Approximately 24-minute read time.

31

Not far above her, the grey and black mountain stone gave way to something that glittered like a lake at sunrise. Tildy recognized the exterior quartz wall of the glass-garden and headed in that direction. She knew she’d pressed her luck by flying so much already. She had to get indoors. She’d originally thought to fly up to her twelfth-floor balcony, but the garden offered immediate refuge. If discovered, no one would question her presence. She would also have the means to tend her wounds.

A few tendrils of argentia grew to the edge of the balcony, where they withered to black. She flew over the railing and landed silently beside them. Cautiously opening the door to the garden, she breathed in the pungent humidity and heady fragrances. Her first stop was the bitterbind, a squat plant with sticky, droopy leaves that reminded her of rabbit ears. The witch called it abradescra, but Tildy preferred the common name. She cut several long leaves and slapped them on her bleeding shoulders. The sap kept them in place, while also soothing the wound. She rubbed additional salve onto her injured hands. Feeling better, she smiled at the irony of healing herself in a poison garden.

Her task completed, she decided to explore the wonderful conservatory. Before she took a step, however, the hairs on her neck tingled in warning. She froze, gooseflesh prickling her skin. Something watched her. Had the voice from the chamber followed her here? No, she sensed no malicious intent. It was more like a disapproving scrutiny, similar to when she evaded the truth beneath the witch’s watchful gaze. It also reminded her of nagweed, though she knew Lady Amaranth didn’t grow it.

She slowly scanned the quiet garden, her keen ears seeking those things her eyes could not detect, while her nostrils sought a scent unrelated to the heavy fragrance of plant life. She’d always prided herself on her ability to detect the presence of living creatures, but she could find no indication of animal life. She even glanced into the branches of an old grey tree, expecting to see a bird. Nothing.

Finally, movement in a secluded corner caught her attention. A long-stalked flower stood alone in a large urn, swaying as though something had brushed past. Cautious, Tildy searched for other nearby motion, but when it continued to undulate, she knew that it moved of its own accord. She approached cautiously but seeing no whip-vined snaptangle guarding this plant, she presumed it safe. This must have been what alarmed her, though she wasn’t sure. She’d spent her life amongst unusual plants and none of them made her this wary. Tildy shook her head, dismissing the feeling as a reaction to the plant’s motion and unusual appearance.

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Broad grey petals encircled a latticework filled with dark, shiny seed hulls, like an achromatic sunflower. It might have been a trick of the light, but the seeds throbbed gently. She found herself repulsed when she considered what might be causing the motion: wriggling worms or maggots, most like. Faced by something so revolting, she found it difficult to appreciate her adoptive mother’s belief: Other senses may recognize beauty when the eyes fail to appreciate.

The hulls looked like they would pop out like spring-beans. Indeed, one already rested upon the floor at her feet. Remembering several unpleasant experiences in Dappledown, she did not touch the pod as she knelt before it. It looked familiar, though she knew no such flower grew in the witch’s garden. As she watched, a small insect crawled forward, perhaps looking for a snack. When it touched the pod, it disappeared with a small poof that reminded her of pollen-bombs dropped by the allium blossoms at home. Entranced, she watched as the pod swelled to the size of a plum, rocking on the garden floor. Before she could consider what would happen next, it exploded with a similar poof and the insect scurried away, having had enough. The pod was no more.

Slightly alarmed, yet fascinated, she stood and peered at the flower wondering if she could coax out another pod. Certainly, she could find a second insect. She suddenly stood like a wary hare – that feeling of being watched returned. Before she could look around, muffled voices drifted through the door: the witch and the baroness.

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Lady Amaranth’s voice said, “I’ve shown the garden to the child Tildy, though I couldn’t share all its secrets with one such as her. I’m sure you would approve. Tantalizing things grow here that are irresistible to curious minds.” Intrigued, and on edge from her encounter with the voice, Tildy decided to hide instead of greeting the women as they entered. Silencing the nagging voice that reminded her of the disastrous eavesdropping on Marklin, she unfurled her wings and ascended noiselessly behind a column, finally clinging to the scrolled volute where it met the ceiling.

The baroness continued as they entered. “Fruiting plants like the leech-lemon and nutsel. Living stones! Flowers like the cascading glory,” she said pointing to a creeper covering a wall, where blossom after blossom hung down from the one above it. She gestured to the grey-petalled flower, “or the snarglesnare and its unusual little achene knots. A trove more valuable than a king’s vault!”

