Sacred stone gates, locked permanently open, loom large overhead as Ashti leads her princess into the breach. Having followed a steady flow of traffic down the city’s widest road- walking from one terminus to its opposite- the handmaiden endeavors to appear calm while their group enters through a massive aperture carved into the mountain’s base.

  Here, the crowd condenses. That sudden press of bodies slows them down, but there’s no use bemoaning it. They couldn’t have arrived at any better time; the harvest never abates. For each peasant walking ahead of or behind them, another passes in the opposite direction.

  Every departing sack, basket, vehicle, and pair of arms overflows with produce. A wide and scattered array of freshly harvested vegetables, fruits, aromatics, herbs, and spices slips past on its way to the same temple from which Ashti’s group now flees at a turtle’s pace.

  Perhaps that’s an exaggeration; turtles would be marginally slower. Also, she can’t truly fault the crowd.

  To the greatest extent congestion permits, pedestrians and wagons alike veer aside for the royal retinue. People do their best to make way without any suggestion or command, and the morass repels itself from them without contact, shifting away like lodestone fragments driven before a superior mass. Bowed heads and whispered prayers for good health linger in their wake, though it still takes uncomfortably long to leave anyone behind.

  Ashti glances backwards at the royal palanquin despite knowing there’s nothing she could read on its occupant’s face. Sheer fabric borders the platform, separating it from public scrutiny. A wooden falsemask further conceals the rider’s expression.

  Sensing her handmaiden’s eyes, the princess glances down and conveys her will with a single sign. “Continue.”

  Ashti nods and breaks eye contact to avoid drawing attention from the milling crowd. Before facing forward again, she spares a glance for the other members of her contingent.

  All three of the servants who had accompanied Her Highness inside the temple walk beside her litter now. Two additional men- collected during their departure- haul the thing on wide shoulders.

  Ashti herself carries her own burden, having resumed possession of Blackwing’s confiscated grafts. Kimia’s bodyguard had almost insisted on taking it himself, but she’d successfully convinced the man that his duties require full mobility.

  All the same, he and the princess had both insisted on quickly inspecting the bag’s contents before agreeing to proceed with her plan. No further discussion took place before they hastily fled the temple; hesitation or debate would have cost them precious time and destroyed their initiative. Even now, Ashti wonders how much longer Lady Jaleh will remain distracted speaking to the foreign men.

  With a silent prayer to Mother and Mirror, Ashti begs protection for her lover and invites a long, thoughtful conversation for the matron and her guests. She hopes none amongst her present company are praying for the opposite. A furtive examination of their faces perhaps betrays her worry.

  The princess’s attendants had obligingly held their tongues during a tense departure from the temple and a subsequent, annoyingly slow jaunt down the city’s main avenue. However, with their destination at last drawing near, a member of Kimia’s household staff finally communicates her concern.

  “Are you sure we should do this, my lady?” Wearing a nervous expression, the scribe quickens her step to reach Ashti’s side. “We might hasten the next cycle instead of delaying it.”

  A quick glance towards the palanquin reveals her desire to pose this appeal directly to the princess, but protocol forbids it. Few complaints are permitted to trouble Her Royal Highness without first receiving endorsement from her highest ranking servant. This anxious scribe may have enjoyed a breakdown in command structure while Ashti was away, but now the old rule is back in place.

  Kimia likely saw her message anyway, of course, but they’ll collectively pretend otherwise unless she wishes to intervene.

  For now, Ashti answers on her own. “If we wait, her father or Lady Jaleh will confiscate our offerings to seize control of the matter. Once that happens, they will delay the risk and might never commit to it. This hour is the only window in which the choice belongs to Her Highness alone.”

  “Is it not then our duty to await the word of our king?”

  “We received clear orders from his daughter.” The handmaiden replies with curt motions. “Will you disobey?”

  That rebuke suffices, thankfully, and the scribe falls back with a worried expression. Ashti had considered making an empty threat along the lines of, ‘Shall I show you what my new magic can do?’ as a secondary resort. She’s glad menacing a subordinate wasn’t necessary.

  Luckily, their conversation seems to have resolved before it drew attention from the handful of Select monitoring street traffic from its edges. None of those observers appear to have noticed, or they at least give no overt signs of it. Ashti could check more directly, but she’s wary of drawing their attention by consuming it. The manner in which soulmasks react to her graft remains a mystery at present; for all she knows, they might sense something.

  Regardless, progress into the mountain continues, and their tunnelling road soon terminates at a flat wall of stone. Carved into its floor, a long bank of elevating platforms services the harvest’s constant churn. Two dozen vertical shafts lead down into the mountain’s roots. Half stand empty and dark; wooden platforms fill the remainder.

  Long queues form beside each empty pit while the resting platforms exchange old passengers for new. A constant thrum of conversation and shuffling feet fills the air with such noise that the machines responsible for their presence fall silent by comparison.

  Cylindrical treadmills set into the back wall turn ceaselessly, driven by the endless steps of workers who endlessly climb within their round frames. Internal, looping stairways fall beneath tireless feet; the effort winds thick ropes around broad drums, dragging heavy loads up from shadowy depths.

  Each machine remains in constant use. Stations not actively disgorging or admitting passengers rise and fall at walking pace. Ashti identifies a chute that seems likely to bring its latest passengers up shortly and leads her group to stand before it.

  The workers arranged in line ahead of them make way without complaint, bowing their heads as they step aside. Ashti makes a point of meeting their lowered eyes and thanking them- a ‘needless’ courtesy she’d extended intermittently before but which she now feels compelled to uphold in perpetuity.

  She imagines Lamp would be pleased with her conduct, and in this specific respect she’d very much like him to be. Whatever worth one may or may not find in pedigree, surely no value exists in condescension. He’d reminded her of that without meaning to.

  Renewed generosity of spirit aside, however, she will continue taking full advantage of her superior station while it benefits her cause. As much as she’d like to conduct herself in a manner that proves the merits of her rank to outside observers like Lamp and Blackwing, now is not the time to challenge hierarchy. Besides which, Ashti did not come here alone. Perhaps the humble ex-priest and his magnanimous merchant prince would choose to wait in line, but Her Royal Highness cannot be expected to, so they will carry on skipping to the front.

  Their group pulls to a stop directly before her chosen shaft, and soon after the expected platform rises into view. Its startled occupants hurriedly disembark upon sight of the princess, and Ashti thanks them repeatedly for their alacrity as they stream past. In their agitated hurry, only one of them seems to recognize her in time to properly reply with a “my lady.”

  To the rest, she must seem quite an oddity. The silver feathers glinting under her skin, eyes like two unpolished mirrors, and foreign garb all deviate quite sharply from the image she’d possessed before she disappeared. It’s a wonder anyone realized her station. Had she not walked before the princess, perhaps even that sharp eyed farmer would have failed to notice.

  Once finished depositing grafts, she needs to both arrange a bath and reclaim her clothes. The garments are surely where she’d left them, given that Kimia and her own parents all refused to accept her death. Still, a minor anxiety over her wardrobe’s disposition adds itself to a pile of distant worries shoved into the back of her mind. For now, though, it doesn’t matter.

