The Shepherd of Weeds (28 page)

For some time, Ivy had tried to keep her disturbing visions at bay. In Templar, they seemed to have subsided, providing her some welcome respite, and she had kept them from Cecil lest he worry. But even there, if she moved her head too quickly or concentrated on a problem for any length of time, small purple sparks glimmered in the utmost corners of her perception.
A wounded healer
, she thought.
Never again right in the shadows
.

Now, as they approached the Tasters’ Guild, the visions returned in force. Evil sparks bobbed and weaved, determined not to be consigned to the mere corners of her mind. The world before her rippled, like a dark, cruel flag—and on several occasions Ivy was struck with the terrible sense that reality was fraying, becoming undone. As if the fabric of life itself was being pulled apart.

She thought of her mother’s treachery. Ivy was in the uncomfortable position of agreeing with Flux—her mother was a great disappointment. Clothilde seemed bent on her own success at any cost. Hadn’t she nearly turned Ivy over to Vidal Verjouce in the abbey on Skytop? And in Underwood, she had casually poisoned Rowan to test Ivy’s healing abilities.

Ivy felt the small, stitched pocket in her apron, where the King’s stones resided. Shriveled now, they were beyond all recognition.

A sudden shift in direction brought Ivy back to the present.

“What is it?” Ivy leaned forward to speak with Lofft.

“Something approaches,” Lofft explained, his words carried back to her on the wind.

Ivy scanned the horizon, but saw only the incessant purple flares of her own personal nightmare. The herons, and their sharp eyes accustomed to fishing, had keyed in on an intruder. Klair was flying with Rue off to the rear, on the right, catching an easier ride on Lofft’s airstream, and she had no
chance to communicate with Rue. Ivy waited for something to appear.

The herons were calling out to each other in their high, reedy voices—the otherworldly sound did nothing to calm Ivy’s nerves. They were descending slightly, wings tucked, for whatever they sought was flying at a lower altitude. The air stung Ivy’s lungs as she tried to breathe. Streaks of white were slashing by, and at first she took this for snow—but this was no snow. It was ash. She covered her face with the crook of her elbow, holding on tightly with her remaining hand, ducking down and sheltering her face from the stinging air. Below, the scarecrows had converged, milling about in great numbers—they had reached the Lower Moors.

The herons, in perfect synchronization, banked sharply to the left, pursuing their quarry, and the albatrosses followed. Ivy regained a firm hold on the reins, but all the same, the sharp turn nearly knocked her off. Recovering, she shouted to Lofft not to worry. But the words died upon her lips as she saw the enormous figure in the sky directly beneath them.

Ivy had but a moment to take the apparition in—its silhouette was a shadow above Lumpen’s gathering forces. But through the silting ash and patchy cloud cover, she saw dark, greasy scales gleaming upon the frightening beast’s wide wings, and it seemed to be hovering, peering down upon the gathering forces beneath it, working its way back and forth, searching, spying. This was no normal vulture, she realized.
What new, terrible creature had come forth from the bowels of Rocamadour?

They were descending quite quickly now, and Ivy lost the specter in the rush of nothingness and buffeting ash. But Rue hadn’t. Klair had wisely held back, and Rue had a better angle on the beast.

“Ivy!” Rue called desperately, her voice strained upon the wind. “It’s
Rowan
!”

Rowan
—Ivy thought. The scales of Grig’s wings flashed in her mind’s eye.

Klair called a sharp, wordless cry.

“Lofft!” Ivy screamed. They were careering downward at great speed, and she was worried her dire warning would go unheard. “Tell the herons to stop their attack! That’s my friend!”

Indeed, Rowan hovered above the gathering forces. He was bent on revenge and in search of Flux; his journey had brought him fruitlessly to Rocamadour and then here, to the Lower Moors and the gathering of Ivy’s forces. Something in the Army of Flowers had caught his eye. He lost it, though, just as soon as he had found it, and, cursing under his breath, he began to methodically retrace his path. His wings seemed like natural appendages now, and he was able quite freely to hover, as a kestrel would.

There it was again; his heart raced. An unusually lithe
scarecrow, understuffed, a yellowish tinge to his features. This one seemed to break ranks often, and, even more strange, he wore impossibly shiny boots.

So engrossed was Rowan, he failed to see what gathered above. When he finally heard the shrill cries of war, it was too late. He threw his head upward and his eyes locked with Ivy’s.

Ivy looked down upon her friend’s face as he gazed skyward—his wings outstretched, a fierce look of satisfaction across his familiar features. And she realized they were going to collide.

ut as the herons dived, with Lofft in their midst, another shrill cry from Klair reached the group. Instantly the birds fell back in an impossible array of dives and tumbles, each seemingly in defiance of gravity, and when they gathered again, they did so on the ground.

Peps, stepping off the great heron’s back, looked pale and his knees threatened to fold beneath him, but Rowan was there with a sturdy arm.

“Peps.” Rowan smiled. “You’re a natural! We should get Grig to outfit you with a set of wings of your own!” He turned to the inventor, who had joined the welcoming party. “What do you say, Grig? Why not whip up this brave man a smaller set when you can?”

