And you get all of my stuff. She took an awkward step and stumbled, landing on her knees in the soggy white mud. Ithak didn’t offer her a hand up. He just kept walking. She wheezed as she pushed herself back to her feet. The knapsack was growing heavier.

  They passed a leafless, dead white tree that was maybe twice her height. Most of the branches were broken off. “Why is this place so desolate?”

  “Oh, to know nothing! What a blessing. Ithak aches to be a simpleton like you.”

  Fen gritted her teeth. “Just tell me.”

  “This was a kingdom once. It included one of the nine cities and all the surrounding villages.”

  “What?” She looked all around her. There wasn’t even a sign of any buildings.

  “Yep, we are walking where thousands of people would have walked. I don’t know which city was here. Queen Servilia destroyed it with her guards and her red magic. Every wall, every sculpture, turned to dust. Every city dweller, too, of course.”

  “You’re wrong!” Fen pointed at him with her left hand. “Mansren destroyed all nine cities. Queen Servilia defeated him and brought peace.”

  “You’re rather defensive of the woman who cut off your hand. And you’re stupid for believing the lies the Royal Historians spread. Your stupidity is understandable—you can’t read . . . you wouldn’t know any better.” He lifted a handful of salt and let it fall from his hands. “Ithak has travelled every corner of Illium. There are nine wastelands like this in the queendom. That’s not a coincidence.”

  The idea that they were walking over a dead kingdom—a whole kingdom!—made Fen feel sick.

  “How can you know all this?” she asked.

  “I read a really, really old book.”

  She put her hands on her hips. It felt as if her stump were slightly longer, but she ignored that sensation. “Only the Queen’s servants can have books. How did you get one?”

  “That’s a long story I’ll share later, if you live. I curse the fact that so many pages were missing. But believe me, this was one of the nine cities.”

  Fen suddenly coughed so hard she nearly fell over. When she was done, she spat another wad of phlegmy blood onto the white earth. Her vines began rustling around on her arm as if they wanted her attention. She ignored them.

  “That’s how it begins,” Ithak said. “A dribble of blood, a drabble and then the torrent drowns your lungs. A particularly nasty way to die.”

  She took a step. Forced herself to take another. I’m not going to die here! She continued to follow Ithak, but as time passed, she coughed harder and more violently. She couldn’t catch her breath.

  “What is your magic?” he asked, indifferent to her predicament.

  “I—I don’t know.” Her voice was rough. “At least, I don’t understand it.”

  “You were able to throw that Queen’s guard from the water. Are you incredibly strong?”

  “No. I just imagined it and it happened. I—I used my stump.”

  Another hacking coughing fit blocked her ears. Ithak’s lips were moving. She had the sense her lungs were somehow filling with water. Or was it blood? She spat out a mouthful of burning black bile.

  “Answer Ithak: are there other times you’ve had the magic happen?” he asked. “Ithak tires of repeating himself.”

  “Yes.” She gasped. “I was attacked by a man with a scythe and I . . . I grew vines.”

  “You became a plant?” He slapped his thigh.

  She spat again. More blood! “They—they choked him and . . . and he died.”

  “Perhaps Ithak should fear the great green murderess.” He let out another aggravating chuckle. “Ithak doesn’t see any vines. Where do they go?”

  She hid her stump behind her back. “They disappear.”

  “Into thin air?”

  “No. They—they retract.”

  He rubbed his chin. “Any other times you’ve been . . . vined?”

  “Once when I fell from a tree. The . . . the vines grew and grabbed a branch.”

  “You are a clumsy oaf! But it does seem the magic rises when your life is threatened.”

  “Yes.” It was all she could spit out.

  “Your life is threatened now. And yet your magic does not aid you. Interesting, isn’t it?”

  She leaned over to cough again and didn’t stop until her face had turned purple. “You’re talking me to death.” The words were ragged in her throat.

  “Stop whining. Let Ithak see your stump.”

  Almost ashamed, she lifted her arm. For the last three years, the stump had been the obvious sign she was a thief. That she was partially crippled. She untied the sleeve and brought her arm out.

  Fen drew a deep, surprised breath. The vines had formed into a small green appendage. It looked to be made of soft, pliable wood. There were even fingernails of bark.

  “You’ve grown a woody hand!” Ithak said.

  She stared. She imagined the fingers moving. They moved! A hand—she had a hand again! “By the gods!”

  “Oh, this wasn’t the gods,” Ithak said. “This was you.” He poked at the hand. “Do you feel that?”

  “Yes.”

  “If we break off a finger, will it grow back?”

  “Don’t try!” Her lungs were burning now, along with aching to cough. “New hand or not. I . . . can’t . . . breathe.”

