The Clockwork Crown

by Beth Cato

  “Grandfather,” Octavia said, catching Lanskay looking at her askance.

  Kethan faced her with a strained smile. “I fear our manner of transport will be problematic.”

  “Not if I can help it. Lanskay, where are our horses?”

  “Over there. A man’s bringing them around.”

  She assessed them with her eyes and senses together and nodded approval. Wasters knew their horses. The legs were sound, feed adequate, hooves trimmed and shod. As they neared the King, the horses’ nostrils flared.

  Alonzo’s not going to lose so much as his little toe. Not if I can help it.

  “Stop there,” Octavia said. She approached, a hand extended for the reins. The Waster looked at Lanskay for approval and then backed away. “Shh, shh. Listen to me.” She leaned close between the horses. They immediately calmed, ears perked.

  She had healed most all kinds of animals before. At the academy, some days were more about livestock than ­people. The difficulty was that animals, like ­people, had to acquiesce to a healing—­at some level, they had to understand. It didn’t always happen. Octavia didn’t need a healing now, but she did need understanding. If she encircled both horses with honeyflower, it would strengthen her insight, but she had neither the herbs nor the time.

  But they were in the shadow of the Lady, and Octavia possessed power of her own.

  “Lanskay, what are these horses’ names?”

  “Names?”

  “Yes. Names.”

  He conferred with the grooms. “Doxy and Chocolate.”

  Names possess power. She knew that, as she flinched at the men’s whispers. “Lady, here in your shadow, with this change in my blood, hear me,” Octavia murmured. Heat prickled against her skin as if she had initiated the forming of a circle. The men felt something, too. Boots scuffed as they backed away.

  “Doxy.” The bay with a white snip on her muzzle perked up her ears. “We will travel with a man who smells like death. He is a good man. Let him ride you.” The horse’s black eyes stared into Octavia.

  “Chocolate.” Despite everything, the name made Octavia smile. “You will be mine. The man’s smell will bother you, as it should, but don’t let him scare you away.” Chocolate whickered and rubbed his face against her arm, as if pleading for a lump of sugar.

  “Thank you,” Octavia murmured. Like that, the heat faded. She realized, then, how quiet it was. She turned. All the activity in the street had stopped. No one stood within twenty feet of her—­no one but King Kethan, Doxy, Chocolate, and the small herd of horses that now lined the corral to stare. Several of the Wasters held their shotguns slack in their grips.

  “Um. What?” she asked, glancing around to see if she’d missed something.

  King Kethan approached, his steps slow, a hand held out toward the horses. “You glowed.”

  Like Adana Dryn. Like the Saint’s Road. She looked at her arms and saw the same white cloth as always. “Am I still glowing?”

  “No. It ceased.”

  “That might have actually come in handy in the tunnel.” She laughed, the sound edging on hysterical. The pitch of her voice seemed to alarm the horses more than Kethan’s presence.

  Lanskay edged forward, his motions tentative as if he might drop to his knees before her. “The saddlebags are packed with enough food and water for the day.”

  “Understood.” We won’t try to escape.

  “I hope to see you by nightfall.” He grimaced and stepped back.

  She and Kethan mounted up. The horses were nervous, sidestepping with twitching ears. Octavia pressed Chocolate to a trot as they headed out to the street. She couldn’t help but note King Kethan’s smile and the strange calmness in his song. He was riding a true horse, and his joy seeped to his very soul.

  I love to ride horses, too. The rhythm, the breeze in my face, that sense of flight over the ground. So many things I’ve taken for granted, as part of being human.

  The traffic was still at a stop as men stared after them. She flinched at the distant mentions of her name, her identity, the words striking her like flicked beans.

  Someone will ask Alonzo what I did, how I did it. If I make it back, he’ll demand answers, too.

  Actually, he’ll demand even more answers if I don’t return. And I’ll likely hear every query.

  A thin belt of green meadow separated the settlement from the thick woods. The road dead-­ended there, dwindling to a mere footpath. Octavia took the lead. Shrubs and vines towered above her. The smell was intense, as if she could chew the greenery in the air. Birds sang and rattled in the branches above.