  Once the last passenger makes way, Ashti leads her lady’s palanquin onto the awaiting platform. Aside from Her Highness’s own attendants, none of the queuing workers follow after. A small corner of her mind regrets that inefficiency of wasted space, but she’s more so glad to receive a moment of privacy.

  Their trip down will give the others- Kimia principally- time to voice whatever questions they’d held in reserve amongst the public’s ears. Ashti needs to answer those concerns before they reach Growth, lest her momentum needlessly flags at the final moment.

  The elevator begins to drop with a slight shudder, and their platform slowly descends. From the plodding pace of it, Ashti almost feels as though she’s falling in syrup. That ‘viscous’ fall heightens her anxiety. She wonders how much more time they have left before their departure is discovered. Post that, how much time will remain before they’re caught?

  Ashti tries to reason her way into a state of calm. She feels confident in assuming that Lady Jaleh won’t employ her magic to cross the city after she uncovers their subterfuge. Such a desperate display would risk spreading panic, especially when everyone’s still reeling from Manslaughter’s rampage and the temple fire. However, when the old dame reaches the top of their shaft, she’ll have little cause for continued restraint.

  Ashti raises her head to watch the rim of the chute as it rises above her head. Darkly, she imagines swarming ropes spilling over its edge like a flood of snakes to entangle and seize her limbs. The handmaiden has no idea of Jaleh’s maximum effective range, but it must measure among the greatest in their kingdom. How far would they need to drop before her jinni loses animus? Is the whole descent enough?

  A moment later, Kimia’s voice breaks Ashti from her worries. The attentive handmaiden quickly turns to face the palanquin and meets her lover’s eyes. As ever, she can read nothing of the woman’s expression beneath her mask. The falsemask itself appears serene, which is at least a decent sign.

  “Answer in full honesty.” The princess entreats gently. “Do you believe this course of action serves the interests of our kingdom?”

  Disliking this angle, Ashti deflects. “Are your interests not the kingdom’s?”

  “You know quite well that they are not.”

  “Then which should I place first?”

  “How is that a question?” Her Highness lets a trace of exasperation slip through.

  “How is it not?” The handmaiden answers with calm defiance.

  Kimia sighs. “Issue by issue, then. I have concerns; my first regards the ethics of using human body parts as fertilizer.”

  Ashti nods in recognition of a strong point. “The outlanders themselves proposed it. Sir Lamphand, specifically, was the architect of this plan. He convinced Lord Blackwing and your aunt- who is alive and thriving, by the way- to seize the material from a group of bandits who were themselves harvesting grafts- grafts are what they call their magical limbs- to sell for profit. Every grafted person who expressed an informed opinion on this matter agreed that our purpose is a better use for them.”

  “My aunt… No. Later.” The princess takes a further moment to absorb Ashti’s words before asking. “Why does a market exist for stolen grafts?”

  The handmaiden replies via signs to restrict her audience to its smallest extent. “Because they can be transferred between bodies. New grafts increase their host’s capacity to store magic. That is why we believe they may serve to buttress Growth.”

  Kimia sits back to ponder that revelation before shaking her head and resuming their argument. “The grafted ones who accompanied you may have agreed to this use of their dead, but what of their society at large? What will the rest of their people think of us when they discover what we’ve done?”

  “I discussed this matter extensively with Lamphand. He describes grafts as merely the implements left behind after death. Whenever a graft is stolen from its owner, the grave sin of that action is in the murder and mutilation, not in the loss of material. Besides which, there is no guarantee that their ‘side’ will ever learn what we did. Lord Blackwing hides our existence from his people, and I greatly doubt anyone will stumble across his portal by chance.”

  “We cannot expect secrecy to last forever. Confessions will need to be made at some point, and perhaps reparations with them.”

  Ashti shakes her head. “Lord Blackwing and Lady Clearheart- your aunt’s pseudonym- slaughtered a violent gang responsible for graft thefts throughout a major city. Announcement of their elimination prompted city-wide celebrations. If that grateful population ever uncovers our true motives, we can justifiably claim that fair compensation was provided in the form of retribution and safety.”

  “Would they have made that trade knowingly?”

  “I have no idea. Lamphand can tell us afterwards.”

  “I see.” The princess pauses for several seconds before glancing over Ashti’s shoulder at the top of her pack. “How many people are in that bag?”

  “Around twenty.” She shifts their weight uncomfortably.

  Kimia nods and comments somberly. “They did not choose to become part of this.”

  “Neither did you.” They’ve come to the crux of it now. Ashti draws a deep breath before beginning her plea. “Highness, your life is worth living. Not only the seven remaining years allotted to you by Judgement, but the full, gods-given expanse. You have a future again- for the first time since you were old enough to understand your duties. Please try to envision it. See yourself passing through the years with a loving partner at your side. See yourself growing old and happy, raising daughters who never need to fear the fate we conquered on this day. You can build new traditions for them. You can make their world better.”

  The handmaiden pauses on that hopeful message. If she can’t convince the princess to accept this course, then she has little hope of persuading her to abduct her aunt as a backup. But that’s a later concern. For now, Ashti silently awaits Kimia’s response.

  Wood creaks beneath their feet as the platform steadily descends. An incomprehensible buzz of overlapping conversations echoes downwards from the shaft’s receding entrance as it vanishes increasingly high above. At length, Her Highness answers.

  “Understand- if this venture fails catastrophically and we damage the icon, I will simply assume my duty as the next host earlier than planned. The life most immediately at stake is my own. I feel prepared for that risk. Are you?”

  Ashti bites her tongue, fighting the urge to claim they do have other options. She could make further arguments- could repeat Clearheart’s prevarications of importing light and food. Those plans might even be feasible now that Blackwing can open portals at will. The price, however, likely remains untenable.

  Looking up imploringly at her mistress, Ashti decides to pass the doomed plans along regardless of their likelihood. Kimia can freely choose whichever path she thinks best.

  With a deep breath, the handmaiden begins. “When I spoke with your aunt, she proposed several alternate methods of saving your life. The most promising suggestion was forcing Judgement to accept a different host for Growth. Success cannot be guaranteed in advance, but I believe it would be feasible.”

  Kimia’s fingers tighten on the ends of her armrests the moment Ashti suggests passing her sacred duty onto another. Her Highness clearly didn’t like that prospect. The handmaiden forges onward before any objections can be voiced.

  “You have numerous decently-close female relatives without soulmasks who might volunteer as an emergency replacement in the event you could not be reached. For that matter, perhaps a man could assume the duty for once.

  “Short of that, Lady Clearheart also proposed importing light-binders from her realm to grow our crops. During the meeting, I argued that our three month interstices rendered her scheme unworkable. However, we have since learned the gate can be forced open outside its usual cycle, so it might be feasible. As for Lord Blackwing’s compensation, my family could open our silver mines to the outlanders. He can send laborers to harvest our excess.”

