Chapter 18 #2
When Blayze breaks away from Maris, his breathing’s ragged, the rise and fall of his chest laboured.
His arms remain coiled around her, but he lifts his head, and for an instant, our eyes lock.
And there’s no cold wind stinging my cheeks, no scent of balsam, only his burnished face staring into mine.
I hurry after Tansy, heart hammering.
Fated, it seems, to be forever haunted by unwanted visions.
*
IRIDESCENT GLOBES PEEP through the rows of frosted ground-vines.
The sinking sun gilds the starfruit, and the colour reminds me of Blayze’s skin when it catches the light, that same honey-drenched glow.
And then I remember the jeering expression that crept into his eyes when he saw me watching him with Maris.
I shove the memory away, breathe in the sweet aroma of the fruit, the loam of turned earth.
Tansy reaches inside her wicker basket, pulls out a small sickle with chapped, trembling fingers. ‘Remarkable how these vines survive the cold. Here, you gather the first one.’ She offers me the blade. ‘Let’s show Astrophel you’re more than capable of picking fruit.’
I stare at the sickle. At court, embroidery is the only acceptable occupation for a lady’s hands – my mother raised eyebrows just by tending her own rose garden, in those distant sunrings when she was still hale enough to consider such a thing.
My father would be horrified at me scrabbling around in the dirt, foraging for food.
A smile tugs my lips as I grasp the blade and kneel beside one of the larger fruits.
The gourd’s hollow when I tap it, a sign it’s ripe.
The vine is spongy, eerily flesh-like as I carve into it.
Droplets of shimmering sap well like opals at the incision.
Hefting the fruit into my lap, I use the sickle to cut two thin slices and hand one to Tansy.
‘Can you feel a difference?’ I ask, after I’ve finished my own piece. Fruit grown here is highly prized. They say it has a higher concentration of Star-Aether than that grown in the southern plantations, which supply Meissa.
Tansy takes an experimental breath. She nods.
‘I can draw air deeper into my lungs.’ She’s not shivering so much either, and I can feel the traces of Star-Aether spreading through my body like a slow-moving wave.
Within a few minutes, my reflexes are sharper, my muscles primed.
My skin is a shade more luminescent than usual.
That gives me hope.
There’s no way of knowing how long the effects of the starstone tincture will last, so the longer we can wait before imbibing Izarius’ concoction, the greater our chances of making it to the Crystal Caves.
If Orthriel has persuaded the plantation owners to part with enough dried starfruit to see us to the Astral Mountain, ideally home again too, it might give us a fighting chance of reaching the lost sceptre and returning safely to the palace.
Tansy places a handful of glimmering seeds from the cut fruit into one of her little vessels, pockets it and then takes up her sketchbook and starts drawing the vines and making careful notes.
I pick my way through the field, moving inland, gathering more fruit till the pack is so heavy I can scarcely shoulder it.
The breeze shifts. The sweetness in the air turns rancid.
I follow the stench to a high boundary hedge, the reek of decay so strong my eyes water. Tansy follows a few paces behind me. I find an opening and pass through, stepping into another, larger field. I gag.
Gnarled, blackened vines, twisted like disjointed limbs, stretch before me.
Fields and fields of them. Starfruit lie cankered on the ground, soft with rot, riddled with black pustules, their rinds split, oozing a tarry fluid like dried unmarked blood.
And the smell… I keep my breathing shallow to avoid retching, and snatch up my pomander.
Tansy’s eyes, usually so bright and warm, are glassy. Haunted. ‘We face similar blights at home,’ she whispers.
I’m only dimly aware of the weight of her hand on my shoulder as I focus on the burn of the vinegar in my nostrils and counting each breath.
And now the darkness cloaking the hillside plantations as we approached Lulana make sense. Not shadows. Rot.
I’d heard rumours of blight, but this is more than a blight – this is devastation.
Even my father can’t pretend this away. The pestilence will spread to the southern plantations; Estelia will starve.
How did my father allow this to happen? Why didn’t he fight back?
The realm is rotten, and his governance is rotten too.
It’s one thing to know the realms are sickening, another thing entirely to see the festering sores. My eyes burn as I survey the ruin. Tansy is still talking about pestilence in Xylia, something about an acid-sap powerful enough to sear through human flesh, but I can’t follow her words.
