The Shepherd of Weeds (34 page)

The old folly—or the new Hollow Bettle—creaked as she left it; the hinges of the tavern door needed oil even in the confines of her mind.

At the shore, she stopped.

The water was the same steel gray of the sky and stretched on to the very edge of sight, where it became vague with mist. The shore was strewn with black, slick pebbles, and here and there Ivy noticed a few misshapen shells. A dirty foam licked the banks.

But there was something new. A marooned boat awaited her now—bleached from age and as light as driftwood. At its bow a carved figurehead, at one time painted in glorious
colors, was now peeling and despondent. It was the face of a beautiful woman; her blank eyes stared out across the water.

Ivy righted the boat. She threw the oars in and called to her crow, who alighted easily on the head of the carved figure. But as she made to lift a leg over the boat’s side, Ivy found she could not. It was as if the very soles of her feet had sprouted roots and held her fast to the shore. To move them was agony.

Having had the pleasure of her company, the Mind Garden would not relinquish her so easily.

Over her shoulder she saw the eerie Hollow Bettle, a palish, sickly light flickering in the windows, mysterious shadows moving about inside.

Her heart ached to return to her home—but this was not it.

She clamped her eyes shut.
It is the scourge bracken
, she realized.

And with that thought, a surge of recognition snaked its way up inside her—she was tainted. She would never again feel right in the shadows. In that case, she would stick to the light.

Her crown of fiercely glowing violets was still solidly upon her head. She had bested her father. Like it or not, she had inherited the Kingmaker mantle. The Mind Garden was
hers
now.

And if it was hers, she would do a little redecorating.

She began simply, with the bettles. Her father’s macabre Garden had their dead husks as ground cover. Now, with but a simple wish, Ivy gave them life. The air burst with their
glorious colors and delicate, crystal wings. And, like in Queen Nightshade’s own garden, everywhere the bettles fluttered, a darkness was conquered.

An unknown power coursed through her body—a not unpleasant one—and with a shock, she knew at once that this was how her father felt as he cast his poisoned web from high atop the spire of Rocamadour. A passage from Axle’s
Field Guide
echoed through her mind.

And with that, Ivy Manx willed the lights to dim behind the smoke-stained glass and slammed the door upon its rusty hinges. She saw to her false workshop, making its grotesque contents molder and then turn to dust. Jars and beakers shattered, and brown syrupy fluid congealed on the floor. She stoppered up the belching chimney and folded the half-timbered walls into themselves like a house of cards. With a final snap of her fingers, the tavern’s inky sign clattered to the ground, the script glowing a scorching red and then fading to nothing.

And then, with her crow, Ivy Manx set out upon the still waters of her mind, barely a ripple in her wake.

vy rowed.

She dipped the slick oars into the smooth surface of the water and moved forward.

Shoo flew at times, his dark reflection mirrored in the steely water, until he tired and returned to rest upon the blank-eyed maiden.

Eventually, wisps of silvery white down appeared in the air beside her, settling on the surface of the lake, an iridescent blanket. Many wisps of silvery white down. The oars swirled them into small eddies with each plunge. They became thicker, settling in her golden hair, her crown of violets, upon Shoo’s sleek black back.

Ivy soon realized they were dandelion tufts, airborne, hovering.

Still, she rowed through the lake of her new Mind Garden.

Spent dandelion silk coated the oars.

It seemed that the world was made of only the girl and the crow and the dandelions upon the water. But then a voice filled the air, accompanied by a splintering noise from the front of the boat. Shoo took to the air.

“All of this is yours now, Ivy Manx, Shepherd of Weeds,” the voice creaked.

Ivy looked around—there was little of her domain to see, other than sky, water, and silken tufts. Not wanting to insult whoever it was that addressed her, she wisely kept quiet. The voice was that of a woman, melodious, with a distinct wooden tone—the maiden figurehead, Ivy realized, and she listened eagerly.

“I am carved from barrel wood,” the maiden began, by way of introduction. “Of oak.” There was a slightly haughty tone to this, as if this fact granted her some position of import within the hierarchy of figureheads.

After a lengthy pause, in which Ivy wondered if something was expected of her, the lady resumed her speech.

“Oak begets acorns. Ivy, do you remember what it is an acorn symbolizes?”

“Why—eternal life.” Ivy thought of Flower Language. “Or imminent death.”

“It is all in how it’s presented,” the maiden continued.

“Exactly,” Ivy agreed. “It depends how you look at it.”

“Nothing is set in stone.”

Tell that to my father
. Ivy thought of her father’s crazed etchings on the walls.

“Tell me,” Ivy blurted suddenly. “Is it true that all things written can be unwritten?”

The figurehead had resumed her wooden silence, and Ivy wondered if she had insulted her, until, quite some time later when Ivy had nearly forgotten her, the maiden proceeded to sing. It was a beautiful melody, a song of the lonesome lake, but also, it seemed to Ivy, of something else.… But try as she might, Ivy could not grasp it. The mournful melody continued for some time, and then, suddenly, it was over. And with it, Ivy knew two things.