  Kimia considers briefly, then taps a finger to her wooden chin. “Have you discussed logistics with him? How many foreign workers would we admit? How do we even begin to calculate the quantity of light required?”

  “I could not say. If it proves untenable, we can just buy the food directly.”

  “At what price?”

  Ashti doesn’t answer. She hardly needs to. They both know.

  Too much.

  Ever lower creeps the elevator as time drags on. They must be more than halfway down by now. Glancing up, Ashti confirms that Jaleh hasn’t arrived yet, though it’s still possible she slithered through a different hole and they’ll find her waiting at the bottom in disapproving repose. That sort of melodrama would suit the old woman perfectly.

  “Lower me.”

  A soft voice drags Ashti’s attention back to the palanquin, though she quickly realizes no words were directed at her. She watches as Kimia’s porters gently set her litter down upon the floor. The young woman steps out with their assistance moments later, carefully balancing her hat with one hand and minutely rocking the wide platform on her exit.

  Stepping forward with the aid of her cane, she closes the distance between herself and Ashti, then reaches up to unhook her mask. The remainder of their party hurriedly looks away as Kimia reveals her bare, conflicted face.

  “Why do this?” The princess asks as her arm drops to her side. “I have my own reasons, but what are yours?”

  Ashti stares at her partner aghast before repeating Kimia’s own words from minutes earlier. “How is that a question?”

  “I did not intend to impugn your love or devotion.” The woman leans closer, dropping her voice. “In fact, your fervor troubles me. You seem to value my life alone above all others in the kingdom. Are you truly so selfish as to place one personal relationship above our people’s common welfare?”

  “I would not characterize my actions along that dichotomy, but… yes.” The answer comes with surprising ease. “In this instance, I will put you first.”

  Kimia twitches, startled by the flat confidence with which Ashti stated her unthinkable position. Frankly, it’s not an admission she would have made two weeks ago- not even to herself. Drawing a deep breath for courage, she explains.

  “In the months before I made my crossing, I spent hours agonizing over the morality of forcing your aunt to return to our kingdom against her will- which was my original plan, by the way- and hours more fretting about the burden my actions might place upon my own family. None of that stopped me from enacting my plans.

  “Later, when Lamphand proposed our workaround and Lady Clearheart’s mercenaries went off to kill strangers on my behalf, I struggled all through that night with the realization that I had instigated the very sort of barbarous violence our aristocracy exists to prevent. When all was done, I spent the following day worrying whether we had committed a grave sin by slaughtering those bandits just to pilfer butchered human remains from their coffers. Lamp eventually talked me around to the justice of our cause, but I was hoping he would when I raised the subject.

  “Lastly, when my male companions offered to traverse the Women’s Highway and brave the domains of Manslaughter and Heartbreak in sequence, I allowed them to face that peril with barely any protest. I told myself they would be safe- that the icons could be avoided and handled- simply because I wanted to arrive here unannounced. As the daughter of a great house, I discarded all training and natural sense to delude myself into thinking demigods could be disregarded.”

  She lowers her head and murmurs, half-bashful and half-defiant. “What I have learned of myself- what I have come to accept- is that in all cases of doubt, I will eventually justify and affirm whatever course is required to achieve my goals. No matter what dilemmas I encounter in this quest, no matter how many leaps of logic or self-deceptions are required, I will eventually convince myself that the best path forward is the one I wanted to follow anyway.”

  She looks up to meet Kimia’s eyes. “Given enough time to talk myself into it, I think I would do anything for you.”

  Another lengthy pause overtakes them, silent but for the rustling of ropes and the soft whispers of displaced air. Their subordinates hold still and soundless while the princess searches Ashti’s silver eyes with her own. Faint sounds of labor and constant traffic gradually filter upwards from below, heralding an encroaching end to their painfully slow descent.

  Eventually, Kimia mutters. “Those reckless words bode ill for both of us, little owl. That your sentiments so greatly exceed your oaths warms my heart, but I have no wish to make myself an object of singular obsession. Live first for the gods, then for our kingdom, then for your house, then for yourself, and lastly for me. Please.”

  The handmaiden shakes her head without shame. “No matter what you wish, I cannot place you behind all else. Even if you ordered me away, I would only leave for your own sake. My gods, kingdom, and house will manage well enough without my aid, but you… you are the only one who needs me.”

  She raises her chin. “And to paraphrase my foreign friends, ‘if the gods desire that I change my course, they can very well descend to make their preference known.’ Barring divine revelation, I will do as I see fit.”

  Kimia sighs softly, her eyes sympathetic and her mouth visibly confused on whether to smile or frown. She simply replies. “Madness.”

  From behind her, the secretary meekly buts in. “Perhaps if Lady Ashti is not well…” Her voice grows weaker as the noblewoman in question turns to regard her. “You might…” She bows her head and mumbles to the floor. “Reconsider.”

  “I have.” The princess answers without turning back. “But we proceed regardless.”

  Lifting her mask back towards her face, she meets Ashti’s eyes with measured concern and mutters. “Lest you grow too flippant, it behooves you to recall that the gods sometimes communicate their displeasure through mass hardship.”

  “I think it behooves me more to not remember that, actually.”

  Kimia smiles softly and hooks her falsemask back in place. As it settles, the base of their elevating platform drops below the upper lip of an exit tunnel. Green light slips through the gap, lending subtle colors to the seven bodies aboard the lift. Turning away, Her Highness regards her lavish palanquin as its porters bend to take it up. She forestalls them with a gentle wave.

  “I prefer to walk from here.” She remarks lightly. “Depending on our course, that thing might impede our progress more than it aids us. Please find an unobtrusive location near the cavern’s edge in which to keep it.”

  Her men nod in agreement, then the lot of them turn towards the elevator’s exit as its natural stone floor enters view. Ashti steps next to her lover’s side and offers her arm for added support. The woman accepts her gesture with easy familiarity, and they wait together until the sound of wooden treads settling against rock announces their arrival.

  Kimia steps forwards immediately, setting a brisk pace which Ashti seamlessly matches. As one, they glide into a short, wide hallway- the end of which yawns wide only twenty paces farther ahead. Just beyond that aperture, a few dozen crop-laden farmers wait their turn to board. The small crowd retreats before their princess amidst a flurry of surprised whispers as she abruptly advances from dim confinement into a bright, open space.

  At the tunnel’s mouth, pale stone gives way to a bed of black sand. Kimia crosses that boundary with projected confidence but leans more heavily against Ashti as their footing destabilizes. Both of them speak passing apologies and express their thanks to the disturbed group of farmers as their contingent breaks through to its far side.

  The tall-ceilinged space beyond stretches outwards for more than half of the godsmount’s full aboveground width. Flickering verdigreen radiance bounces from its white stone walls and concave roof to infuse the room with holy presence. That vibrant glow emanates from ten discrete points.

  Five crude obelisks of rough gray metal encircle the grove at widely-spaced intervals while five others pierce the ceiling in an offset pattern. Their material- harvested in single chunks from inert sections of the world-tile’s ceiling- reflects Growth’s authority into visible light. All ten spires burn like bonfires to illuminate the room around them.