Tansy gives my shoulder another squeeze. ‘Let’s get back. Blayze should have that fire built. I’ll boil some water, brew you some lavender tea. It’ll help you sleep.’
I set the pack down. ‘Why don’t you take the fruit back? I… I need a few minutes.’
‘Astrophel won’t want you left alone.’
I roll my shoulders back. ‘Astrophel’s not my keeper.’
Tansy studies me again. She’s no Seer, yet she sees so much.
She heaves the pack onto her shoulder. ‘Don’t be long, or I’ll send him to fetch you.’ And with that parting threat, she heads back through the hedgerow.
I turn my back on the twisted vines, too.
I needed to see this, but I can’t look anymore.
*
I’VE FOLLOWED THE river too long; the sun is little more than a hangnail on the horizon. I should turn back before nightfall. The others will be getting worried – I’ll never hear the end of it from Astrophel. But I can’t get the stench of rot out of my nose.
Nestled among the pines, a moon-arch, a circular gateway to a narrow tunnel, towers before me, furred with moss and choked with flowering vines.
I pause before it. Where does it lead? Despite the lateness of the hour, I’m considering following it when something moves in the periphery of my vision.
The worm of unease burrows deeper, my throat tightening as a sound carries on the breeze – a low, resonant chuffing.
I turn, keeping my movements slow; the memory of those angry villagers and their rocks fresh in my mind.
But it’s not irate farmers. Sister’s mercy, I wish it were.
I’d stand a better chance against them than the hoarclaw lumbering through the trees towards me.
Ice floods my veins, freezing me to the spot.
I try to remember what Astrophel said to do if we ever saw one in the wild.
Run? No, keep still. Play dead. My breaths rush loud in my ears.
Surely it will hear me? I slip under the moon-arch, glad of the slight protection it affords. From the shadows, I watch and wait.
Astrophel said the bears don’t start fights, not unless hungry or provoked.
But this one is thin. Painfully so. I can make out bones beneath its fur as it roots in the undergrowth for food, a shoulder blade jutting sharp where a patch of white mars the silver of its coat, as it casts blighted starfruit from its path with great hooked claws.
It shouldn’t be here. The hoarclaws belong to the peaks.
Bitterness snakes my gut. Arden, the Sickening, that’s the reason it’s been forced south.
That’s the reason it’s starving. The bear stops in its tracks, lifts its muzzle, and scents the air.
Three deep snorts. Its ears twitch back, and it starts ambling towards the moon-arch.
The sound of its claws raking across the frosted ground decides me.
I slip under the gateway and into the gloom.
The passage is dank and laced with mildew, but I run as fast as my legs will carry me.
If the hoarclaw caught my scent, I don’t relish the thought of it chasing me down here, of being trapped with it in this dark, airless lair.
It’s a relief when the circle of light at the other end of the tunnel grows larger and brighter, and I emerge into a sunken walled garden. Alone.
I pause, gasping for air, and search behind me.
For once, my prayer was answered. The hoarclaw hasn’t given chase.
The crumbling stonework is ivy-clad; frosted wildflowers are dotted in haphazard clusters.
Their sweet scents fragrance the air, driving away memories of rotting vines, fetid tunnels and slavering beasts.
A bird is singing somewhere in the distance and there’s a stone bench in the farthest corner.
Stepping over roots and ice-rimed pansies, I weave through the garden till I reach it.
I collapse onto the bench, breathing hard, and close my eyes.
Being embraced by the garden walls is comforting.
I try to empty my mind, still my racing thoughts, focus on the bright kiss of the setting sun on my upturned face, the caress of the biting breeze against my cheeks.
Only the occasional chirrups of the starlark break the stillness.
The first moment’s peace I’ve known in Stars know how long.
The box containing the mooncrystal presses sharp against my thigh.
I root inside my cloak pocket and draw it out.
Unfastening it, I stroke the glassy surface of the globe.
The moons have not yet risen and won’t be full for more than half a moonscycle.
There’s no danger of my awakening the crystal’s ancient magic tonight.
Still, as my fingertips graze the orb, that strange dragging sensation, like the tug of the tides, wrenches at me again.
I lean into it this time. It pulls harder, like it’s trying to reel me in.
I snatch my fingers back. Closing the box with a snap, I pocket it again.
All magic has its price. All magic is dangerous.