  Chocolate’s ears flicked, his coat shivering as if he was harassed by flies. Then Octavia felt it—­the prickling warmth like that of a circle. “Grandfather, I think we crossed the line into the Lady’s domain, quite literally.”

  “I agree.” Kethan’s voice was a low rumble.

  The sounds of animals intensified. The trees crowded ahead like cats at feeding time, branches and leaves in a tight, verdant weave. She couldn’t see the Tree now but she felt its looming presence, the shade covering them like a strange sort of nightfall. It occurred to her that she should be very cold—­it had to be near freezing—­but she felt fine.

  An odd pile of bones and long green branches was stacked along one side of the path. The branches buzzed slightly with the life essence of the Lady. Octavia stared, taking in the large shape, then noticed green movement amidst the bones. She assumed it was a snake and prepared for Chocolate to lurch away, then noticed the leaves, the shape. My horse. Jasmine.

  As she rode by, white buds opened to her as if in an offering. She pressed a hand to her chest and bowed her head. “Peace to you, sweet mare,” she whispered.

  “ ‘God take you, warrior steed, to fields of clover, not bone,’ ” intoned King Kethan.

  Tears burned her eyes. Caskentia still used that prayer when they burned and buried horses that fell in battle. It was one of the few times she had ever seen soldiers cry.

  They crossed a churning stream and rode up an embankment. The path thinned, the light at their backs vanishing completely. The King’s heart raced, his song more chaotic. He’s nervous. So was she. This was no normal forest. Foxes, raccoons, and vague shadows crawled through the undergrowth. Five deer flashed through the trees. A moose stared at them, his antlers broad and heavy as if he carried the world upon his skull. It was as though every animal on the continent was congregating here, whether they belonged in the Waste or not; maybe somewhere, saltwater seals played in a pond where small whales breached. At this point, nothing would surprise her.

  Heat seared Octavia’s skin as if they approached an infernal. They did. She reined up.

  The threem strolled into the path some twenty feet ahead. In the deep shade, the gray body was cast in black, its scaled skin sleek. The equine form stopped to regard them; it stood about fourteen or fifteen hands in height, comparable to a common riding horse. Eyes glowed red. The muzzle curved outward like the snout of a sea horse, the nostrils large and tinged in crimson. It had no mane. Instead, a double black ridge of scales trailed from forelock to croup, where a leonine tail lashed. It moved with the grace of a snake, exuded the mood of a nightmare.

  Beneath Octavia, Chocolate convulsed in sheer terror, song lurching. Octavia immediately dismounted. A glance back showed King Kethan doing the same. Octavia grabbed the reins at the bit as she made soothing sounds.

  “Grandfather, did you learn anything about threems in your extensive reading?”

  “That they are not supposed to exist.” He sounded more intrigued than frightened. “ ’Tis beautiful.”

  “It is, but so is a fire, and that’s what it will breathe at us if we don’t elicit some level of approval.”

  “I must venture forward first. I am no innocent, not by any definition.”

  “Neither am I. I’ve
killed. I’ve been party to too many deaths these past few weeks.”

  The threem’s song was unlike anything she had ever heard. It consisted of frenzied drums, like a herd of horses in a gallop across cobblestones. She had no idea how to parse those musical lines.

  “Lady!” called Octavia. “Neither of us is innocent. We know that. We can’t change the past. Please let us by, threem.”

  The threem’s finely tapered ears flickered. It understands, just like a gremlin. She had a hunch that cheese or silver wouldn’t win a threem’s heart—­no, it was too dignified, too noble. Her mother’s advice repeated in her mind again, what Octavia should do if she ever met royalty.

  Octavia curtsied, her satchel jostling against her hip. She heard Kethan move behind her.

  Sinuous as a ripple of silk, the threem stepped on across the path and vanished into the piled vines. Octavia released a breath she hadn’t known she was holding. “My mother always said manners were of vital importance,” she said, grunting as she remounted. She shifted the satchel to a more comfortable position.