  Guided by that light, the handmaiden releases a pent-up sigh of relief as her eyes finally land upon the city’s garden. She pans her vision from end-to-end and happily finds no sign of Jaleh. For now, it seems they’re still ahead of pursuit.

  Relaxing her shoulders and rolling her neck, Ashti allows a moment to appreciate the beauty before her. While the icon itself isn’t presently visible from their entry point, its handiwork covers every inch of the dome-roofed cave.

  Fresh crops grow in dense, fertile ribbons. Twisting lines of edible plants interchange and mingle in random, interwoven strands. Nothing grows in neatly tilled lines. The layout, such as one exists, reminds her more strongly of loose scribbles doodled by bored children. Either that, or a mad brawl of twenty scattered armies.

  Nearby to her left, a tightly-packed charge of cucumbers overpowers and breaches a shield wall of wheat before breaking against an allied fortress of rose bushes just beyond its flank. To the right, beleaguered watermelons stand guard above a cowering throng of mushrooms whilst fennel stems pace threateningly around the fraying edge of their imperiled territory. Directly ahead, a dense orchard of apple trees lend their hearty trunks to vagrant grape vines but deny that same privilege to the honeysuckle carpet clutching at their roots in supplication.

  All of it- from cabbages, to onions, to rosemary bushes- sprouts directly from dry sand. Nothing further is required for life to thrive in this miraculous space. The icon borrows neither nutrients nor water to produce its bounty, conjuring substance directly from the divine realm of chaos.

  The still air bursts with pleasant odors of rich soil and fresh dew despite neither substance having any presence within Growth’s cave. Moist earthen fragrance hangs heavy in the windless air, so heady and potent it almost smothers lighter scents from vegetables and flowers.

  Of course, as much as Ashti enjoys the garden, nothing about it serves an ornamental purpose. All around them, busy workers watch their crops attentively, waiting for a suitable time to harvest the rapidly growing vegetation. Several peasants already move amongst the fastest maturing plants, plucking up and slicing off whatever portions appear fit for consumption. After each cut, new growth immediately sprouts from the injured mass. Judging by its slow rate, these nearby plants may only have one round to go before they finally stop producing.

  The handmaiden smiles in a slightly vindictive manner as she imagines Lamp stumbling into this constantly rejuvenating grove whilst his knowing expression slowly transforms into a state of stupefied awe. Ashti hopes she gets to witness that moment. It would make a satisfying and harmless form of payback; let the braggart see how silly he feels for gawking at a bunch of trees.

  Her group doesn’t have the luxury of waiting on him, however, so she proceeds forward on her partner’s arm as the princess charts a course through the most yielding crop arrayed ahead of them. Stepping carefully to avoid hidden roots, they march along a fuzzy yellow path of wheat as it skirts the little apple orchard.

  Her Highness’s servants trail closely, including the two men carrying an empty palanquin who were supposed to linger behind by the wall. Kimia surely notices their disobedience straight away, but she neglects to send them off again. The pair will remain close at hand, then, ready to resume their work if the princess’s damaged body proves unequal to her resolve.

  Actually, it would probably be faster to let them carry her now, but Ashti keeps that thought to herself. She recognizes the symbolic- perhaps even ritualistic- importance of completing their trek through the garden on foot. So long as Kimia permits herself to lean on someone’s arm, her handmaiden won’t complain.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Still, any loss of speed promotes feelings of anxiety, so Ashti rationalizes an excuse. She tells herself not to worry about their eroding lead because they’ve already come far enough to gain a superior advantage beyond it. Should Lady Jaleh arrive before they reach the icon, they can pressure her to bend beneath the public’s eyes.

  Foiling their attempt while they stand at Growth’s feet would appear more cruel than simply confiscating their grafts inside the temple or even arresting them on the street above. Jaleh’s already lost her opportunity to resolve this matter discretely. If she interferes now, the whole city will soon learn of it and will judge the manner in which it happened. Ashti can use that outcome as a threat so long as she chooses her words and actions carefully.

  Even with a backup plan, however, she’d much rather reach the icon before they’re caught. Her hopes rise as their group clears its initial woodland obstacle, but their target fails to appear on its far side. Kimia pauses there and directs her entourage to locate signs of Growth’s most recent path.

  Ashti dutifully surveys the land. All around them, teams of workers follow discrete trails of a single crop, harvesting each band in its entirety before returning to the entrance of the cavern to load their produce onto the lifts. Some groups sing as they harvest. Most work silently.

  Disregarding them, she turns her eyes further outward in search of motion. As an afterthought, she also activates her graft and siphons loose attention from the air like a dog lifting its nose for a deep sniff. That additional sense immediately proves its value. Almost due right, she detects a buzzing swarm of highly focused thoughts uniformly directed towards a common subject.

  The collected sentiment feels slippery beneath her magic. Not only does it fall outside her comfortable range, but she has a harder time consuming attention that isn’t directed at herself. Still, even without a firm grip, she can sense the mingled consciousnesses simmering from far away.

  Glancing back at her partner, Ashti finds Kimia already looking in the same direction- the princess clearly noticed when her handmaiden found something. Their eyes meet, and Ashti simply nods. Then Her Highness starts forward in the orientation towards which the feathered graft had been drawn.

  Together they cross scrambled farm plots, skirting around clustered trees and overgrown brush while mercilessly trampling shorter plants. Whenever possible, they chart a path through areas already harvested clean or- better yet- follow barren strands devoid of vegetation.

  Their transit through the cavern draws repeated scrutiny, but no one interferes with or questions the princess’s strange business. Kimia might not be free to roam wherever she wishes within the broader kingdom, but she stands above the reproach and authority of everyone currently within eyeshot.

  And that group extends beyond just farmers.

  As they hike across a field of chamomile daisies, a small flock of songbirds suddenly passes overhead before wheeling off again in a flurry of flapping wings. Ashti glances up to follow their progress down an empty ditch of sand which veers away towards the cavern’s dark and barren core. That impressively long dead-zone seems not to lead anywhere significant, however, and the birds depart from it after traveling perhaps a hundred feet.

  Those small, brightly feathered creatures aren’t true animals, of course, but rather a singular jinni divided amongst many coordinated bodies. Their winding flight pattern almost seems natural, but the meandering path they take between clustered workers hints at their true purpose: surveillance.

  A consistent watch needs to be maintained throughout the grove. While it makes little difference to the city if a farmhand steals a few carrots, rarer crops push through the sand upon occasion, and illicit markets always absorb whatever the temple fails to locate first.

  Therefore, even with the birds departed, other observers surely remain behind. Ashti finds the next one soon enough, spying a doe and fawn peaking out between the gnarled and diverging trunks of a coppiced olive tree. Closer examination reveals them as a pair of stone statues conjoined at their hooves to a heavy slab. Dense mats of moss and lichen hide their roughly carved features, though their eyeless heads slowly swivel as if able to see.

