Floodpath

by Emily B. Martin

  I hadn’t told anyone about writing to Colm because I was so afraid he’d say No, you’d better stay at home. I was so afraid he’d say I don’t think we can accommodate you. I was so afraid he’d say It’s too risky, Veran. I was so afraid he’d say all the things that I’d internalized after realizing the Wood Guard was out of my reach. If I didn’t tell anyone, nobody would have to know when I was turned down.

  But he’d said yes, and then to my surprise, my parents had said yes. And I grabbed on to that yes like it was the last slip of air in a bottomless pool.

  I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “I liked the university, and studying Moquoian. I’m good at it. But I still wanted to be a scout.”

  “Want, or wanted?”

  “What?”

  “Do you still want to be a scout?” she asks.

  I lift my cup. “Kind of late now,” I remark over the rim.

  “Why?”

  “Ma, most kids start at age ten.”

  “And we’ve established why you didn’t,” she says, turning to face me fully. She leans sideways on the wall and puts her fist on her hip. “That didn’t stop you from building fires on your balcony, or memorizing all the handbooks. You used to steal them from your brother’s room—I’d find them under your pillow.”

  He never noticed, because he barely read them.

  “Memorizing facts is a lot different from actually training,” I say bitterly. “Case in point—you know how I said we stopped the ashoki’s coach outside Giantess and tried to talk to her? We didn’t just stop it. We mounted a full-scale attack. It was my idea. I was up top, coordinating everybody with the scout birdcalls. And guess what? I screwed up. I screwed up so bad that Lark got captured and hurt and nearly executed, and Tamsin fell hundreds of feet and nearly died, and we all got separated. I had all the knowledge right here in my head, but I panicked, and it all fell apart. Bet Lark didn’t tell you that.”

  “She did,” she says, with that sharp tone that means I’ve been disrespectful. “She said you made some mistakes, but afterward you beat a path to Tolukum Palace and tricked the bigot behind everything into outing herself.”

  I take a breath, gripping the wall. The sinking sun is flooding the hob now, plunging the far side of the canyon into dark blues and purples.

  Mama sighs and shakes her head. “Veran, I admit I didn’t do as much as I could have when you were younger to make a place for you in the Guard. But part of that, I think, was that you heard the not now as not ever.”

  “Not now and not ever are the same for me, Ma,” I say. “Life . . . can’t be changed. I just have to react to it.”

  “That’s crap, Veran,” she says flatly. “If life can’t be changed, why did you work so hard to undo the Moquoian labor system?”

  “My life can’t be changed, then,” I say bitterly.

  She snorts. “Not with that attitude. Can you wish away the bows? No, and that’s not insignificant. But you never seemed to see it as a lock and key before. What’s different now?”

  I’m silent, flooded suddenly with the vision of Lark on the ground beside the carriage, of Tamsin disappearing, of Fala hurting so many people.

  I take a painful breath, lift my cup, and then set it unsteadily back down again. “I just . . . I made so many mistakes, Ma, so many. Mistakes that cost other people . . .”

  “Earth and sky, Veran, who hasn’t? When I was your age . . .”

  “You were a Woodwalker,” I say quickly. “Don’t try that on me—when you were eighteen, you’d been a Woodwalker for two years, the youngest in decades—”

  “And I made piles of mistakes,” she says, quirking an eyebrow.

  “You stood up for the other Woodwalkers, you challenged everything that was happening in the Silverwood . . .”

  “You’re not listening, Veran.” She raises her hands and face entreatingly toward the sky. “Mercy, that I should be blessed with five children who never listen to their mother! Yes, at eighteen, I was a Woodwalker, and a good one, and I knew it—and I let myself believe I owned the place. Shouting at a king may seem brave or legendary a few decades down the line, but it was stupid, and it ruined my life for five years. It would have been longer if I hadn’t gotten lucky a few times. It was a bad choice, Veran. And yes, it eventually led to the Allied East, but it just as easily could have not. I was a hundred times more likely to die nameless in some Paroan port. Don’t conflate mistakes with failure. Folk don’t tell legends about people who made no mistakes. Folk tell legends about the people who overcame them.