The Prophecy would not be fulfilled.

But that all depended on how she looked at it.

Ahead, there was a small island drenched in fog. Only, Ivy soon realized, this was no ordinary fog. It was in fact not fog at all. It was a mass of dandelion tufts, a cluster of spores hovering over the island, rising like the moon from the edge of the sea. As she alighted, stepping onto the shore, they tickled her skin—her cheeks, her neck, her hands. Her whole body tingled in the presence of a great enchantment.

Turning to the figurehead, for she stood beside it now, Ivy saw no evidence of the nameless song, the wise words. The
carved maiden’s eyes were rubbed blank with the salt and wind of the sea. Seized by an urge, Ivy kissed her polished cheek.

She walked away from the boat, and the dandelion parachutes parted for her, these tufts, swirling into rich whorls as she passed through. The oars dropped from her hands and vanished into a downy cloud of whiteness. From behind her, the carved figurehead creaked. Ivy turned to see the woman’s wooden cheeks puff out with a deep breath—two bright pillows—blowing a sea wind ashore. The tufts responded and began to clear.

Ivy waited, Shoo upon her shoulder.

As the wind picked up, Ivy noticed there were shells beneath her feet. The breeze was a delicate one, but the dandelions were caught up in its caress, gathering in small pools upon the beach. Very soon none remained, whisked away with the breath of a giant. In the distance, birdsong.

Ivy looked around the small island in the lake of her Mind Garden. She saw that where she had thrown her oars down, olive trees had sprouted. A small path led between them, and at its end was a familiar structure.

A King’s Cottage.

n Rocamadour, the battle was raging in the air high above the dark city. Shadowy vultures with grotesque ink monkeys on their broad backs were falling upon the birds of the caucus; the air was choked with smoke and ash—as dark as night.

But for Rowan, time stood still.

Here I am, falling again, he thought. There had been a time—it felt like years ago—when he had plummeted down a long passage in the sewers of the dark city. But that was nothing compared to this. That time, a river ended his fall. Today, he would be delivering himself to his enemies upon the battlefield.

Grig’s springform wing had failed; it trailed behind him as he began to tumble downward. A mass of bent wire and canvas
dangled from his left arm, but still the thought did not occur to him to jettison it. All around, the clouds were filled with shrieks and battle cries of a desperate war, and beneath him, as he tumbled head over feet, Rocamadour was laid out like a terrible maze of cobbles and gutters. The air roared in his ears.

The first wave of the caucus, the tenacious gulls and formidable birds of prey, was outnumbered by the clumsy vultures, and Rowan fell through air laden with their screams. At one point, he saw the scarecrows at the entrance to the dark city, huddled in formation beside the closed gates. They drew dark bows, brandished pointed sticks. Many were mounting hairy vine ladders from Grig, which clung to the dark stone with spidery barbs, or assembling springform catapults. Somewhere within their ranks would be Grig, and the other trestlemen, and the loyal townsmen of Templar.

Then, with mounting horror, Rowan saw what awaited them.

Upon the walls above the strawmen, old-growth logs—simply massive in girth and drenched in flammable paraffin—were being rolled into place alongside pots of tarry sludge, positioned between the jagged ramparts. Weapons of fire. The Outriders readied their flints, waiting for orders, and orange sparks sailed through the wind.

As he fell, time slowed. The noise from the battle quieted, and Rowan’s eyes were drawn to a silvery speck, seemingly
bobbing before his eyes. At first, he mistook it for a stray downy feather, but a searchlight from the towering wall cast a stark beam upon it. It glowed like spun silver. His eyes were glued to it, rapt.

It was a small tuft. A dandelion parachute.

Ivy, he thought, gazing upon it. I wonder if she made it to the spire.

The dandelion seed shone, weaving through smoke and ash, a tiny beacon of hope. But it was soon lost as the rush of the air had returned, taking with it the unearthly silence, and soon he had lost sight of the silvery tuft.

I must reach the doors!
Rowan remembered desperately. They were all depending upon him. Ivy was to fly to the spire and Rue to Irresistible Meals. The job fell to him to open the vast gates when Lumpen and Peps had not returned.

The roar again ravaged his ears—ill wind, the smell of rot, of the acrid inkworks. The clang of the terrifying alarm reverberated about the dark stones of the city, and Outriders—more Outriders than Rowan ever thought possible—surged through the twisted streets, bound for the high walls.

With his one good wing desperately cupping the air beneath him, he began a dizzying downward spiral. Everywhere now were swirling, peaceful wisps of dandelion silk, and as he passed through them, they touched his cheek, snagging upon his worthless wing.

Down, down he fell. Faster, he approached the thick, iron-studded
gates to the Guild. Dropping by them helplessly, he reached out an arm, but grasped at nothing but air.

The earth approached too quickly.

Spinning, dizzy, the former taster shut his eyes to his doom—which is why he did not see what ended his fall.

A cradle of night velvet, lit up by small, shining stars.

utside the gates, the battle was going extremely poorly.