  On a whim, Ashti tries to siphon attentional energy from the two creatures. Shockingly, the attempt succeeds. Though her graft takes nothing from the motivating jinni itself, she vaguely senses the unseen Select watching through its eyes. That remote presence thankfully doesn’t seem to notice Ashti’s interference and only briefly glances at the princess’s cohort before returning its attention to the fields.

  As the doe turns away, Her Highness draws Ashti’s attention back to more pressing matters with a soft whisper. “Your pack… Is that all you brought.”

  Wary of gawking laborers and spying beasts alike, the handmaiden lowers her tone as well. “No.”

  “You said twenty. Twenty of how many?”

  Their weight settles on her back as she answers silently. “Hundreds. Some much larger than what I carry.”

  “You left the others at the gate?” The princess signs with one hand, using the arm intertwined with Ashti’s.

  “Yes.”

  “House Courage has them by now.”

  The handmaiden nods. Kimia returns her gesture, then murmurs. “With so many remaining, this is only the first treatment. We have taken a measured approach.”

  “Yes.” Ashti chooses not to challenge the ambiguous veracity of that statement. She’s not certain her partner fully believes it either, but the assertion remains unquestioned between them.

  Looking away, the handmaiden consumes another sample of ambient attention to confirm their quarry’s general location; the ‘sniff’ tells her exactly what it did before, which bodes well. While staring ahead, she notices rustling branches in the canopy of a nearby cherry orchard. That shaking motions result from harvesters rather than the icon itself, but such high activity suggests a freshly grown supply of fruit.

  Indeed, worker concentration rises higher as they near the end of their current prairie. Flowers on the field’s far edge sprout almost as quickly as they can be plucked, keeping the peasants’ fingers in constant motion. That rapid fecundity proves they’ve drawn quite close to Growth.

  They’ve almost arrived, and there’s still no sign of Lady Jaleh.

  What should have been a happy thought sends an inexplicable chill down Ashti’s spine. Suddenly nervous, she glances back over her shoulder towards the elevator bank, only to find that dense foliage now occludes her view of the lifts. Baghdokhtaran’s cantankerous ruler might be stepping out of a tunnel this very moment for all that she can tell, but at least the woman hasn’t yet progressed inside the grove itself.

  “Praise Wayward.” The handmaiden mutters. “May his favor hold.”

  She shakes her head and refocuses her attention forward as their retinue passes beyond an outlier cherry tree. Peering ahead into the orchard’s deep shadows, she examines the constant cycle of work occurring around their trunks.

  Small groups tie ropes above the tree’s lowest branches. Two or three teams affix themselves to each host in this manner before commencing a violent game of tug-of-war. With collaborative timing, they shake each tree hither and fro to jostle fruit off the branches above. Other workers stand between them to catch the falling bounty in their tarps.

  Idly- almost against her will- Ashti considers whether vibration-binders from Lamp’s homeland could complete this work more effectively than her nation’s peasants. She’s not certain what she would do with that knowledge herself, but Lord Blackwing will surely reach the same conclusion once he arrives, and he will doubtless identify hundreds of other applications for graft magic within the kingdom’s economy.

  Interesting times lie ahead, but the gods will see them through. Failing that, Ashti will see Kimia through.

  On that resolution, she and her partner exit the flower field and stride under the heavily laden cherry boughs. Together, they drive a path between coordinated teams of farmhands, interrupting several busy tree shakers and forcing aside fruit collectors clutching heavy sacks with stained fingers. Ashti murmurs apologies for every inconvenience but never slows.

  Although dark shadows lay across their path, nothing impedes the couple physically. Each person they encounter obligingly steps aside, so it takes little time before they finally reach a clearing on the orchard’s terminus. There, at last, they behold the icon.

  Growth looks roughly as Ashti remembers, though its appearance changes significantly between each visit. Today, it rises to the average height of neighboring trees; from a distance and for an instant, it resembles them quite strongly. The illusion breaks after a second of observation.

  Cherry leaves of the proper shape and color fill abundant branches sprouting from its obscured head and torso. New buds emerge and open even as the old foliage yellows and falls. Beneath the icon’s constantly refreshing green crown, pale branches lacking bark or visible grain lead back into a deformed body. Two long arms wrapped around its trunk gradually sink into the wood as they fall beneath Growth’s lowest boughs.

  Green stalks sprout chaotically from its rootbound feet, heralding the next crop to be born from its passage. Indeed, similar plants rise already from its dragging footprints; they will spread swiftly from those depressions.

  Vines entangle and support its left leg; wooden cords contract and extend like muscle and tendon. Here too, the cycle of death and rebirth plays out. Wilting matter separates from the appendage in a constant rain of detritus, only to be instantly replaced by new fibrous lines sprouting from the ground and winding towards its hip to replace everything that falls.

  As for the icon’s other side, its right leg splits at its shin. One trunk rises toward the icon’s body while the second stretches in its own direction. Judging by the development of its bark and the eagerness of its digging roots, the offshoot should soon entrench itself into the sand and separate from its host, leaving another full grown tree in the icon’s path. For now, it drags behind unwillingly.

  Plodding steps carry the monster inches forward every second. Once freed from the sprouting tree, it should move slightly faster, but even then it will take weeks to reach the cavern’s opposite side. Harvesters coming down from the Red Watch will have a long walk ahead of them in the meantime.

  Under the icon’s ever-changing exterior- hidden beneath its endlessly replenishing outer shell of life- a vaguely feminine shape strides and stares forward with apparent determination. Peering closer, the handmaiden confirms that its slow degradation hasn’t significantly progressed since her last visit. From across the clearing, she identifies no permanently withered stems, clinging yellow leaves, or misshapen fruit. No large cracks or cancerous burls.

  Growth still appears in near-perfect health. One might even assume from its activity that nothing is wrong yet, but Ashti knows the statistics. Nearly a fiftieth of the icon’s produce can no longer be consumed. Nearly a fifth lacks the visual appeal required for noble tables. Those proportions will only grow as time passes.

  Swallowing her sudden nerves, the handmaiden attempts to move forward, but Kimia tugs at her arm before she completes a single step. Pulled backwards, she meets her partner’s eyes with confusion and concern.

  “Indulge me for a moment, please.” The princess softly requests.

  “Of course.”

  Kimia nods. “If I decided in this moment that I wish to stop, would you fully relent? Would you abandon your plans forever and resign yourself to the fate I had chosen?”

  “Yes.” Ashti straightens and tries to hold the hurt out of her voice. “We proceed however you wish, and only if you wish.”

  “Thank you.”

  For a moment, Ashti dares to hope that quandary was their only holdup, but the princess prolongs her delay. Glancing back at the icon, she considers it briefly before speaking.

  “Does that thing seem serene to you?” Her question reveals itself as rhetorical when she continues. “I often tried to perceive it as peaceful. Each time I visited, I sought to convince myself that a mind fully absorbed by the contemplation of thriving plants must exist in a state of constant bliss. Despite my efforts, I could not help but notice how Growth never seems to appreciate anything it makes- how it pays no heed to the farmers working in its wake. That apathy disturbs me more than any other aspect.”