“Snarglesnare is an unusual choice,” the witch said, beginning to look around. “People have been known to disappear in them for years. I imagine the pods expanded to enormous size in that time.”

“They’re useful for eliminating insect infestations, as long as we catch them quickly. Besides, I count my servants regularly.”

The witch chuckled as she moved around. Tildy knew well her love of any flower, and she watched the woman’s head turn all directions as she desired to see everything at once. “Long have I regretted not coming,” she said. “I daresay I underestimated your greenskill, preferring instead the wonders of the Thirsellion. For that, I do apologize.”

The baroness inclined her head in thanks and said, “From the moment I saw you, I recognized your love of growing things. Furrowed across your face and interwoven into your very clothes!” She indicated the patchwork that was the witch’s dress.

“And perhaps seeing the stain of earth that never truly washes away,” she replied, looking at her fingertips.

The baroness laughed. “True enough!”

Tildy doubted the perfect noblewoman had ever had dirty hands, much less soil-stained fingers. She dressed immaculately and today was no different. From her vantage point, the woman’s attire made her look like a blue agapanthus with its petals fully drawn back, each one descending from her shoulders in a delicate arc. To complete the ensemble, she wore a silver circlet adorned with jewel-topped filaments that looked like the flower’s delicate stamen. She found the outfit more interesting than others, for it could only be appreciated from above. She thought the witch looked quite dowdy beside her, with her patched dress and bare feet.

Lady Amaranth continued, “Therefore, from one gardener to another, let me ask you this: something delays the growth of my prized herbs this season, and I wonder what you think it could be? These aren’t the finicky plants like cilantro or sevellum, mind you, these have always been as regular and precise as Dwarven clockwork. I have read nothing in the Mother Sun nor tasted anything in the rain we collect.”

“I have experienced similar issues in my own garden,” replied the witch.

“Have you now. That is interesting.” The baroness turned to look at her. “What do you think it means?”

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The witch stared at the translucent quartz wall as though she could see through it. Tildy knew Dappledown lay roughly in that direction. “I do not know. It could be many things. It could be nothing.”

“I don’t think you believe that, clever as you are,” Lady Amaranth said, a smile heard upon words lightly spoken. “Nor do I doubt that you have seen a green-grey rot many times between there and here. Yes, I read by your face this is true, though I deem it is worse than you feared.

“I think that is what truly brought you out of your secret garden, though you would not admit such selfishness to the girl.” Tildy felt her eyebrows raise. That couldn’t be true, though she admitted that the witch usually expressed more interested in her plants than the troubles of the world.

“We began this adventure to find some lost friends, discovering along the way that others also needed help.”

The baroness dismissed the words with a wave. “The concerns of lesser folk. They disappear in the world all the time, unremarked and unmissed. I speak to things of greater import.” Tildy read something ominous in her meaning, which the woman chose to convey. “Two similar events happening in gardens leagues and leagues apart? I do not believe in coincidence and neither do you.”

When the witch didn’t respond, the baroness said, “There is talk. Amongst the rustics and the peasants, of something walking these lands that should not.” She lowered her voice and the witch leaned closer, in spite of herself. Struggling to hear, Tildy craned her neck and nearly lost her grip on the column. “No, not the Sarsenith nor the scaly foes that camp upon my doorstep. This is something darker, older. Something that retards growth yet accelerates death.” Tildy recalled all the signs they’d seen at home and on their journey to Southershard: the lateness of growing greens, the delay of the starfall, and the unexplained sickness and rot.

When the witch spoke, her response was barely whisper. “You speak of Delosh—”

“Do not say the word!” the baroness hissed. She twisted wildly around and Tildy feared she would look up and discover her. “To invoke Its name is to invite Its embrace.”

“Death,” the witch said, unperturbed.

“More than death! Nothingness!” the lady cried, distraught beyond the outburst she’d had in the grand hall during their tour. She took several calming breaths that caused the petals of her dress to quiver.

The witch scrutinized the baroness with those keen eyes of hers. Finally, she said, “You speak as one who truly understands, as though you have seen?”

“This one—no,” Lady Amaranth paused, regaining her composure. “My religion fears It.”

The witch crossed her arms, suggesting she didn’t believe these words, though to Tildy, there was no doubt the fear was real.

The baroness continued. “If these were not signs enough, one particular flower flourishes while others fail.” She led the witch away, saying, “You must see it. They are so rare that most Humans have never heard of them. I have always had a way with flowers – it’s in my family’s blood, we say – but this became suddenly simple to master.”

