Wings of Sorrow and Bone (14 page)

“The dormitories are just over there,” Alonzo murmured, and glanced at the sun. “Shift whistle should have blown a short while ago. The train's presence is auspicious. The week is at an end.”

Octavia thought about what she knew of factories. “The workers will be traveling to Tamarania City for the weekend?”

“Yes. The train likely delivered fresh workers for the coming week. This crew will return to civilization. This remote locale is not a place where they would expect to run into any hitchhikers. Perhaps we can blend in.”

“Let me take care of our bloodied coats.”

She pulled out her parasol. Her medician wand was hidden in the handle. The copper-­and-­wood stick carried enchantments to dry blood and kill zymes. A few minutes later, their coats were somewhat cleaner. Alonzo rigged his saddlebag strap beneath his coat, closer to his body. Octavia almost laughed. Here they were, stinky and harried and hungry, and those were the very qualities that would likely help them to blend in with the workers.

They crept closer to the train. Alonzo had tucked his pistol out of sight, but she knew he'd have it ready if needed. A whistle blew. Workers poured from a brick dormitory. Most wore black coats, many of which had faded to shades of gray. Unlike most factory employees she had seen, these ­people smiled and talked amongst themselves, even if it was an exhausted-­sounding murmur. Clearly, an impending return to the city had brightened their spirits.

Suddenly her acute awareness of the workers' health woes draped over her like a suffocating quilt.

Noises. Songs. Tweets, bells, off-­key trumpets. Cancer, a thudding, drumming mass. The sweetness of pox. The first stirrings of a pregnancy. Dragged notes of exhaustion—­plenty of that.

Cities had always overwhelmed her, but this . . .
this
. These ­people were still thirty steps away, more following behind, and their needs swarmed her like bees. Octavia moaned, both hands to her ears as she slid down the wall to the ground.

“Octavia?” Firm hands gripped her shoulders. “What is the matter?”

“The ­people. I hear them. I hear inside them.”
Lady, what's happening to me?

“Stand. I am with you, Octavia.”

Yes, she had Alonzo. Her legs like gelatin, her brain addled, she managed to stand. ­People surrounded them.
Hums, buzzes, bleats.
Voices—­familiar words. Refugees from her land. Caskentians would be more likely to recognize her as a medician. That brought a whole different kind of danger than what Alonzo had warned against.

His hand was her tether, the steady marching band of his heart clear even amidst the din.

“Separate!” a man's voice boomed. ­People jostled and shifted around her.
A heart skips beats like a child learning to jump rope. Stomachs moan in hunger. The baby in the womb writhes as if it knows the excitement to come.

“Octavia.” Alonzo's breath was hot on her ear. “They are separating the men and women, you must—­”

“Come along, then! Board! Say your farewells, it's only a few hours' ride—­”

“Separate?” The horror of that word cleaved through her mental fog. “We can't! How will I—­”

The train roared. Alonzo's hand jerked from hers. She struggled to focus, to see with her eyes and hear with her physical ears. Faces around her ranged from milky pale to deep coffee in tone, men and women both. Alonzo, tall as he was, had turned toward her, the determination on his face visible above another man's shoulders. The tide of humanity carried him away.

Women's voices jabbered around her, higher in pitch. Giggles punctuated conversations. The press of women ebbed and flowed toward a black train car and groups began to split off. Octavia found herself at a short set of stairs. Passing hands had smoothed the wooden banister to burnished gold. She staggered up the steps and tripped at the top. She caught herself on a knee and forced herself up and inside.

She had been on a train once, as a child. Mother and Father took her to the beach. To her delighted eyes, the train car had been a palace on wheels, even if she realized in hindsight that the velvet seats had been bald in spots like a mangy dog and the brakes had squealed like a pen of hogs.

But in comparison to this place, the train car of her youth had indeed been a palace.

The floor had been stripped down to coarse planks. Ridges of splinters snagged her shoes. Bleak wooden benches sat in rows, many of them already occupied. No seat backs, no comforts. Women laughed and murmured as their cases slid beneath benches. They doffed their hats and smoothed their bound-­up hair. Octavia sat, hatless and conspicuous. She breathed as she did in her Al Cala. It was easier to focus with fewer ­people close by and metal walls separating her from the rest. Her fingers clutched at her satchel as she had desperately clung to Alonzo.

