Chapter 20
The hawks are restless today, feathers ruffled, eyes and feet shifting. I’m not sure if it’s because of my mood, the storm in my mind brewing over what I’m going to do next, or an actual storm about to roll over the horizon.
It’s been too long. If the masked man knows where I am, no matter what edge of the continent he rode from, he could have reached me by now. I no longer have the assurance that I traveled too far, too fast, in the night. And the voidstone isn’t going to fall into my hands.
Weeks of searching, and I’m facing hopelessness like I never even started.
All my dreams of opening the right compartment and seeing the black quartz glimmering, the anticipation that at any moment I might grasp freedom in my hand and this weight might lift, are dashed.
The muscles around my shoulder coil. I can’t exactly overpower Alaris and steal the stone right from under his shirt.
I need a new plan.
Whether the hawks’ agitation is due to me, or something in the air, I still do my best to soothe them, cooing soft words and handing out extra strokes to whichever ones I can reach.
Before long, I’m on the sheltered bench with twenty birds around me, feathers puffed, heads and wings brushing my lap.
I run gentle fingers over delicate feathers and sharp beaks, unsure who is calming whom.
I lift my head to a knock at the aviary door.
“Come in,” I call morosely.
It opens, revealing bright black-lined eyes. “Long time no see,” Siro says as she steps inside, her open expression the friendly mirror of Karns’s closed one. She glances around the aviary. “Have you been holding out on me?”
“What?” I didn’t expect to see her unless I returned to the greenhouse, my mind so distant I can’t imagine what she’s referring to.
She gestures to the straw. “Bones. I’ll always take more, when your hawks drop them.”
Her beautiful features would be the envy of ladies at court, but I’ve never seen such a feral expression on a lady, as her gaze travels the floor seeking rat skulls.
“Oh…they’ve taken to dropping them outside the aviary these days. There’s a pile out back. And I’ll bring you the old straw soon, if I’m still here.”
“You’re going somewhere?” Her lined eyes flick to me. “And why do you look like you’ve been kicked?”
I sigh. “Just a…a recent disappointment.”
“Does this disappointment have a name? Because I’ll remind you, I’ve got a few trays of options in the greenhouse that could make anyone cry for their mother.”
I choke on nothing. “Poison won’t fix this.”
She grins, sharp-toothed. “Think a little harder and you might find it could. Go on. Use your imagination.”
“Alright,” I concede. “Poison could fix it. But I don’t think I’m willing to go that route.”
She shrugs. “Just keep in mind, a lot of what I grow goes into meals, so say the word. The inside staff gets really snooty sometimes—I blame my brother. We outside staff have to stick together. I have a running card game with the groundskeeper, if you want in.”
I laugh in spite of myself. She wouldn’t say that if she knew who was giving me trouble.
She kicks the straw, perhaps still checking for bones. “But are you really leaving?”
“Yes…eventually.”
One way or another, I’ll have to. I either have to get the stone off Alaris’s neck or figure out a different path to safety. Maybe things with Norville have died down enough that I can go back to Delvos. Maybe there is some other way I can change my hair…
“That’s too bad. It looks like you and the hawks have become quite cozy.”
I nod. “They’re really sweet.”
“I’m not sure that’s their reputation, but I’m glad you think so.
” She raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you have a special touch with both birds and flowers because, ta-da!” She produces two small glass jars from her apron.
“I tried the trick you mentioned with the buds. I don’t even have to send these to Vernys to know which one would last longer. I came to show you.”
One of the jars is half full, the ointment inside gone gray and brown. The other is only a quarter full, but it’s a fresh, pale green. I can tell from the lack of pearlescence that neither has been imbued with vernalian healing magic, but the colors make it clear which would have held better.
Siro followed my advice and used the buds.
I share her smile. “Glad to hear it. I know the buds are a lot smaller—”
“Hey, who cares if you have jars of this stuff if it doesn’t last? No wonder vernalians use the flowers. They can charge by weight and still sell you more a few weeks later. Next time we send some out to Vernys, I’ll use the buds. It’s not enough for the household, but it’s something.”
My mind goes to the seeds at the bottom of my travel bag.
The variety I cultivated produces double the buds, and bigger ones at that.