  “Mothers are wise in that way.”

  Chocolate was still skittish as they crossed where the threem had trod. “My mother would also go apoplectic if she knew I was calling you ‘Grandfather’ and not genuflecting most every time you breathed.”

  King Kethan laughed. “When I cross the infinite river, I will tell her that I granted you full permission and that it was a joy to know you as part of my family.”

  Emotion caught in her throat. “That . . . that means a great deal to me. I . . . I like the idea of you and my parents being together. I think you’d get along like gremlins and silver. Our families . . . I’m glad you got to meet your great-­granddaughter Rivka, but I so wish you could have seen Viola—­Allendia.”

  “I wrote her a short letter in the village. ’Tis addressed to Balthazar Cody, to be forwarded to my daughter. A courier left with it not ten minutes before we reunited. I know you will speak to Allendia, if you can, but I wanted this chance to send her my words and tell her of my pride.”

  “Was it in code?”

  “Must you ask?”

  “She’ll treasure it beyond anything in this world. I don’t know how it will go when—­if—­I talk to her in person again, I . . .”

  “Grieve for Devin Stout’s choices, but do not feel guilt for his death. I may spread rot, but he was rotten.”

  “I know that. Logically,” she said softly. Her sudden need for Alonzo’s presence, his strength, almost doubled her over. Exhaustion soaked her to the marrow. When did she sleep last? Or eat? There had to be food in the saddlebags, but they needed to press on, regardless of how her mouth now watered at the thought.

  I like how crusty bread crunches between my teeth, how maple syrup is silken across my tongue. A silly thing, to wish for a paper-­wrapped bar of chocolate here and now, but even camp beans and stale crackers would grant a certain kind of joy. It would mean eating. Tasting. Chewing. Doing things a Tree cannot do.

  Something chirped above and a green being floated down from the trees. Leaf, gliding down like his namesake.

  “Oh, Leaf!” This is better than any chocolate bar. Being a trained war-­horse, her mount barely reacted as Leaf landed on the low nub of the saddle horn.

  He chittered a greeting and leaped up to Octavia’s shoulder. He pattered a rapid circle around her head and then sat on her left shoulder.

  “Greetings to you, gremlin,” called King Kethan. Leaf chirped in his direction.

  “Come to say good-­bye?” she whispered.

  He made a crude noise that normally indicated a need to treat with bellywood bark.

  Songs drifted out of sight. Young, healthy, female. Slow to approach. Octavia held up a hand to stop King Kethan. “Hello?” she called.

  The girls emerged like a pack of wolves, slinking, wary. They wore black oilskin coats like so many Wasters, but many of these were singed by fire. Salvage from when a Waster didn’t show proper respect to a threem. Their visible skirts were tattered and torn, their feet bare yet unhurt. “Hello,” Octavia repeated.

  “I know you.” One of the girls stepped to the forefront, smiling. Her yellow hair was tied back in a braid, but Octavia recognized her from when it had been wild and free. The girl couldn’t have been any older than fifteen.

  “Yes! You were the one in the Waster camp two weeks ago! I was so afraid for you.” Octavia shifted to dismount but the girl held up a hand. Leaf groused and settled himself on her shoulder again.

  “We’ll walk you along this next rocky stretch but I don’t want to delay you. She’s waiting.”

  Octavia counted nine girls as she rode on. The youngest looked to be about twelve, the oldest maybe sixteen. “The Wasters assumed you’d all been eaten by threems.”

  “The bastards!” snapped the youngest.

  The yellow-­haired girl nodded. “The threems don’t bother you if you give them space and respect. The second anyone raises a gun, they’re toast. Literally.”

  “You’re all from Mercia?” Octavia asked. They nodded. “Considering all the tea they make, there must be more girls.”

  That earned scowls and expressions of dismay. “There are hundreds,” said a girl with dusky Frengian skin. “Most of them are so scared they do their job and get the bark. The Wasters tried to get lots of sisters, so while one is out working the other is kept hostage.”

  Oh no. These girls must reside in the settlement. More lives to be lost in an attack.

