The Shattered Circle

25. Jumping at Shadows

Even under the weakness of Sanctum's cloud-shrouded sun, my apple sapling seemed to thrive. Whether it was the careful tending I gave it or the sweet nothings I whispered to its leaves as I worked around its roots, ever weeding and tending, I could not say. Shira watched me with it on many occasions over the weeks that followed Melody's visit, clearly puzzled by the time and attention I gave to the young tree. Any time I asked her why she frowned so much at my arboreal tending, she would only answer, Never have I seen a lady dirty her own hands with soil.

Swiftly, though, she was coming to understand that I was not, in the strictest sense, the regal figure she had once seen attired in silks and painted like a queen for a party. Even aside from my martial inclinations, I let few inside the Winter Palace give me more than the barest amount of bowing and scraping due.

Out in the Streets of Broken Sky, I knew that Melody worked her own, special variety of magic: people were disappearing and mostly reappearing as she followed various lines of inquiry with ruthless, calculated efficiency. As sweet and pleasant as Melody could be, she had another side, one I knew well: smooth as silk, cold as steel. I imagined that those who did not resurface were among the countless lost to Heca's tender mercies. His Majesty's flenser took her duties as seriously as His sword did.

I knew it would come to a head one way or another. Even with Hallen as a potential ally, the cult of Erelim's followers in the city would become desperate. What I failed to anticipate was how quickly, but then again, I was removed from the noose fastening itself around their necks. Training Shira and my apple tree consumed most of my attention, as well as rekindling the morale and spirits of Hallen's remaining elite troops. Teth kept her spawn as was custom, but the rest had suffered greatly at her hands on half rations and forced marches. I didn't even have the heart to drill them, not while they were regaining their strength inside their section of the barracks alongside my own Red Sashes.

Why do you dote on a little apple tree? Shira finally signed one morning, still attired in the gambeson and sash of a trainee guard. It was safer for her if people glossed over her, unaware of her clerical inclinations. She watched me from the bench nearby as I carefully judged the amount of water in my bucket before starting to water around its roots.

"The rains have been insufficient," I said. My little tree knew it was spring somewhere, growing with surprising speed and vigor now that it was out of its confinement and properly planted in the garden. "It needs about five gallons every week, and we have only had sprinklings here or there. These buds require moisture to produce. Surely you spent at least some time in a garden as part of your cloister."

I heard Shira huff in frustration and looked up again from my work, the faintest hint of a smile on my lips as she scowled. I understand the practical concerns of raising a tree. I do not understand the motivation.

"It was a gift."

The path to the Beloved's heart is through an orchard? Perhaps the Gods of Light should use apple-wood spears.

I grinned at that, even knowing part of the joke was probably meant to be a barb. "A fine jest. Perhaps I should confound you more often."

You are always confounding...and evasive. Why do you not tell me the real reason?

"What difference does it make?" I retorted, carefully allowing the water to absorb on the first pour before I started my second. Only a fool dumped all five gallons at once: I had always learned to halve the measure and go gently around sapling roots.

Before Shira could reply, clearly annoyed, I caught the sound of a falling piece of roof tile just as it collided with the ground beside me.

"Inside. Now." My tone brooked no argument as I straightened. Shira knew better than to disobey, retreating rapidly. I had left Woe sitting beside the bench where she sat, a good twelve feet away. That wasn't close enough, so I grabbed the next best thing: a three-pronged pitchfork from the wheelbarrow beside the roses.