The bushes require more tending as they grow, and I can’t stay here long enough to help her care for them, but maybe I can leave her with some instructions and a few seeds.
“I have some—”
Distant shouts echo off the aviary walls. Siro and I lock wide eyes. I can tell by her expression this isn’t normal. I stand, the hawks around me shifting and squawking.
Siro is already at the door. We leave the aviary together and start toward the commotion, walking, then jogging, as the din of voices grows and a child’s wail cuts through it. The noise is near the front, and it’s picking up, not quieting down.
The gates are wide open, the grounds filled with bodies.
People stream in, clutching bags and bundles.
Some stagger, leaning on each other. Guards shout orders to bring in supplies, to move the injured ahead, their voices competing with people calling names and grabbing arms, searching for someone they’ve lost.
Siro takes in the scene. “I’ve got to go.” She breaks away across the yard, and I lose sight of her in the crowd. I’m left with no idea where to turn.
A line of carts stretches down the road, the cries of the injured and distressed echoing through the forest. Through the press of bodies, I catch sight of Alaris.
He has a man slung across his shoulders, his white shirt smeared with red.
He lowers the man onto a cart and heads back toward the gates.
Seeing him covered in blood sends a spike of panic through me.
Someone bumps my shoulder, shaking me into motion. I spot a familiar light brown head near the gate—Dashol. He’s barking orders to manage the crowd. I weave toward him, dodging people pushing to get inside the walls.
I catch his eye. “Dashol! What’s going on?”
His mouth is a grim line. “The wither swept through Culdridge last night. These people only barely escaped. You should go back to the aviary. It’s going to be crowded everywhere else for a while.”
Perhaps I should. I need to figure out my next move. But every staff member I see is running. I won’t be able to sit in the quiet and ignore what’s happening outside.
I pull myself up. “What can I do to help?”
He delivers a command to another guard, then turns his attention back to me. “It’s fine, Lyra, the hawks need—”
“Dashol, please. They don’t need anything.” I meet his gaze, my tone firm. “I want to help.”
He pauses, long enough to give me a chance to note the gray-blue of his eyes. After another second, he sighs. “The medical tent is being set up over there. They need fresh water. And people to bind wounds, and other things. They’ll be able to tell you.”
“Thank you.” I turn on my heel, hike up my skirts, and run through the crowd in the direction he indicated.
The makeshift infirmary is already in use even though it’s still being assembled. I stand at the threshold of the tent a moment, watching the maids and footmen scramble to wash blood from wounds and tie bandages as others set up cots.
About half the cots are full, and yet more people stream in. Family members cluster at bedsides, whispering and crying. Some of the beds house children so small, it takes me a moment to realize they are even occupied. I scan for someone in charge.
A maid slows just long enough for me to catch her eye.
“What can I do?” I ask.
“We’re running out of bedding. There’s more in the guest rooms, if you can fetch it.”
I don’t wait to be told twice. I run for the castle, straight to the hall of free rooms that, not so long ago, I searched.
I’m glad for the extra strength I’ve built up as I yank blankets from beds and closets and toss them into the hall, dashing room to room until every bed is stripped to the mattress.
“Are you going outside?” I ask some empty-handed maids coming down the hallway. I point them to my piles, and between the three of us, and with a few footmen who join in, we port the linens back to the infirmary.
I dump my armload beside a row of bare cots and copy the made ones: a sheet on the bottom, a sheet on top, and a blanket for each. There is a clear line where the household’s plain linens ran out, leaving patients bleeding on fine burgundy and gold brocade.
I haven’t tucked the edges on the last cot before two men set a woman down on it. She’s young, with three quarters of her arm covered in cracked skin, the flesh brittle and white.
“She tried to grab her brother out,” a voice nearby mutters. “She may not live for it. Certainly will lose the arm.”
I stare at the decimated skin, blood and pus oozing through.
I’ve seen burns my whole life, as my family members singed the flesh off each other, courtiers, and servants who displeased them.
I’ve stood on the balcony above the Crimson Square as criminals were put to death.
But I’ve never been in the thick of suffering like this.
My eyes dart from bed to bed, from tear-streaked faces and wailing loved ones to the blood splattered blue robes on the healers.