  “And what’s more—look at me, Veran.” I glance at her and then slide my gaze down to her florets again, just so I don’t have to meet her eyes. “What’s more—you making mistakes isn’t about the bows. You might not be able to change the bows, but you can work past your mistakes. They’re bruises, not scars. Are you going to let them control you instead?”

  My chest squeezes, and I look back out at the sky. It’s an honest sunset now, with a few slips of clouds glowing pink and orange near the horizon.

  Mama isn’t looking at the sunset—she’s still looking at me, with her fist on her hip again.

  “How long were you out in the Ferinno?” she asks.

  “A couple days. A week, I guess, after finding Lark, and then a few more days in the water scrape.”

  “Did you really revive Lark from dehydration? She didn’t make that up?”

  “I mean, I was a mess—”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “And you tracked her to her camp?”

  “Which time?”

  She gives me an appraising look. “You did it more than once?”

  I try to wave away her scrutiny. “It was just lucky—the first time I used a powder that made her leave a trail, and the second time the ground was all soft . . .”

  “That’s not luck, Veran, that’s skill, and knowing what you have. Final question—did you rescue a sick person from a burning building and carry her through the desert to civilization?”

  “Tamsin? It . . . it wasn’t like that, Lark was there, too . . .”

  “Good,” she cuts me off. “That’s not just knowing what you have, but who you have. Remote camping.” She ticks off on her fingers. “Tracking. Wayfinding. Medical emergencies. Knowing your gear. Knowing your team. Knowing yourself. Learning from your mistakes. I think that just about covers it.”

  She steps back and points at the ground. “Kneel.”

  My face heats. “Why?”

  “Because you’re supposed to kneel. Everybody else has to—you’re not special.”

  “Mama . . .” I fidget like a little kid, flattening my tangled hair, rubbing the back of my grimy neck, straightening my beat-up tunic. I know what she’s trying to do. I think of all the dozens of ceremonies I’ve spied on, watching trainees fresh from their nights in the forest get down on their knees in front of her while she swears them in. I think of all the pomp and symbols of the event—the bugle fanfare, the silver florets in a carved box, the presentation of the green shoulder cord, the other scouts watching, the row of Woodwalkers up front, the trainee taking off their smooth boots and putting on their first pair with fringe, the retelling by one of the older scouts of their two nights in the wilds of the forest.

  I realize I just went through that last bit, and it wasn’t lit with a blaze of glory. It was awkward.

  “I didn’t do any of it by myself,” I protest one last time. “And I don’t want to get a spot in the Guard out of pity, just for folk to have to babysit me the whole time.”

  To my surprise, Ma’s face hardens. “Out of pity? Do you think I’d place anyone in the Guard out of pity? I have a scout who’s blind, and one who can’t move his legs, and three who think and interact differently from their peers. I expect them to do their jobs, and do them well. Do you think I instated them out of pity?”

  “No, that’s not what I . . .”

  “I instate people because their skills meet the needs of the job
and their team,” she says, her voice iron. “You do the whole organization a disservice by assuming otherwise. You’ve got to overcome this fixation on doing things by yourself. Nobody in the Guard does anything by themselves. Everyone has a cadre. Everyone has peers to rely on. Even the trainees doing their solo nights have people to help them if they get into trouble. I always have someone to get me out of trouble. You are so good at knowing what you have, but so stubborn when it comes to knowing who you have. You’re not alone, Veran. You’re not a rock in the sea. If you’re not willing to rely on anybody else, who can you demand to rely on you?”

  She takes a breath, her gaze still locked on me, and when she continues, her voice is a bit gentler, but still firm. “It’s your decision to make, Veran, but keep this last thing in mind: if even half the things Lark told us are true, then you’ve been field-tested more than every single one of my Woodwalkers.”

  I swallow, my racing thoughts landing on Lark. Lark, who once accused me of living my life all or nothing. There’s got to be something in between.

  Something. Not all, not nothing, but something.

  Maybe in chasing after the all I missed the something.

