Chapter 40
Every morning when I open the bedroom door, Alaris is waiting there with one shoulder against the wall. It reminds me he was up earlier than me, which would be fine if he didn’t also come back to the room later than me. The last few nights, I didn’t hear him return to the bedroom at all.
“You look terrible,” I tell him, taking in the pale lavender shadow under his eyes. It’s not true, of course; his handsome face and artfully curled hair are still perfect. But I can’t stand that one sign of strain.
“Good morning to you too,” he says, offering me his arm.
I hold up the potted lobell from beside my bed as an excuse for not accepting it. “When did you last sleep?”
“There will be plenty of time for that when this is finished.” He tilts his head at my pot as he falls in step beside me. “Is that a lobell bush coming between us?”
“Yes. I brought some seeds with me.”
“So this is the source of your wondrous ointment.” He curves a finger under one of the stems, the head already bulging into what will eventually become a bud. “Not a gift from a ‘former employer’ then? You grow it yourself?”
“Yes.” I flush at being caught in yet another lie. “The rest are with Siro. If they grew as well as this, there should be enough for the whole castle soon.”
“What a gift.” His obsidian eyes gleam as he looks down at me. “Do you need an escort to the greenhouse?”
My fingers squeeze the ceramic, already strained by the roots from within. “I’m fine to go on my own. The ceiling is glass, after all.”
I can tell he gets my meaning. The hawks can see me.
As we reach the office door, my steps slow. I hate that this will be the whole of our conversation for the day, outside of battle plans. But he is already losing sleep because I used the oraculi. I can’t take another second of his time.
I force myself to swing through the door and head straight for the table by the window without a backward glance.
I set the lobell on the sill, and nod to Dashol as he dumps an armload of maps in front of me.
I get to work reviewing them, drawing lines where there are gaps or corrections.
I keep an ear on the room in case I have something to add about the Citadel.
“Useful,” Karns says, when I mention a servants’ stair on the fourth floor of the Central Palace.
High praise, from Karns. Sometimes, when I have nothing to offer, all I get is a sidelong stare from behind his glasses. But occasionally, when I have a tidbit to contribute, I get a nod.
Over the course of these meetings, I’ve learned the deadline we are working against: the Flame is weakest between Noctus—the winter solstice, Arastor’s high holiday—and the deepest cold at midwinter. After that, the cold eases, and the Flame strengthens by the day.
With only weeks until solstice, there is no time to waste.
“Going to the greenhouse?” Dashol asks as the meeting ends, bobbing his head toward the lobell. “I’ll go with you.”
Even though I feel safe enough crossing the grounds, I don’t refuse Dashol’s company.
Hawks circle overhead, trailing our path as we cross the grounds to the glass building.
The cold chills my fingers as I clutch the rough clay.
I meant to visit Siro sooner, but it took longer than I expected to recover my strength.
This plant decided it’s time to return to the greenhouse for me.
The roots are about to break through the ceramic if I don’t move it to a larger pot.
The rest of the seedlings must be ready as well.
I pause at the door, warmth leaking white through the cracks. “Does Siro know? About…everything?”
Dashol bobs his head from side to side. “She knows enough. But Karns doesn’t let her get involved in the details. He came here specifically to keep her safe.”
As Dashol said, everyone has their reason for being in this fight. I want to ask more, but I just nod. We can’t discuss it in the open.
Balmy air hits my face. Siro is wedged between beds with her sleeves shoved past her elbows, picking something off the underside of a leaf.
“Lyra.” She looks at me, then past me. “And the commander. Long time no see, Dash. Aren’t you too busy playing with your own wooden sticks to visit me?”
“You were on my way,” he says, clearing his throat. “But I can’t stay.”
Something about his tone makes me slide my eyes over to him. He’s standing up a little straighter, his lips parted, his eyes locked on the woman crouched in the dirt.
Interesting.
“Well, since you found yourself with a little extra time, there’s a barrel that’s probably going to freeze if I leave it out overnight, if you could put it closer to the stove.”
“Where?”
“Just there.” Siro barely extends a finger, and Dashol is out the door.
Dashol is helpful. He’s always helpful. But I don’t think I’ve seen the man move that fast before.
“What is that?” Siro asks, coming closer, her black-lined eyes wide.