  She shudders. “To be the lifebringer of my kingdom while never thinking of its welfare- to spend every second toiling while I care nothing for my work… There is an emptiness within this creature which has always terrified me. I can admit to it, now that there is hope of escape. If I had waited to speak and our efforts fail, those cowardly words would have died with me.”

  Her Highness falls silent, but despite her brave admission reaching its final words, she still doesn’t move forward. Ashti squeezes her arm and whispers encouragement, desperate not to stumble at this final hurdle.

  “For your life. For the lives of every royal daughter who follows you. For the proof that ill fates can be overcome. For the sake of sculpting a society in which self-sacrifice is no longer viewed as the height of feminine virtue. For the opportunity to bring simple good into this world. For all of those who love you. For me.”

  Her voice almost breaks at the end, forcing her to stop. Slowly, the princess extracts her arm from Ashti’s and raises a hand to cup the handmaiden’s face. For a breathless moment, Ashti hopes to hear her lover say, “for you,” but those words never come.

  Instead, another voice interrupts from behind as the princess’s secretary objects with greater boldness than she’d managed aboard the lift. Her tone conveys calm sensibility as she speaks poison. “Is it not better to wait, Your Highness? We could attempt this experiment more safely with Judgement in attendance.”

  Kimia turns slightly to answer with a level tone. “Perhaps, but I suspect we can trust Growth to reject any substance which is harmful to it. Even if not, I doubt our sacrificial material could unleash such rapid destruction that the icon perishes before my father arrives.”

  Nodding, Ashti interjects. “We can start with a small one and observe its effects.”

  The secretary purses her lips in response, uncomfortable to be losing ground but unwilling to relinquish her cause just yet. With a steadying breath, she attempts another argument. “Your Highness, please think of the consequences for your House’s reputation-”

  The princess raises her free hand to stop that sentence before it concludes.

  “This point works against you more than any other.” She softly reprimands. “In fact, it touches upon the very reason I chose to come here straight away without consulting Lady Jaleh. I was not seduced by the arguments we heard along our route or driven blindly by thoughtless self-preservation.

  “My logic is simple. When Lady Ashti takes her pleas to my father, he will agree to her proposal before she can deliver half the speech. Of that, I have full confidence. No matter what you, Jaleh, or any other doubtful voices say, he will seek to save me. The only one who could stop him is myself, but when he asks me whether I want this, I will be unable to lie.”

  Turning forward, she strides into the clearing at last, raising her voice and driving her cane into the sand with every step. “ For the past two years since Lord Blackwing’s appearance, my house has suffered an onslaught of murmured rumors blaming Grandfather for my aunt’s escape. I will not allow our court to turn their mockery upon my father next. Whatever comes, he deserves to be remembered as a good king. If harm is borne from this action, I will take the blame. If there is shame in store, history will lay it upon my shoulders alone.”

  Hurrying to keep apace, Ashti struggles with a sudden feeling of guilt. “I never meant to compel you. If you only want this for another’s sake-”

  Kimia interrupts with a shake of her head. “You opened a pathway I was bound to follow. The choice between caution and risk is now my own, and I choose to gamble. You forced me into nothing.”

  She carries forward without Ashti’s support until they reach the icon’s base. Workers scurry aside to give Kimia space as she carefully maneuvers over its trailing roots and tramples the delicate green shoots rising beneath her own feet. Now that they’re among the new plants, Ashti identifies them as flax.

  Kimia marches up to Growth’s right leg and lays a hand upon its bark. In a whisper, she greets her great aunt by name. Ashti pretends not to hear the breach of protocol, as does anyone else within earshot.

  Recognizing her moment, the handmaiden shrugs off her heavy pack and tenderly sets down her collected grafts at the icon’s feet. She and Kimia crouch down to remove its cover and reveal the carefully swaddled bundles within. One item sits prominently atop the others- having been briefly extracted during Ashti’s hurried explanation at the temple and not fully inserted back into place afterwards.

  Shaped like an eye, it blankly stares at them from atop its cushioning. Kimia gingerly reaches forward and plucks it up, turning the delicate object between her fingers to examine it. Even in the cave’s flickering green light, the eyeball graft appears dark violet in color. Ashti recognizes its glasslike composition as a feature common to light-binders.

  It would resemble a conventional prosthetic if not for the long nerve ending protruding from its back. Jagged fractures in that branching structure show where fragile ends broke off, but the greater portion which remains still retains its luster. The graft lives.

  The princess lifts that glass eye to her mask’s painted lips and whispers through the wood. “Whoever you were, you were beautiful. Thank you.”

  Then she raises her head and prays. “Regent forgive me if this is wrong. Mother keep my people safe regardless of the outcome. Mirror grant me peace within my soul.”

  With no further delay, she inserts the graft between two of Growth’s traveling roots before quickly extracting her hand. The sinuous wood creeps forward over the cavity, sealing it shut in the course of its motion. Brimming with anticipation, Kimia and her retinue wait silently for several moments as they carefully watch the icon for any sign of effect. To Ashti’s eye, nothing changes for better or worse.

  “We need more.” The handmaiden prompts. “Should I feed it another?”

  The princess nods, so Ashti digs a man’s jawbone from her pack. Its structure resembles heavily-patinated copper by both sight and texture, but it feels too light and warm within her hands to be mistaken for true metal. With careful reverence, she deposits it inside another gap within the icon’s crawling base. This time, Growth seems to pull its roots slightly aside to accept the donation.

  That reaction seems to her a positive sign. Desiring further confirmation, she glances around at the spread of vegetation. Nothing looks amiss. Flax stems push up from the black sand in a widening radius around the icon, giving testament to its continued health. The mild discomfort they cause by poking into Ashti’s legs seems a fair enough trade for that signifier.

  Kimia must see the same details since she doesn’t call for Ashti to stop, so the handmaiden frees another graft from her bag and buries it between the roots. A fourth graft swiftly follows, then a fifth. Growth continues moving away from them even as it accepts each offering, soon requiring the pair to reposition.

  The princess remains close at Ashti’s side as she works. After the sixth deposit, Her Highness begins to recite an excerpt of a prayer that was last spoken for her grand aunt’s funeral. Neither young woman was yet born on that day, but both know the litany well. This same prayer is repeated for every royal daughter committed to the icon; it was expected to be said for the next sacrifice as well.

  “We commit your body to the earth as your soul rises beyond mortal woes. Follow Wayward’s path onto eternal rest. The sacred gifts you bestowed upon us will never be forgotten. Your sacrifice we shall honor unto the end of our days. Your memory we shall cherish forever.”

  She repeats those words each time they conclude, leaving out longer sections of the prayer specific to her lineage.

  As their feeding progresses, Growth becomes increasingly reactive. Its slow-moving roots begin to actively wrap around the magical organs and pull them under the sand. Ashti glances up periodically for any signs of change to the greater icon. It seems that fewer sections of its body wither with every passing moment, though the difference is subtle enough she’s not certain she didn’t imagine it.