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Tildy saw them stop near a table covered with pots the color of old bone. Spiky gloom-flowers had sprouted from them, glistening as though covered in black oil. “Dahliacorpsus,” the witch said. Tildy could hear the disgust in her voice, an unfair assessment, considering her uncompromising opinions on superficial beauty.

“Of course you recognize it,” the baroness laughed. “Your greenslore really is unmatched amongst Humans.”

The witch sniffed at what she did not consider a compliment. “The Elves also have written of it, though even the most zealous gardeners amongst them find it distasteful.”

“Oh, you put too much stock in the opinions of Elves,” countered the baroness. “You know full well that the Fairies are their skilled equals with earth and seed.” Tildy watched the witch’s grey head turn sharply, though she immediately began to fidget with the hair by her ear to mask the reaction.

Lady Amaranth didn’t seem to notice. “Truth to tell, that it grows while other gardens remain barren is a cruel irony.”

Before she could unriddle the woman’s words, the witch spoke. “I wondered,” she began, her voice conveying kindness and a little sadness. It reminded Tildy of the motherly tone the witch used when she had been sick or scared. “To be a lordswife and bear no children. I am sorry.”

The baroness dismissed the words with another wave. “I came to terms with the failure and stigma long ago, though it was a tough root for my lord to chew.” An old bitterness lingered in her words, and she winced as she touched her cheek in memory.

Tildy’s anger boiled as she recalled Lady Amaranth telling her that the baron was a cold, stern man.

The woman passed a hand across her face. “I apologize. Such candor is not the way of my people.”

Choosing her words with care, the witch asked, “You are certain about the fertility? Mayhaps, the maca-macu root and naissant—”

“I have studied these plants.” Her splayed fingers twitched, as though eager to strangle something. With an effort, she sighed, and her composure returned. She said, “Disappointments all. Thus, I directed my nurturing toward other living things.”

“And yet,” the witch said, looking at the table with the bone-colored pots, “you court death to grow these. Despite your love of life and fear of the Abyss, you harvest these flowers, which some call the ‘blossoms of Delosh’.” She ignored the baroness’s sharp intake of breath. “You say they flourish at a time when other greenery struggles to grow. An odd hobby in days like these.”

“I am but gilding the edges of stormclouds. A garden can always use more light.”

The witch scoffed with her customary “Hmph.”

“How different am I from the very earths of the wild? Does not every passing life become food for scavengers or lonely seed?” She picked up one of the pots and held it up for the witch.

Tildy saw that it wasn’t just the color of bone, it was a skull!

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Tildy nearly retched. How could one so perfect as the baroness hold such a grotesquerie? The dome had been cut cleanly away, and the openings of the face were packed with black dirt. The flower drew her attention as its dark spikes split apart, revealing bright red stigma within. Her skin crawled as Lady Amaranth continued: “The nutrients from the grave dirt are essential. As the flower grows, more nutrients leech from the bone. Many find the process repulsive,” she said, looking pointedly at the witch, “but the beauty revealed in the bloom is undeniable.”

“What some will do in the pursuit of beauty,” commented the witch. Tildy knew she disapproved but found herself in agreement with the baroness.

“This and more!” Lady Amaranth said, holding high the flower that nested in the skull like a watchful bird-of-prey. “So much in the world is grey and bleak and formless. We are gardeners, artisans with a greater responsibility to expand the loveliness we see around us,” she said, indicating the garden. She turned back to the witch. “Are we not also sculptors, and the world our clay? We must mold the lesser of the world into the images we see fit. To put form to the shapeless.”

“You speak beyond gardening and sculpture.”

The baroness laughed. “You are perceptive. Very good,” she said. The witch inclined her head. “Yes, I speak of the girl. There is something special about her. Something familiar, though I cannot place my finger on it. She reminds me of myself, though unsculpted, unrefined.” She caressed the skullpot in contemplation.

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“I wondered at your other purpose for this tour,” the witch said, though not unkindly. “You offer to foster her. Expand her education.” Tildy felt dull-witted for not understanding. She was flattered, nonetheless.

“Of course! There are more wonders in Southershard than those of the Thirsellion!” She returned the dahliacorpsus to the table. “Look around you! Centuries of collected wisdom lay within these walls. With us here, she could be educated by the greatest minds in the land. Scholars and potionmakers would travel far, honored to serve the great Baron Stoneward in his rising power. Together we would transform this ancient fortress into Empyrelia’s greatest institute of wisdom. As though she were my daughter, I would mold her into a proper lady, a strong woman worthy of a mighty lord’s hand.”