  At long last, I lift my gaze from Mama’s collar to her eyes. She must be able to see the resolution in my face, because she nods and points to the ground.

  “Kneel,” she says.

  I kneel.

  Mama reaches up to her collar and unpins one of her florets.

  “What name do you take?” she asks.

  Normally achieving rank would be an opportunity to take a new epithet. But that process deserves thought, and I find myself thinking of the uncomfortable, ant-riddled patch of briar that nettled me to my feet and down the road to Tolukum.

  “Veran Greenbrier.”

  “Do you pledge yourself to the care and keeping of the Silverwood Mountains, the defense of its resources, the preservation of its monarchy, the well-being of its folk, and the upholding of its alliances?” she asks, then, going off-script, adds, “Or whatever country you happen to be in at the time?”

  Hot damn, I wouldn’t have thought those words would make me emotional. But the number of times I’ve stood off to one side, listening to her say them to someone else . . .

  I swallow, vainly trying to keep my eyes from burning. “I do.”

  “Address.”

  “I do, Woodwalker Heartwood.”

  “Do you dedicate yourself to the Royal Guard, to the Wood Guard, to the deference to your superiors and the support of your fellow guard?”

  “I do, Woodwalker.”

  “What pledge do you make?”

  “My might is in my diligence,” I recite, my mouth dry. I spent an entire childhood gazing at the words carved over the Guard wing. “My honor is in my loyalty. My strength is in my integrity.”

  “To which we’re all held.” This last phrase is normally a shout, ringing around the courtyard and then echoed back by everyone present. But now she says it simply, straightforwardly. No response from a boisterous crowd. The echo instead settles deep in my chest, feeling as big as the canyon yawning up to the sky in front of us.

  Mama takes my fraying, sweat-stained collar and pushes the first floret pin through the fabric, tacking the wing down. She repeats it with the other side and stands back. Her collar has two little discolored marks where they’ve been pinned since she first got them.

  “Veran Greenbrier, I bind you to your pledge and pronounce you a member of the Wood Guard of the Silverwood Mountains.” She holds out her hand with her seal ring facing out, the carved firefly flashing in the sunset. I lean forward and kiss it.

  She jerks her thumb upward. I get to my feet, looking down at the space between our boots, trying to tamp down the stinging in my eyes. Behind her, the sun has finally slipped below the canyon rim, bringing rich new pinks and blues to the arching sky.

  “Veran,” she says. She sets one finger against my chest. “You are worth so much more than you think. To me, to your pa, to your brother and sisters, to the people around you, and to the good of this beautiful, hurting world we live in. But your worth isn’t dictated by how much you accomplish, and nobody loves you because they feel sorry for you. We love you because you’re exactly who you are.” She prods my chest, gently. “Don’t forget it.”

  I drag my thumb under my eyes and sniff. I nod.

  She leans back. “You know you’ve saddled yourself with another layer of superior rank? Mother, queen, and Woodwalker. It’s binding now. Sworn and witnessed.”

  “That’s a stretch, Mama,” I say hoarsely, grateful for her familiar banter. “Who’s my witness? The hens?”

  In reply, she reaches up and plants her palm on the top of my head. Slowly, she turns me around, away from the sunset, back to the other side of the roof, where the door to downstairs is still propped open.

  Standing on the staircase, her elbows hooked over the hatch and a grin on her face, is Lark.

  Tamsin

  “It should be to your specifications,” the engineer says, fiddling with a wooden peg. “Single-pull screw, type cast in lead.” He points to the big wooden plate on the press—reminiscent of Soe’s oil presses, but just different enough to clearly serve another purpose. The plate isn’t round, like Soe’s, but rectangular.

  “Should hold a sheet of parchment or paper big enough to fold a two-sided pamphlet,” he continues. “Twenty-six lines per page.” He gestures to his assistant, who daubs the metal type in the well with tacky ink. The engineer swings the wooden plate so it faces upward, fixes a sheet of rag paper in place, turns it back over, and hauls down to clamp it to the type. With a sticky kiss, the paper releases, and he pulls it out. I take it from him, my stomach swooping at the lines and lines of crisp, uniform text—currently just the alphabet, over and over, but the alphabet has never looked so beautiful.

