tree, she admired the world Ausentinia had preserved. Then a glimmer of white caught her eye. She thought at first it was a strange kind of bird, and then she thought it might be an ornament made by some Ausentinian and placed among the trees. “Can you see what that is, Rosemary?”

  Rosemary left the path, disappearing from view. Sophia let herself sink down onto the ground, and she rested her head against the maple. Minutes passed. When she opened her eyes, Rosemary had not returned. Sophia checked her watch and found that she had been gone nearly half an hour. With a start, she rose to her feet and walked as fast she could toward the white shape that had caught her eye.

  “Rosemary,” she called, as she stepped over the pine needles. “Rosemary?” she called again, more urgently.

  There was no response, and as she reached the twisted roots of a cypress she saw why. The high, blanched roots made a kind of shelter—a room, a cage—at the tree’s base. Rosemary sat beside them. “See, Sophia, where you have led me.” Her eyes were swollen from tears. Inside the cypress shelter, as if someone had taken refuge there long ago, was a half-hidden human shape, the fragile white of dried bone. “The cross she wears on a gold chain—I recognize it without doubt.”

  Sophia knelt down and gazed at the skeletal figure. “You found your mother’s resting place,” she whispered.

  Rosemary nodded. “She came here to escape me—to protect me.” Her tears returned, and she covered her face with her hands. “But now I have found her.”

  46

  Leaving Prison

  —1892, July 5: 8-Hour 00—

  One piece of dreck discovered in 1832 created a sensation that cast a long shadow over the politics of New Occident. It was a history written in 1900, and it told of a great war that had divided the nation forty years earlier. For three decades, New Occident waited, to some degree with bated breath. The war did not transpire, of course. It never would. It belonged to a different Age.

  —From Shadrack Elli’s History of New Occident

  “THEO! THEO!” SOMEONE was calling him, but he had difficulty waking from the dream in which he knelt by the prison window, watching the grass outside grow thicker and thicker until it extinguished all the light beyond. The prison cell was dark, and he had trouble waking without the prodding of the sun.

  He opened his eyes and saw at once that there were several people standing at the barred door. He sat up. Some part of him, even while he slept, had recognized the voice. “Shadrack?” he asked uncertainly.

  “Yes—it’s me,” came the reply.

  “They let you out!” Theo got to his feet. In the dim corridor, he saw Shadrack, Miles, Mrs. Clay, Nettie, and Winnie all clustered at the entrance to his cell. A slow smile crept over his face. “It’s good to see you,” he said, surprised by how his voice caught. He reached out through the bars to embrace Shadrack.

  Miles, his face pressed between the bars, gave him a hug. “Likewise, my boy.”

  Mrs. Clay, overcome with emotion, was silent as she reached through to pat Theo’s arm. Nettie gave him a cool kiss on the cheek. Winnie, not to be deterred, reached through the bars and solemnly hugged Theo around the waist. Theo laughed, tousling the boy’s hair and kneeling to return the embrace. “Come to join me, then? There’s plenty of room.” Winnie gave a little sigh. “Hey, it’s not so bad!” Theo said with another laugh. “They sentenced me yesterday—only two months in this confounded place. A bit more than you had to put up with, though,” he said with a smile for Shadrack and Miles. “Tell me, how’d you get out?”

  “The case against Bertram Peel moved very quickly,” Shadrack said. “He gave a full confession, and his knowledge of details from the case that were never disclosed by the police made the proceedings very fast. Fortunately, Mrs. Clay’s trial was even faster.”

  Theo immediately looked to her. “Mrs. Clay?”

  “Concealing evidence, my dear.” She sniffed. “Nothing serious. Just a little fine, and well worth it.”

  He shook his head, smiling once more. “What about Broadgirdle?”

  “Off scot-free!” Miles burst out with frustration.

  “I thought as much,” Theo said calmly. He had accepted that Broadgirdle would somehow pin the murder on Peel.

  “He claims he knew nothing about it,” Miles fumed, “and that Peel acted with the Sandmen of his own initiative—an effort to curry favor. And, curse him, there is no evidence proving otherwise.”

  “Broadgirdle will remain as prime minister?”

  The little group was silent. Shadrack nodded. “I am afraid so.”

  Theo clasped the bars. “Broadgirdle is a Sandman. He has the scars. I saw them myself. Doesn’t that prove he’s tied up with this?”

  “Nettie and Winnie told us,” Shadrack said slowly. “But I’m afraid it doesn’t change anything.”

  Theo noticed that all of them were avoiding his gaze; they looked at the floor, the cell, everywhere but at him. There was something else, he realized, they had not yet told him. “What is it?” Shadrack looked at him anxiously—almost with pity. Theo felt an unexpected tremor of nervousness. “Tell me what it is,” he demanded.

  “The war in the west that Broadgirdle has begun . . .” Shadrack faltered.

  “Yes?”

  “New Occident has almost no army to speak of,” Shadrack tried again. “Broadgirdle made a call for enlist
ment, but he has also conscripted . . .” He swallowed. “He has conscripted the prison population of New Occident. It will be announced today—this morning.”

  Theo stared at him, not comprehending, though the words were clear enough. “Conscripted?” he echoed.

  “He’s sending the prisoners to fight the war, Theo,” Miles said, his voice coldly furious.

  Theo was silent. Winnie reached through the bars and took Theo’s hand, looking up at him with the most bewildered, forlorn expression Theo had ever seen. He smiled. “Don’t worry. You think I’m going to stand there in a uniform while someone throws bullets at me? Not likely. First chance I’ll be gone”—he snapped his fingers—“like that.”

  “Yes, we knew you would say that. But the penalty for desertion is death,” Mrs. Clay cried. She buried her face in her handkerchief. Mrs. Clay’s outburst was apparently contagious, because Nettie began sniffling and Miles had to turn away and give a series of loud, throat-clearing coughs.

  “That’s if they can catch me,” replied Theo.

  “You would not be able to return to New Occident,” Shadrack said tightly.

  Theo hesitated. Then he glanced down again at Winnie’s face, now tear-stained, and grinned. “Well, can’t do that, then. But don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. This war will be over before we know it.”

  “I hope it will,” Shadrack said. “And I will do everything in my power to ensure it happens.”

  “You are staying at the ministry?” Theo asked, surprised. “Even with Broadgirdle as prime minister?”

  Shadrack looked stricken. “Broadgirdle has . . .” And, again, he swallowed. “He has suggested I stay on in the new government. Something to do with who I was in the Age of Verity. A war map maker.”

  Theo’s eyes narrowed. “He has twisted your arm.”

  “No, no,” Shadrack said too quickly. “It is true that I can do more good in the ministry than in my study at East Ending. And there’s the Eerie.” He shook his head. “The rule map tells us what happened, but not where. I feel it is my duty to find them.”