  “Is there no outcry in Mercia?” asked King Kethan, rage clear in his voice.

  “Some,” said Octavia with a grimace, and nodded to the yellow-­haired girl. “I saw a newspaper article about you, with a picture of your father.” The path rose, strewn with boulders, and Chocolate slowed to place each hoof with care.

  “Of course you did. Daddy has money.” She didn’t look happy that she was missed; instead she seemed disgusted.

  “The Tree is visible to the air now,” Octavia said. “Caskentia is preparing to attack. If they bomb—­”

  “They won’t,” said a girl.

  “You’re going to become a new Tree,” said the other.

  “He has the seed. She’s so happy he’s finally here,” said another.

  Eerie, how they all speak in a sequence. “How do you know . . . ?”

  “We’re her daughters now,” said the yellow-­haired girl. “When we sleep here, we dream wonderful dreams.”

  A girl with curly black hair held up her arms. “My hands are finally healed. I used to work a sewing machine twelve hours a day.”

  “My step-­pa don’t beat me no more.”

  “I’m not ever leaving here!” At that, they all smiled and nodded.

  I don’t doubt that some of their situations have improved, but certainly there are ­people back in Mercia who love and miss them. But their minds . . . their smiles . . . they seem almost vacant.

  The soft patter of a waterfall grew louder as they followed a switchback. The air—­it was so clean, so pure, it almost made her giddy. At the curve, Octavia reined up. “Oh Lady,” she whispered. That was not blasphemy.

  The sight before her was the most beautiful she had ever seen. The waterfall began high up on the Tree, pouring from a shadowed crevice, and fell for at least a quarter mile. Shafts of light angled downward. Multiple rainbows wavered in the mist. The Tree’s surface consisted of mottled, vertical strips covered with lichen patches that would have been meadows if stretched horizontally. Long-­necked pink birds glided past the water like cherry blossoms adrift. Far below lay more trees. Gnarled roots led down to a small lake that looked to be flecked with birds of every possible color and size. At water level, the roots had eroded to resemble tumbled river stones.

  She couldn’t speak. Words could never have done it justice. Leaf’s little body rumbled in an honest-­to-­
goodness feline purr.

  It took effort to prod her horse onward and drag her own gaze away, but even then, she looked over her shoulder until the vista was obscured by rocks and brush. The path grew steeper. The girls followed, picking their way among the boulders, their feet sure as goat hooves. The way was littered with dry red bark fragrant like a fine spice mix—­a dash of cardamom, cinnamon, and nutmeg, reminiscent of all the glories of a Fengrian bakery. Octavia thought of Rivka with a quick prayer. Up another rise, and she could see the Tree itself ahead. The path led directly to a cleft in the trunk.

  The Lady is there.

  Tingles warmed her skin. Redwoods lined the grassy path, their shaggy tops extended far beyond sight. She had only seen such trees along the northern coast. She smiled until she rode alongside.

  They were rotting, and not a dry rot—­their trunks oozed a viscous gray substance like motor oil, the smell of greenery replaced by a foulness like rotting fish. The needles were still green but somewhat limp, as if suffering from a sudden drought.

  “It’s affecting the entire forest, like a disease. Even some of the animals are getting sores like this,” said one of the girls.

  “This is the sickness of the Waste, even after all these years,” Octavia murmured. “The Lady is still here, yet this is happening.”

  “Not for long,” said the girls in unison.

  They passed the final normal tree, its stink heavy in the air. Only the darkness of the cleft lay ahead. She and the King dismounted.

  King Kethan stood before his horse and stroked her long muzzle. “I am glad to have ridden one last time,” he murmured. “Thank you.” Doxy snorted at his hand, no longer afraid. He smiled.

  Octavia looked around, at a sudden loss. “I don’t want to set the horses free. I want to think that I’ll need one to ride back.”

  “We cannot go beyond this point,” said the yellow-­haired girl. “We’ll stay here until nightfall. If you don’t return, we’ll take good care of them, and so will you, after.” Her bright smile sent a vicious chill through Octavia as she handed over the reins.