“Steady now,” Farren said as they steered the skiff across the Celestine Lake’s choppy waters. “Winter runoff will have tainted the lake water, so watch the boy. Make sure he doesn’t breathe in the mist.”
The low sound of the engine hummed in Callisto’s ears as she checked to make sure the seal on the gas mask Soren wore was secured. It was sized for a child, a fit easy enough to come by the farther east they went. The scattered towns in Ashion’s Eastern Basin and Solaria’s northern hill country had laws about field gear requirements for their citizens. If one wanted to live in the borderlands, one needed to be prepared for what nature would throw at them.
The Eastern Spine was too vast to cleanse, so wardens had focused on other parts of the continent through every generation recorded in the genealogies, records that had weeded out the poison in people’s families over time. The poison in the mountain soil always seeped into the water, drifted on the mist and wind, and rained like acid during the short-lived monsoon season that hit the region west of its peaks. The borders drawn by cartographers were clean and precise on maps, resembling nothing of the pockmarked reality of miles of constantly repoisoned land.
The Celestine Lake would always have high levels of alkaloids, no matter how many filters and purification machines were built into its shores. These days, such machines were looked at through a business lens rather than a survivalist one. Profit was more important to the owners of companies that retained the patents than the people who worked for them.
Competition amongst merchants meant putting up lives as collateral if one didn’t have money for a new venture upfront. Debt slaves were how Daijal had become rich in the aftermath of the civil war between it and Ashion. Bartering lives was how banks did business these days, even in Ashion. Urova had long since thrown its lot in with Daijal, and if Ashion wanted clarion crystals mined from the northernmost country for its aether-powered machines that were overtaking steam-driven ones, then debt bondage–tainted trade with Daijal was unavoidable.
Queen Ophelia Rourke had sought to change that status quo. She’d lost her life and set her country to ruin because of her ideals. The power vacuum left behind would have to be filled, and soon. Callisto hoped Aaralyn realized that.
The Warden’s Island loomed up from the fog sometime later. The fort which housed wardens, tithes, and the laboratories that altered lives was dimly lit along the walls.
The televox Callisto had stolen at a military-held way station on the train ride southeast chimed in her hand, the clarion crystal shard embedded in its steel casing pulsing softly. Televoxes were relatively new devices, portable, and capable of connecting people across great distances, but they were expensive to make and maintain. The general population of any country didn’t have access to them, and the merchant class clamored for them like no other, but it was the military and nobility who had a stranglehold on the production.
Callisto thumbed the televox open, bringing it up to eye level so she could speak into it. “We’re docking soon.”
“I see you,” a clipped, deep voice replied. “Anchor at the main pier.”
Callisto closed the televox and tucked it into her pocket before looking over her shoulder at where Farren sat. “Did you hear?”
“It won’t be a problem,” Farren said.
Callisto couldn’t see her brethren’s eyes behind the heavy goggles they wore. Farren had been steering with the gas lamps cold, navigating the lake by way of spelled goggles capable of seeing in the dark, the sort favored by Tovanians when sailing Maricol’s oceans and seas during storms. A lake with wind-driven waves was child’s play in that regard.
Callisto picked out the shape of a shadowy figure holding a lantern at the end of an otherwise empty pier as they drew close. Tithes usually came during summer, when travel was easier and the waters were cleaner, which meant no boats were docked to impede their approach. Farren guided the skiff right against the pier with an ease that would make most sailors not of the Tovan Isles envious.
The Warden’s Island’s governor tossed them a thick rope to tie the boat to the pier. Callisto caught it and wrapped it around the metal cleat. The click of gears had Callisto eyeing the automaton that waddled up behind the governor. A small rapid-fire, multibarrel Zip gun was perched atop a boxy body held up by spiderlike mechanical legs. The sound of its tiny steam engine hummed through the air, giving life to its limbs.
“Expecting trouble, Governor?” Callisto asked.
The man shrugged and offered her his hand. “Revenants swim, my lady. We are always on guard.”
Callisto was helped onto dry land, glad to be off the water. Farren lifted Soren from the bench and handed him to Callisto, who set the boy on the pier. The gas mask stayed in place as he looked up at her.
“Let’s get inside.”
Farren remained on the skiff. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Callisto took Soren’s hand in hers and headed to the fort. The governor followed after them, the click of the automaton’s clockwork gears loud in the air. He set it to guard the pier at the shoreline, Zip gun at the ready should Farren have need of it.
“Is anyone awake?” Callisto asked.
The governor shook his head. “No.”
“Good. No one must know of my visit.”
It was well past the midnight hour when they made their way into the fort. The governor guided them to his office, the lantern their only light save the occasional softly burning gas lamp on the wall. Once inside, he set the lantern on his desk before turning to face her.
He was an older warden, hair gone gray at the temples, with a scar cutting deep over his left jaw. It pulled at his mouth, making the line of his lips crooked. He was tanned, despite the months of winter they were shaking off, the natural darkness hinting at a Solarian ancestry he could never claim.
Wardens were nameless and stateless. The Poison Accords had seen to that. When tithed, who they were before coming to the island was stricken from the genealogies. Wardens were bound to the land, not to a country or its people. They used alchemy to cleanse the poison fields, fight revenants, and push the borders ever outward to keep everyone alive, regardless of politics. Wardens were supposed to be neutral, which meant they never took in those who could cast starfire.
Neutrality wasn’t to be found in heads of state. Callisto knew she was breaking that long-held creed tonight, but she had no choice.
She gently removed the gas mask Soren wore, letting it dangle from one hand as she brushed the fingers of her other through his hair. He looked at her with dull gray eyes, the spark of who he’d been snuffed out by the walls she’d built to keep him alive and safe.
“I’ve brought you a tithe from Ashion for the poison fields. You will name him Soren,” Callisto said, pushing the boy toward the governor.