“You seek to transform her into a noblewoman?”

“Not a servant to her husband, but an equal! I could continue her training, help her understand things you cannot,” the baroness said kindly. “We have a different kind of bond, she and I, different from that of a mother and daughter.”

“You think she is not learning appropriate things at home?” the witch asked, her voice conversational, despite the accusation. Tildy thought she was going too far.

“Of course not. But there comes a time when the apprentice is ready to become a journeyman, as they say, which requires a different kind of training. And your garden is so very remote.”

The witch said nothing. It occurred to Tildy that she was saying very little in this conversation. Lady Amaranth was walking into a trap that Tildy herself had fallen into many times. The witch would let her talk until she divulged more than intended, revealing her true motives. It was so unfair! She considered calling out to the baroness to warn her.

Receiving no answer, the baroness continued along another tack. “I deem she would accept, if I but asked. Propriety insists I speak with you first, of course.” Tildy found herself nodding in agreement; more to the first point than the second.

“It would seem you’ve already begun. The tutelage in your garden. Spoiling her with the maid. The dresses, too, were a gift beyond extravagant. Only today you seek my counsel. I wonder what has changed?”

“I sought only to curry favor, not disrespect.”

“Hmm,” the witch said.

“Listen: already she has gained knowledge and friendship here. Ramora could have many parts to play! While I could not replace you as a mother, of course, mayhaps I could be similar to a distant aunt, one who fosters her and continues her education.”

“That is quite a vision.”

“Think not only of her future, but about your own! Far and wide I’ve heard stories about your greatness,” said the baroness. “The abilities you possess! I can only imagine the heartache as you watched them rot and fade.”

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“I am sure I do not know what you mean.” By the tone of her voice, Tildy thought she might be lying. The witch usually reserved small untruths for the good of another. Here, it sounded like a selfish protest.

“How much easier life would have been without this child? I offer that chance again, though this time without the loss and sorrow,” she said, her voice thick with kindness. “You are tethered to the garden and your motherly responsibilities. You were a burning star, walking the world amongst lesser mortals and performing feats their dull minds must have considered miracles! The so-called ‘night witch of the black garden’.” This struck a chord in Tildy’s memory, but before it could fully form, the baroness called the witch more interesting names. “The Tree-Tempest, the Dragon-waif, the Fa—”

“You have discovered much,” the witch interrupted. “Now I understand. You think I traded ambition for motherhood. You think I abandoned parts of my life that I should have selfishly kept.”

“Is it selfish to want to give the world the best possible version of yourself?”

“Of course not. Not when your aim is to help the world. Seldom do those speaking such words put more weight on the charitable side of the scale. I presume you do not fully understand the import of parental obligation.”

“You condescend because I am not a parent. Yet, I have observed Tildy when she is with you. Rarely does she call you ‘mother’. She thinks this is because you do not want her to, though in reality, I perceive she is the one keeping her distance.”

Tildy stifled a gasp with a hand and lost her grip. Fortunately, she’d kept her wings extended and she didn’t fall far. She recalled something very similar that Mum had said. Could the baroness be right? She clung to the column again and returned her attention to their words.

“She names me what she needs me to be,” the witch said, a thick emotion in her voice that Tildy had not heard before.

“Perhaps she no longer needs you as a mother, thinking of you only as ‘the witch’. What does a girl truly need a witch for, hmm?” For a moment, Tildy thought she should be outraged, but maybe the baroness was right. Maybe she didn’t need a witch any longer. She was fourteen, after all.

Lady Amaranth continued: “You criticize me because I have not sacrificed myself upon the altar of others’ needs.”

“I do not criticize you; I pity you,” said the witch kindly. “For you are not capable of seeing that the bettering of others is the embetterment of yourself.”

“Save your pity, old fool,” spat the baroness, the contempt in her voice stinging like a slap. “Your eyes deceive. You cannot fathom what you see.”

“What I see,” said the witch with a certain finality in her voice, “is someone obsessed with her own transformation – the control of every aspect of herself – and she has projected that mania to the world. You have an unnatural preoccupation with my daughter, and I would not have such things taught to her.”

“Yet, she is not your daughter.”

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The witch ignored the barb. “Children are not raw clay that we shape into miniature likenesses of ourselves. They need guidance to become their own person. Elsewise, we should have a dreary world full of identical people. Certainly, you wouldn’t want the lands full of duplicates of yourself?”

“You have no idea what I desire for the world.”