The train lurched forward, steam whistle piercing, the rollicking rhythm of the wheels shuddering through the hard bench.
Where will this train stop? How will I find Alonzo?

“Hey. Who're you?” asked a raspy voice. The woman's face was creased and dented like an apple left to rot in the sunlight. Her body rang out its exhaustion. Hollowness echoed in her abdomen. Somehow, many years ago, she had lost a babe . . . and much more.

“I'm new,” Octavia managed.

“New. New, aye. Nice coat.”

She looked down as if seeing it for the first time. Wasters did know how to dress warmly to survive their godforsaken plains. “Ah, thank you.”

Gnarled fingers plucked at her elbow. “Wool, I think.” The woman bent close to Octavia's chest and breathed in. “Yes, wool.”

Prickles of unease trickled down Octavia's spine.

“Kethan's bastards. Look at that,” said another woman, her body craning around to stare. “What's that cloth there?”

More eyes turned Octavia's way. Another woman leaned over and tugged back Octavia's torn coat to reveal the pristine white of her medician robes. The cloth, which was unrealistically clean despite a week in the wilderness, shimmered with its enchantment.

It made her a gleaming target.

“It's beautiful, like silk.”

“That's a Percival robe!”

“No. It can't be. Here?”

“It is! I swear on King Kethan's tomb! I saw one once. My mum took me—­”

“A medician. A magic user?” Expressions varied from disgust to delight to sly assessment.

Miss Percival had warned Octavia of this very risk, so many times. These Caskentian refugees would tear her apart with their need.

Octavia had a gun but only four bullets. There had to be thirty women crammed into this space, and she didn't want to kill anyone. These women had suffered—­did suffer. She knew their agonies, loud as steam whistles.

The hand stroking the wool of her sleeve gripped it tight instead. Others leaned in, reaching toward her, toward her satchel.

Octavia stood. The motion of the train almost bowled her over. Her calves rocked against the bench to keep her upright.

“I'm terribly sorry, I'm just—­” Octavia began.

“I need a healing. My chest . . . it hurts, I can't breathe—­”
Lung cancer, bronchioles clogged like autumn leaves in a gutter.

“My foot! It—­”
was broken in childhood and set poorly. The bones grind together as if to spark a fire.

“I need a medician! I'm sick.”
The babe is quickening. The woman—­the girl—­is too small, too young. She starves, the babe starves. Together they breathe in the coke from the furnaces. Black nodules already stain and harden her lungs.

Octavia's awareness—­the horror of it—­almost drove her to the floor. These women called to her, and it was as though their bodies, their woes, opened to her like a book. Octavia
knew.

“I can't. I'm sorry!” Too many in need, too few herbs. Only one of her.

The women gathered around her, hunched against benches for balance, a shabby pack of wolves with snarling lips and desperate eyes. They lunged.

Octavia shoved several back. As she spun around, the stick of her parasol thwacked several more. A nose broke, and klaxons of blood began to wail.
Oh Lady. Every train car will be the same. If I jump off—­I can't. I would never find Alonzo again.
She kicked someone's bag aside. An empty space gaped at the back of the room. She kicked away more suitcases as she stumbled that way. Her hand dove into the center of her satchel, to the medician blanket.

Two seconds later, she had the blanket fluffed out. The action surprised the mob. They retreated a few steps and cried out. A honeyflower-­woven circle—­oval, really—­lay flat in the center of the blanket. Octavia threw herself into it, her fingers grazing the golden threads around her.

“Lady!” she cried out.

With an electric snap, the circle flared into existence. The heat of the Lady's scrutiny flashed against her skin, a stark reminder of the chill in the air. The women dove at her and crashed against the invisible barricade of the circle.

“By Allendia's ghost!”

“Magic!”

Howls of frustration filled the train car.