  Still, the absence of negative consequence spurs her onwards, and within minutes, she’s turned out the entire contents of her pack.

  By this point, Growth’s roots have begun reaching out towards Ashti’s bag in anticipation of further nutrients. She hefts up the empty container and turns its opening towards the creeping tendrils as if to show them that nothing else remains. Undeterred, they continue their slow advance.

  With a belated spike of panic, Ashti realizes that the same fertilizer she just fed to a hungry monster is also embedded into her own skull. The icon’s probably trying to eat her. Suitably terrified, she hurriedly scrambles backwards and retreats to what feels like a safe distance.

  Thankfully, the icon doesn’t pursue; its trajectory and the angle of its body remain as they were. Ashti releases a relieved sigh before eyeing the surrounding foliage with increased wariness.

  Perhaps sensing her unease, Kimia takes the girl’s hand and leads her further away under the cherry orchard. Once there, the princess turns, steps closer, and bows slightly to gently tap her wooden brow against Ashti’s feather-patterned forehead.

  “The act is complete.” She states with quiet pride. “We have achieved our legacy, for good or ill.”

  “For good, I think.”

  Kimia steps away but keeps ahold of Ashti’s hand, and the two of them look around. For the first time since they approached the icon, Ashti notices how every laborer around them had stopped working just to stare. As she watches, ever more farmhands exit the small forest or migrate closer from across nearby fields.

  Soft explanations echo from each newcomer to the next, mostly to the effect of “Her Highness did something,” and the assembling crowd gazes up at their restored icon in awe. The bravest of these observers hesitantly approaches the princess and handmaiden, likely intending to request an explanation. Before he can speak, however, an alarmed shouts draw their attention northward.

  Ashti’s sudden apprehension that something went wrong with the icon quickly dissipates as she locates the actual cause of disruption. Above the spreading flax field radiating out from Growth, four figures drift languidly through the air.

  A foreign man in his middle years holds the other three aloft. An old woman wearing a painted mask clasps his right hand while the other two passengers hang from his extended left arm. Among this latter pair is a second foreigner, more wiry than the first and of shorter stature.

  That bookish man breaks into a wide grin as he meets Ashti’s eyes. He seems on the verge of shouting congratulations before abruptly schooling his expression and glancing at his master. Ashti feels no such compunctions.

  “We did it!” She shouts at the top of her lungs. “And it worked!”

  Lamp laughs in spite of his earlier caution. Joyously, he answers. “I never doubted!”

  Even the dour Lord Blackwing cracks a smile at their exchange, understanding the sentiments if not the words. In a show of diplomatic indifference, he at least turns his head away from Lady Jaleh to disguise his amusement. Ashti doesn’t bother to match his example either; she stares directly into the matron’s face and beams with the unbridled enthusiasm of absolute victory.

  In response, the old bag signs. “Your face will get stuck like that.”

  “Let it!”

  Both of them allow the spat to drop as Blackwing sets down within the budding field beyond Growth. His passengers release their hold, and all four wade together through a crosswise river of flax.

  “Oh! Stay away from the icon!” Ashti belatedly warns the outlanders. “It might view us as food now!”

  “Thank you!” Lamp shouts in reply before rapidly forwarding the message to his master.

  The foreigners veer wide around Growth while Jaleh and her voice march straight up to it. Lamp and Blackwing stop to wait several paces back while the matron closely examines her semidivine charge. After several seconds of visual observation, she begins poking and prodding at its vines. The icon ignores her ministrations, just as oblivious to her activity as to everything else around itself. At length, the great dame removes her hands and turns away.

  “It seems your confidence was not misplaced, Lord Blackwing.” Jaleh signs while her translator repeats aloud. Stepping away from the icon, she faces Lamp. “Your quaint story about glowing flower petals atop the godsmount was actually true, then?”

  Keeping up their ruse, the scholar needlessly waits for secondary translations to complete before responding. “Yes, my lady. I would not attempt to deceive anyone regarding the gods’ disposition. When I said the heavens were with us, I believed it fully.”

  At those final words, he turns another proud smile towards Ashti. She returns it fully. Watching them, Jaleh makes a hand sign that could only be translated as “harrumph.” Her voice declines to repeat it.

  The six of them collectively delay further conversation while the matron picks her way across Growth’s trailing roots to approach Kimia’s position. The two outlanders follow circuitously, completing their divergence around the icon before rejoining Jaleh at their common destination.

  Kimia greets the late arrivals warmly. “Thank you for joining us, Lady Jaleh, Lord Blackwing. I am pleased you could witness this event.”

  She excludes Lamp and Jaleh’s voice from her verbal greeting but offers nods to both, which they return.

  The matron waits for salutations to conclude before serenely responding. “My attendance was a very near thing, Highness. The invitation you sent to me was misplaced, somehow.”

  “I offer my apologies. We neglected to inform you as we believed the proceedings would not suit your interests.”

  “I was extremely interested, as it happened. Do keep me informed of such affairs going forward.”

  Kimia inclines her head and seems to promise earnestly. “I will.”

  “Much obliged.” Jaleh hesitates before adding. “I would not have condoned this risk, and I maintain you were quite foolish to attempt it so brashly, but I am glad of its apparent outcome. I never wanted to outlive you; I suspect everyone in the city shares my preference.”

  Ashti hears a smile in her lover’s voice as she replies. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “You are welcome, stubborn girl.”

  Jaleh will no doubt deliver harsher criticisms at a later time, but the great houses must maintain some pretext of unanimity before outsiders. Arguments and lectures will be held behind closed doors.

  For now, the princess turns to face their foreign guests. Gratitude rings clearly in her voice as she looks between them. “Lady Ashti informed me that Sir Lamphand concocted this idea and convinced Lord Blackwing and my estranged aunt to enact it.”

  Positioning her cane forward to support her weight, Kimia carefully lowers herself into a deep bow towards the foreigners. That extreme show of gratitude causes a stir among the lingering crowd of farmhands. Surprised glances turn to stunned silence when she escalates her display.

  Still bent forward, Kimia draws a deep breath in, then shouts. “Thank you for saving my life! And thank you for bringing my Ashti home! You have answered my greatest prayers. I am forever indebted.”

  Silence lingers for an awkward pause before Blackwing returns a simple “you’re welcome” through Lamp.

  Turning slightly towards Ashti, the princess mutters. “Could you please help me back up, darling? My footing does not seem cooperative.”

  The handmaiden hurriedly aids her mistress, balancing the willowy woman upright again with minimal discomfort. Once composed, Kimia addresses her guests somewhat more formally, though another shock for the assembled watchers immediately follows.

  “As the first daughter of House Sacrifice, I hereby grant Lord Blackwing the right to call me by my personal name in private conversations. I bid him to utter it only while in conversation with others who share that dispensation.”

