‘I’m going to find more starfruit,’ I say. Astrophel and Tansy stop hammering the tent pegs. ‘I’ll follow the river back to that waterside vine-field. It wasn’t far.’
Astrophel folds his arms. ‘What do you know about harvesting fruit? Besides, you can’t go alone.’
Tansy’s eyes shine, bright as emeralds. ‘I’ll go with her. I know plenty about wildcrafting, and I’d like to collect samples for our seed library. Since the Sickening, we’ve redoubled efforts to collect seeds from as many threatened species as possible. Especially medicinal ones.’
She looks so excited I don’t have the heart to say no, though I long for solitude after being cooped up together on the ship for so long. Still, an extra hand to carry the starfruit, assuming we find any, will come in useful. And I’ll take Tansy’s company over Astrophel’s in a heartbeat.
We set off through the woods, shadowing the river-edge. Tansy strides ahead, stopping to sketch plants in her notebook, or pocket leaves and seeds. The pine resin in the air is bracing, the crunch of frost underfoot soothing. Stars, it’s good to be back on dry land. I’ve missed walking, even if I was rarely allowed further than the perimeter of the palace gardens.
Laughter carries on the breeze. I turn to the sound, and freeze. It’s Maris. Bundles of sticks lie scattered at her feet, gilt fingers tangle her sapphire braids. Blayze’s other arm is wrapped tight around her waist. Maris arches closer, presses her chest against him. Their mouths crush hungrily together.
Tansy is wending her way to the fields and hasn’t noticed them. But I’m rooted to the spot, unable to tear my eyes away.
It’s a kiss of wild abandon. Nothing like the punishing one I received from Astrophel, or the tender one I witnessed between Tansy and Glade – though a dragging sensation claws my chest, an echo of that same sour emotion I felt in the Rotunda, watching the Xylians bathed in their aura of sunshine.
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.
*
IRIDESCENTGLOBESPEEPthrough 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.’