“Nor do you truly understand Tildeneth or what she wants. If you did, you would not suggest she follow ambitious, self-serving needs. A generous heart guides her way, and I daresay along a path that diverges from yours.” Tildy felt a swell of pride for her adoptive mother.

The witch’s head turned, drawn to a pot of small yellow flowers with crimson centers. “Well! Hegemity, which some call bewilderway. Overlooked by many, to their ruin. But such is not my fate.” She shook her head. “I understand why this garden fascinated Tildeneth. And perhaps why we stand here today!” she said, turning back to the baroness. “With flowers in full bloom, no less. I am flattered.”

Lady Amaranth wore a mirthless grin, but for once, said nothing in response. She stood frozen by the accusation, a statue of imitated life set on display for all to judge.

Her adoptive mother continued in measured tones. “Your offer is very generous, I am sure, but I think we have overstayed our welcome. One way or another, we shall find a way to escape the valley and avoid any enemies who would block our departure.” She left without another word.

The baroness muttered to herself, her voice rising and falling in timbre like the susurration of a crowd behind closed doors. She screamed and something smashed on the flagstone floor. Tildy peeked out, stifling a gasp as she struggled to maintain her grip on the column. Through some trick of the light streaming

through the quartz walls, the baroness swelled in her anger. She stormed toward the chamber’s opposite end, her size diminishing as she disappeared through a dark doorway. Tildy was again alone.

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She fluttered to the ground, landing beside the bewilderway as she considered what she’d heard about the flowers making her compliant. However, as she inhaled the clean fragrances of the garden, she dismissed the impossible thought. The witch-woman’s warning faded from her mind as she recalled the wonderful words of Lady Amaranth. So did her fears about the voice in the chamber below.

The more she contemplated it, a garden such as this made Southershard a marvelous place to learn. In fact, she thought she should find the baroness immediately and tell her so. However, she paused beneath the old grey tree as she approached the smashed skullpot, its delicate dahliacorpsus already wilting. Perhaps she shouldn’t speak to her lady while she was in such a mood. Instead, she would find a book in the lexandran and perhaps visit the witch in the Thirsellion. Decorum dictated she speak with that woman first.

Her mind filled only with pleasant thoughts of life in Southershard, Tildy left the garden and crossed the landing to the library. She found the witch in a chair with her feet up, shoes resting on a low table that held a pot of yellow flowers with crimson centers. She was reading A Most Dangerous Fay, a subject outside her typical interests. She’d also taken the time to change into a simple tunic, like a servant might wear. Tildy assumed it was from the castle wardrobes because she hadn’t seen it before.

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“Hello Tildy,” she said, looking up. Her cheeks were flushed, as though she’d been running – something she didn’t do. She took in Tildy’s state: her torn dress, shoulders bandaged with bitterbind, her skinned knees, and a grime that covered much of her skin and clothing.

“Oh, hullo,” Tildy replied, surprised she didn’t have to account for her appearance.

“I’ve just had a pleasant conversation with Lady Amaranth.”

“You did?” Tildy asked, hoping to hide her knowledge of their discussion.

“She made a generous offer, and I’m considering accepting it.” Tildy felt her eyes widen, but the witch had returned to her book. “I think you’ve learned all you can at my knee. I daresay it is time to expand your education.”

“Yes!” Tildy blurted before she could stop herself.

The witch raised a curious eyebrow. “I speak of her fostering you in Southershard, but you’ve guessed my mind. You’re as clever as ever,” she said with a proud smile.

“It’s this library more than anything that makes me want to stay,” she replied, her words running together as they did when excitement ran through her.

The witch frowned. “Oh?”

“Yes!” Tildy described all the wonders she’d read about and the maps she’d found. How she hoped to use the place to discover more about the Shard, not to mention the reason the Gardenstem had been crossed off on the map.

The witch appeared momentarily displeased. “Then it’s decided. You and I shall part ways as soon as I can make arrangements. Our paths’ll diverge for a time.”

A small voice in Tildy’s head spoke, as though from a great distance. She was forgetting something. “What about Billious?”

“The boy? Yes, I shall take him with me. You’ll be too busy with your studies for such distractions.”

She nodded. That made sense. She hardly knew him, after all. Even his name felt like a stranger’s.

“Very good,” said the witch. “You shall remain in Southershard, Tildy. Alone with milady Amaranth and her servants.”

Tildy smiled. “Thank you.”

Something seems off, but Tildy isn’t picking up on it. Will she start to see through the deceptions in Southershard? Click here to find out in Chapter 32: Losses, Incommunicable and Not!

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