  I nod in satisfaction, hand him back the paper, and sign to him. A few paces away, Soe—wrapped in a shawl but no longer stiff with bandages—clears her throat. “Tamsin says it’s exactly as she specified. Thank you. When can more be made?”

  “I have two more in assembly—I wanted your approval before beginning any more.” The engineer has already worked with me on multiple occasions and is courteous enough to look at me while he gives his response, something other people don’t always think about—they’re more likely to look at Soe. The engineer squints an eye in thought. “With the schematics in place, I can have the six you ordered operational in two months’ time.”

  I smile. Kuludresi, the last month of the year and the si of sharing wealth. The symbolism pleases my poet’s heart.

  “Excellent. Thank you and your team for your hard work,” Soe says.

  He gives a short bow. “It is an ingenious device, my lady. I look forward to seeing how people take to it.”

  I as well, I think as the engineer and his assistant pack up. As the assistant picks up his bag, I notice a tattooed line inside his forearm. It’s become something of a trend—though slave brands were ordered obsolete before Lark and Veran left the country, negating the need for freed people to get the painful release line branded through the rings, many workers have been choosing to set tattoos through them, just like Lark’s inked longsword. Some are just simple lines, others are words or symbols. The assistant’s looks like it may have needles on the end, like a branch of evergreen.

  “Hey,” I say to him, and he looks at me. Soe recognizes my request for privacy and lowers her voice so the engineer out in the hall can’t hear. Is this post of your choice, or were you grandfathered in?

  While there have been all the tumultuous ups and downs we expected in transitioning the labor force, one thing we should have foreseen but didn’t was managers who threatened or extorted their workers into staying in their roles for as little pay—or in as much debt—as they could contrive. Iano’s new Labor Bureau has been auditing as many employers as they can, but it will be months, probably, before that practice is stamped out.

  “Oh no, lady
,” he says, and his eyes spark with excitement. “I was in the Vittenta factories. I applied to the carpentry guild as soon as I got to Tolukum, and Bo hired me without any training at all. He’s putting me on the lathe next week.”

  I let out a breath, relieved at the boy’s genuine enthusiasm, and that I don’t have to cancel my contract. Good. You’ve done fine work—I wish you good fortune.

  “My thanks, lady.” He dips a bow again and hurries after the engineer.

  I run my hand over the smooth wood of the press, appreciating its strong redwood timber and sturdy screw. This has been built to last—built to work. I let my fingers drift to the giant trays on the worktable, their compartments piled with dark metal type, meticulously organized.

  Soe shifts in her chair, rewrapping her shawl. The injuries she sustained in Fala’s attack have left her with deep-set aches in her right shoulder, chest, and side where the knife landed, but there’s been no infection, and miraculously no organs were punctured. Still, it will be a long time before she regains full mobility again, and her slowness and unconscious wincing reminds me daily that Fala’s swift and private execution may have been too kind an end for her.

  “It’s a long way from my old wine press,” Soe says amusedly. “I think you should enshrine my old one, for posterity.”

  It certainly deserves a place of honor, I agree, and then pause, my fingers resting again on the trays of letters. The thought that’s been nagging me the past week surfaces again, born from the time spent at Soe’s bedside. In the moments between transforming the labor laws, and sessions with the engineer, and preparing for Iano’s upcoming coronation, I hired a tutor—a deaf woman who has patiently corrected some of my signs and trained me with a host of new ones. Slowly I’ve come to discover an entirely new world. When Lark first showed me the subtle differences between certain signs, I realized there was poetry in this language. My time with my tutor has taken me even further. I can use rhythm, I can use slang, I can show concepts that just can’t be captured in spoken words. I can rhyme, and not just with the same tired words I’ve been stuck with until now—rain, pain, again. I can use similar handshapes to rhyme rain with wind and snow and night, which frankly appeals to my penchant for symbolism more than forcing two unrelated words to couple. My well of creativity that had run so dry out in the Ferinno is once more overflowing—I have three crammed notebooks to prove it.