  Once the merchant acknowledges her words, the princess turns to Lamp and adopts an apologetic tone. “I cannot in good conscience bestow that same right to you, Sir Lamphand. Numerous figures among the great houses would take umbrage were I to demonstrate such favor toward a foreigner of uncertain status while I continue to withhold that same privilege from many lords and ladies who stand much closer to me in station. Even your master’s acquisition of this right may be interpreted by some as political provocation.

  “For the time being, you must continue to address me by my title. Please understand that I impose this restriction for your own welfare and convenience, not for any lack of gratitude. I am deeply moved by the efforts you have undertaken on my behalf, and I will identify a more suitable manner in which to express my appreciation.”

  Returning her attention to Blackwing, Kimia speaks firmly. “I must stress that each member of my household extends these invitations individually. The right to invoke my name does not confer the right to speak my brother’s, and even we siblings call our father by his honorific in almost all circumstances. Mind those separations well. You would invite considerable censure by addressing or referencing either of them improperly.”

  “Understood.” The merchant nods.

  With that delicate matter resolved, they agree to transition to more comfortable environs and head towards the lifts. Blackwing takes the lead while Kimia’s retinue trails at the back. Jaleh hews close to the princess as they maneuver between the cherry trees.

  After waving a hand towards the foreign lord, she signs. “You can thank that one for another favor. As we crossed the city, this… individual… deliberately walked as slow as he could manage without falling completely behind. He was daring me to abandon him, and I almost did, diplomacy be damned!”

  She shakes her head in disbelief. “And then- then! When we arrived below, he ‘helpfully’ offered to fly me above the trees to seek the icon. The man only managed short hops, which I would not call flying, but no matter- men exaggerate. Case in point: his translator claimed to see movement in a canopy off to the left, so we went left. But were you there? Were you there? No! All we found was rutabaga.”

  “My condolences.” The princess offers with mild amusement. “I am certain, though, that you made good use of your time with our guests to grow better acquainted. I look forward to joining future conversations with that pair, and I lament my absence from the last. I was quite eager to speak with them before they were called away.”

  “Splendid. I applaud your enthusiasm for cultural exchange. You were welcome to join us earlier, by the way, so I would thank you not to snipe at me on account of an exclusion you ultimately preferred.”

  “Snipe? I would never.” Her Highness primly replies. “I simply wish to express my gratitude for your thorough attentions as a host. You are nothing if not involved.”

  She glances ahead. Following her gaze to the outlanders, Jaleh watches their foreign guests step out into the daisy field before looking back.

  “Is that your way of suggesting I should get back to it and leave you two alone?” She waves an impatient hand to forestall Kimia’s answer. “By all means, take your time to reconnect and celebrate, but politics will require your involvement again soon enough. These outlanders will cause further chaos before we send them home, mark my words!”

  The dame points a bony finger at Ashti. “I will hold you especially to account for their conduct, daughter of Wit. Earn your family’s namesake and keep a careful eye open.”

  The handmaiden nervously confirms that Lamp is facing away from them before she asks. “What exactly are you worried about?”

  Jaleh’s falsemask adopts a subtle scowl. “You saw how the merchant collective responded to Lord Blackwing’s social debut. Whatever intentions they carry in their hearts, discord will arise from their very presence. Trouble has already preceded them, though we will discuss the fire at a later time.”

  “How could that be relevant? Do you just mean the timing?”

  “Patience, girl. Too many eyes might fall upon us here.” She glances forward at the scholar’s back. “I will explain when we are alone.”

  With that, Jaleh steps away. She makes a brief detour to flag down the patrolling flock of song birds as they make a returning pass. Signing quickly, she conveys instructions to keep the icon under closer observation than usual.

  As the birds fly off, the dame bustles forward with surprising alacrity to catch up to the front of their combined group. There she begins to harangue the outlanders while her voice plays diplomat. Kimia sighs in relief as the old woman distracts herself. Ashti, in contrast, watches Jaleh with begrudging admiration.

  “She could have caught us had she truly wished to.” The handmaiden speculates quietly. “Lord Blackwing simply granted her an excuse to tarry and to avoid any of the Select who might have offered real assistance.”

  “Perhaps.” Kimia allows. “Her conduct during their pursuit certainly conveyed little in the way of urgency, but I always hesitate to frame Lady Jaleh’s actions as generous. If she arrived late by her own design, then she simply chose the least disruptive of all available options.”

  “You may be right. No, you probably are. Forget her, then. How are you feeling?” Ashti softly asks.

  “Better.” The princess grabs her hand and delivers a gentle squeeze. “Thank you. More than words can express, thank you.”

  “Of course. Anything for you.”

  “Within reason.”

  “We exceeded that already.”

  Kimia laughs once before growing somber. Meeting her lover’s eyes, she speaks candidly. “Ashti… My station required me to pretend I was ready to face death, but in truth I was terrified and filled to the brim with bitterness and sorrow. You gave me what I believed to be impossible. It would be a poor expression of gratitude if I allowed you to risk ruin on my behalf ever again. Please- no more secret adventures.”

  “Try to stop me.” Ashti answers playfully before deciding to make an admission of her own. “I never informed you because I knew you would ask me not to go. I lacked the courage for that conversation, but the next time I try to throw my life away, I will provide advance notice.”

  “How considerate.’

  “I have my virtues.” She pauses, and her smile slowly slips into a frown. After a few more paces, she reveals another secret. “‘Considerate’ is an apt term. I was the only person who ever ‘considered’ anything about your fate. It always pained me to see how little everyone else cared to exert themselves to save you. It took me less than three weeks to accomplish something the great houses and all their subjects never bothered to attempt.

  “Of late, I have repeatedly found myself judging our people for their complacent, passive cruelty. I even thought to myself, ‘If they could throw her life away without remorse, are they not evil? Do they not deserve punishment for basing their sustenance upon a premeditated and unjust sacrifice?’” Her voice drops to a hush as she reveals her darkest impulse. “‘What cruelty would I truly perform by depriving them their right to consume fruit born from another’s flesh? If they starved…’”

  Ashti leaves that maniacal thought unfinished, shamed to admit its occurrence and unwilling to confess its age. This callous, conflicted resentment has dwelled within the deepest corners of her heart for years now. Only after meeting Clearheart did she confront it. Only today did she speak it aloud.

  Silence nearly overtakes the girl, but she stubbornly forces herself to continue towards her greater point. “I see the flaws in that position, but I could make myself lose sight of them if I had enough incentive. It goes back to what I said on our way down; I can convince myself of anything if left to stew on it for long enough. Maybe I should view that trait as a problem, but it at least forced me to realize something important.

  “There are things I want in life, and to get them, I should stop pretending to be selfless. Whether you trust the counsel of someone with that mindset is up to you. Just know that only two things can stop me now: my death, or your command. Until then, I am bent completely to your purpose in body and soul.”

  Kimia watches her intently throughout her monologue, then nods at its conclusion. “I suppose I have no real say in the matter, as I cannot bear to part from you again. Tell me, though, what do you think my purpose is now that Growth no longer needs me?”

  “Simply to live. However you see fit.”

  “And yours?” The painted lips of her falsemask twist minutely into the hint of a smile.

  “To live beside you.”

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