“The seedling you sent me.” I hold up the pot, dense leaves spilling over the edge. “Sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“You really have been holding out on me. You clearly have some tricks.” She points to the rows of lobell that have been growing here.
Half the sprouts are a few inches high, the first pale leaves curling free.
I recognize them as the ones she planted.
The other half, the ones I stuck in the dirt, are about three times as big.
They all stand in contrast to the plant in my hands, which looks like it has been growing for weeks longer.
With the lost days and all that’s happened, I didn’t notice how unusual it was.
It feels like I’ve lived months and months since I planted this seed.
My hands tingle. Is this my power?
Have I always grown lobell faster? Have I been cycling through seeds, sprouts, and flowers at an unnatural pace? Is that part of why I’ve been able to grow a new variety, with more buds, and seven clear petals instead of the usual five green ones?
And has my ointment lasted longer because I tested all the possible varieties, or is that my power too? The ointment made from the buds spoiled slower for Siro. But would a jar she made really last seasons, as mine do?
I clear my throat. “Well, they do seem to be taking to this soil.”
She wipes her palms down her thighs. “We should get a more permanent place ready for them, if they’re all going to do that soon.”
Siro and I clear old planter boxes, digging out worms and rotted roots and replacing them with fresh soil. She shows me how to ready each box for a shoot, pressing an empty pot into the dirt, leaving a hollow the exact size she needs.
Siro plants the first. The loose dirt and roots fall into her waiting palm, while I have to dig mine out of the pot with the trowel. I leverage the root ball free and slide it into the waiting spot.
Grow these buds quickly. All of them.
Whatever happens this winter, I want to make sure there is more lobellum on hand. No matter which way into the palace Alaris takes, there will be fire and blood. And he is going to be at the center of it.
I glance up at the hawks, their talons scratching the glass overhead.
The shadowgates. The wings. Now the hawks. I’ve heard of arastorians darkening rooms, calling cold, and opening voids. I’ve heard their eyes turn pure black. But I’ve never heard of one flying.
There are good reasons to hide power that would be seen as a threat. Are the arastorians hiding their true power from the emperor, just like the cyralians? Or is Alaris just strong?
“What generation is the lord again?” I ask Siro.
She picks a long worm out of the dirt and adds it to her bucket of rotted roots. “Fifth, I think?”
“Hmm.” That’s what I remembered. “Did you work under the previous lord?”
She shakes her head. “We moved here a few years after Alaris took the seat. I never met Lord Staburn.”
With Alaris being as powerful as he is, I can’t fathom what his father is capable of. Then again, Elva’s eyes were brighter than Norville’s. Sometimes, a later generation can have a stronger affinity for magic. Maybe that’s why Alaris took the seat from his father so early.
But I can’t help pressing. “I heard…I heard a rumor that his blood seemed more potent than that.”
“There are a lot of rumors about him.” She meets my eyes. “All I really know is there is a reason Karns chose to support Alaris. He believed this lord could achieve what needs to be done.”
We hold each other’s gaze.
Then, she breaks it. She dumps another seedling into her hand and pats it into the dirt. “What’s up with you and him anyway?”
Her unbothered tone disarms what would otherwise be an uncomfortable question. I consider deflecting it.
“He’s helping me with something.” The words sneak out of my mouth before I fully decide on them, part of me wanting to share the thoughts torturing me every morning he offers me his arm. “He’s done a lot for me. Too much.”
“Too much?”
“He has more important things to worry about. I want to repay him. But…” I tug on the next plant that won’t come out of its pot, trying not to break the fragile stems. “I don’t feel like I’m doing enough.”
I’ve filled in maps, but I haven’t cracked any new way to the Flame. Every path we’ve discussed, every plan, is still dangerous. Even now, I’m growing flowers with half a mind on the invasion and half a mind on the wither’s spread if we fail.
He’s kept me safe, and what have I done?
“If your debt to him is how I came by all these lobell bushes, I won’t complain too much.” She pats the soil. “But I’m sure he’s doing exactly what he wants to do.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean…” She stares ahead, her black-lined eyes pensive. “Maybe he likes helping you.”
“What? Why?”
She shrugs. “I take care of these plants all day, and they don’t do anything for me.”
I blink. “Are you saying I’m like a…plant? Or useless?”
“I’m trying to say you don’t have to be useful to be liked.” She pats another shoot into the planter. “Do you only like him because he’s useful to you?”