Rowan winked at the gathering, which included Lumpen
and Grig’s assistants, while Peps, looking as if he very much disagreed, concentrated on trying to regain his breath.

Their remarkable arrival, while a surprise for those on the ground, was soon overshadowed by the business at hand. As Rowan folded his wings with care, Grig scrutinized them.

“Master Truax”—the inventor frowned—“these wings need immediate care. After every flight they need to be inspected carefully for rips or tears, and you’ve already ignored my warnings on two occasions. They need to be oiled and repaired. These conditions here, the ash and filth in the air, they gum up the works, and they are particularly hard on the small scales. I am afraid that flight is simply not recommended.”

They stared at the dark walls across the moor, soot and ash raining down upon the stark heads of the gathered army.

“Well, it’s time to do something about that ash and filth, then.” Rowan turned to the group. To the inventor, he added privately, “Don’t worry, Grig. The wings will bear me. There’ll be time enough to examine them when we’re celebrating our victory.”

Ivy surveyed the dreary landscape. Nearby, Grig and his team of assistants had been overseeing the contents of his jingling caravan, which, from what Ivy could see, consisted of more of his complex and inexplicable inventions. Everywhere, deflated weather balloons lay on the frozen earth in lopsided shapes, the leather bladders waiting for air. Ivy knew that soon they would be inflated; the curious
tut-tut
noise of their
paddles would fill the air, their baskets attended to by scurrying trestlemen. Packages, some large, some curiously small, were being organized upon the lifeless earth, crates pried open. Bundles and canvas-covered carts were being distributed to the scarecrows who gathered in orderly contingents. They formed a giant patchwork that stretched out as far as the eye could see, awaiting Lumpen’s word.

In the gloom, the night birds stood guard—the owls, the nightjars, and the loons formed a watchful front. Shoo flapped noisily from Ivy’s scarecrow, Jimson, alighting on her shoulder.

“Has my uncle arrived?” Ivy asked Lumpen hopefully. Cecil had said nothing about the nature of his errand to her, and Ivy worried at both his absence and the nature of his detour.

The well keeper, shaking her head, surveyed the thick walls of the dark city in the distance. The ramparts formed jagged openings like broken teeth, and in their dark recesses, untold Outriders awaited.

“They say these walls are impenetrable.” Lumpen turned to Ivy and the crow.

Ivy turned, too, to the grim sight, and words failed her.

“Well, they should have asked Lumpen Gorse. Water’s always got a way of seeping in.”

“Ah, Lumpen!” Rowan sprinted over. “I would like very much to inspect the troops,” he announced. “I do believe we have a stowaway.”

umpen Gorse privately did not see the merits of searching a thousand scarecrows for one sneaky rat. She was one to believe that silt would eventually settle to the bottom of the pond. Instead, while Rowan and Rue attempted the inspection, Lumpen wandered over to the paler-than-usual trestleman Peps.

“You ready, then?” she asked, pulling on her pipe.

Peps sighed, nodding. He wrapped his fine velvet cloak about him and climbed up upon the wide cart beside the well keeper, picking his way carefully along the straw floor. Cecil had ensured that the cart was laden with rain barrels, of the sort water is transported in.

Lumpen turned to Ivy. “We go now, miss.”

“But Cecil hasn’t arrived!” Ivy panicked.

“In the end, it is water that conquers all.”

“Peps?” Ivy looked desperately at her friend for counsel.

“Lumpen is right—there’s nothing gained by waiting. Cecil will come when he can. Miss Gorse and I will go to the gates and announce our delivery. They know Lumpen. They have bartered for her water—and they will again. Only this time, I will be inside a barrel. And tonight, when all is quiet, I will let myself out. In the morning, you will find the gates of Rocamadour open and welcoming.”

Peps did a small, flouncy bow, and Ivy couldn’t help but smile.

Shortly thereafter, Ivy watched an impressive demonstration of Lumpen’s strength, for she approached the forward end of the cart, designed to be pulled by a team of donkeys. Bending low, she hoisted the heavy yoke upon her shoulders and, setting her sights on the distant gates, lumbered off.

If there were two things Flux disliked in life, one was to be itchy. (The other was to be thirsty.) What more uncomfortable escape could Sangfroid have devised for him than this? The man must have made a study of his secret pet peeves and chosen to outfit him in a sack of straw thusly. He was happy he had taken his vengeance upon the old man—and he hoped his eternal rest beneath the waters of the old moat was wretched and cold.

Flux’s yellowish skin, normally quite sensitive as it was,
was a carpet of red welts. Yellow skin, red welts—he looked as if he were a walking toadstool! And now, such a long walk! His feet were swimming in sweat in his leather shoes, but their high quality—he congratulated himself—had prevented any blistering. He despised these strawmen and cursed the very fact that his fortunes were currently tied to them. An army of weeds. Guttersnipe. Particularly that two-faced one directly before him—what nonsense was this? The thing had been given two faces, and the backward-facing one regarded him with an irksome expression. What was it? He tried to pinpoint it, but the blank look was elusive—which produced in Flux more annoyance.