The circle of a medician blanket enabled the Lady's eye to focus on those most in need of healing. For most medicians, that borderline created a sensation akin to walking through a wall of spiderwebs. It helped contain the patient within the circle if they thrashed or convulsed. Octavia, with her unparalleled power, formed something similar to a brick wall. She could cross her circle as she reached for supplies or whatnot, but the patient could not leave until Octavia broke the enchantment.

Octavia cradled her satchel on her lap. Her arms, her body, shivered. Her parasol's staff gouged into her, but she didn't move. She stared at the women feet away, listened to their curses, their profanity.

Miss Percival always warned me and the other girls that if we went out in public in our gear, ­people would riot.

The thought of Miss Percival stung. Her mentor may have sold out Octavia and Mrs. Stout to the Waste, but the woman was still wise. She'd been like a second mother to Octavia for the past ten years. All those nights when the nightmares of her parents' deaths had plagued her, Miss Percival had been there, her presence a balm. Even in recent years in their medical wards at the front, Miss Percival had always avoided giving burn cases to Octavia except as a last resort.

Now, these women—­her own countrywomen—­would burn Octavia alive, if they could. They'd shred her apart with their bare fingers.

Frothy spittle spattered against the invisible wall and rolled down as if on glass. Several women pulled out eating knives and stabbed the barricade. Octavia flinched. Metal met nothingness with a sound like a wrench clanging on dense wood.

She had never known anyone to take shelter within a circle like this.
Another peculiarity for the list. I can float a body within a circle, and guide it beyond. My blood has grown pampria, a temporary version of the Lady's Tree, and vines. I can hear the songs of zymes, those microscopic enigmas that make ­people ill. And now I know the details of a person's health in greater detail than ever before.
She was suddenly so tired. So very tired, and alone.

Lady, watch over Alonzo. Help him to blend in, unlike me. Help us find each other again. Please.

“The circle only starts at the thread, not the edge of the blanket. Look here,” said one of the women. Her hands trembled. At the
Look here,
Octavia gained insight into her body. The sound was dimmed by the circle, but even so, the stranger's blood burbled with too much sugar, as if she were a Frengian maple tree ready to be tapped. The nerves in her hands and feet had atrophied, unable to carry tactile sensations back to the brain.

Octavia clenched her eyes shut, as if she could force away the insight.

Knives tugged and sawed at the white edge of the blanket. She felt the motions, but she also knew that they wouldn't impact the integrity of the circle. Blankets were damaged and frayed in the course of their use, though she had never known anyone to willingly savage one.

It's spite. Pure spite.
Rage wavered through her, hot and cold.

A woman cried out in triumph. “I'll patch my coat with it! The one bit that will never get dirty.” Others laughed and cheered.

Octavia's rage dwindled to pity and numbness. They wanted something of her? Fine. At least it could be of use. “The cloth absorbs blood and other matter.” At her voice, the women grew silent. “Use it to clean up injuries. Use it for your monthly. Don't keep it on open flesh as a bandage, though, or it will absorb too much.”

They murmured at that. “It's a trick!” cried one. “She's trying to poison us.”

“No. I've heard the same about this enchantment they do. It's why the cloth glimmers.”

The knives went to work again. Their anger was gone. Now they worked in eager cooperation, like rag weavers gathered to rend cloth. Octavia bowed forward in the oval into a relaxed Al Cala pose. The satchel slid from her lap and rested like a thick log against her belly.

Unbidden, the image of the Tree flared in her mind's eye. The green branches that extended beyond the clouds as if to support the sky itself. The bark, gnarled, much of it patched in rough lichen. Leaves bobbed and swayed as if to wave in greeting.

The vision of the Tree had been a tremendous comfort since it had first come to her as a teenager. Most medicians experienced it, from her understanding, though it was regarded as a private thing not often discussed. Octavia knew now that this was no mere vision. She saw the Lady as she was, day or night, whatever the weather. Nothing was distinct about the nearby mountains—­though they did not have the sharpness of the Pinnacles—­or the normal forest that existed like moss at the Lady's feet. By some magic, this Tree had been hidden in the Waste for centuries, yet somehow the Wasters had found it. When they held Octavia captive, they had tried to bargain for her cooperation by saying they would take her to the Tree. It had to be done by land, she knew, and the trek was hard. Beyond that, the location was a mystery.