  “You must master your magic.” He gestured and his skin changed to pure white in an instant before he vanished. Then he snapped his fingers and became visible again. “That took me years to perfect. Finding the side of me that mirrored the outside world.”

  “What . . . what should I do?”

  “Picture something that’ll help you breathe.”

  “I can’t think of anything,” she said.

  “Then you’ll die.”

  She coughed so hard she nearly retched. What would make the air clearer? New lungs? Gills?

  “There’s nothing,” she said. She fell to her knees, knocked down by the force of her coughing.

  What brought air into her? Her nose, her mouth. A cloth wasn’t enough to block this smell. Whatever was in the stink, and was killing her, was invisible. Was impossible to stop.

  “Ithak will take that sword and your food and your crossbow. And that jade necklace. And Ithak will eat the last of your pork bun. A bun your mother made, Ithak guesses. When you die, there will be no one left who cares for your sister. She will rot in a prison cell.”

  Fen wanted to punch him in the face, but she couldn’t reach him.

  “It has been somewhat pleasant knowing you, Fen of the Green Hand.”

  Her vision was fading. She had once scooped a codfish onto the banks of the Vilia and watched it thrashing as it tried to breathe. She was now that fish.

  And she would soon be dead.

  Chapter Nine

  The Master Cobbler-to-Be

  “BREATHE . . .” FEN’S VOICE WAS A RASPY WHISPER. “Must . . . breathe . . .”

  How could she change the very air? She pictured her mother’s silk dust mask. It would be useless here.

  Then Fen lifted her right hand—that new hand—to her mouth. Or had it gone there on its own bidding? The air was fresher in the bamboo forest, where there was so much green. And in their hut—her mother grew herbs and flowers, even small trees. Somehow, green was the answer.

  It had been May’s job to water the plants. Fen saw an image of her sister clutching the clay watering jar. She was holding up a leaf with her other hand. “Green . . .” May said.

  “Green,” Fen replied. She expected her sister to answer, but she only held the leaf. “Green,” Fen said again.

  Ithak was bending over her, his big eyes blinking. “Have you gone batty?”

  “Green . . .” she repeated.

  She rubbed at her face and could feel her cheek through those soft and supple wooden fingers. Green means life. A flash. A web of vines and leaves grew out of the wooden fingers and wrapped around her face.

  Fen couldn’t breathe at all now. She couldn’t even cough—her nostrils and throat were blocked by the vines. Her hand was choking her.

  Ithak looked amused by her panic.

  Help me! Help! Fen yanked at the leafy growth with her other hand, but the vines didn’t break. And they wouldn’t stop spreading into her.

  Her body so needed air. She felt a scratching down her throat, into her lungs. Tendrils of green, budding there. Maybe they were running down her very veins and up her arteries. She pulled away her wooden hand and the vines snapped, but they continued to grow and expand despite not being attached to her.

  Air burst through the leaves and into her lungs, which filled and then deflated. She was drawing in clean air!

  “Hmm, that’s too bad,” Ithak said. “Colour is coming back to your cheeks. Ithak thought that sword would be his. Can you speak?”

  She tried, but only a muffled sound came out. She gladly gulped another breath of glorious air.

  “You’re silent now? Perfect! Can you stand?”

  She did so, shakily. He grabbed her arm and steadied her.

  “A very curious magic power you have. Leaves have saved your life. You are breathing, right?”

  Fen nodded. She felt stronger. There wasn’t even the slightest smell or stink, though her eyes still watered. She blinked until her vision cleared.

  “Well, it’s a long walk,” Ithak said. “No sense standing around gawking at your greenery.”

  She stared in wonder at her hand of wood, opening and closing it. A moment later she noticed Ithak was already twenty paces ahead. She followed.

  In time, the spiderweb of leaves plastered across Fen’s mouth and nose began to feel like a natural part of her body. Ithak had filled the silence by talking about the weather, his sore feet, his favourite meal—which was, oddly enough, roasted squirrel—and, finally, he said, “Ithak supposes you want to know how he gloriously arrived in this world. It’s a great tale of betrayal and courage and cunning. If you agree to hear this tale, just stay silent.”

  The leaves in her throat prevented Fen from making any noise.

  “Ah, so you agree. Then Ithak will begin. Ithak was born in Regentium, the humble son of a humble shoemaker. My parents adored me. It was only natural. Ithak was a beautiful baby. And Ithak grew into a handsome young man. Extremely handsome and tall.” From what she could see, he was not the most attractive man to walk Illium. And he certainly wasn’t tall, though maybe through the years he’d been shrinking. “‘You’re going to be the finest shoemaker in the city,’ my father would say. Ithak believed he would grow up to make velvet slippers for the Queen herself.” He shrugged. “Anyway, one day when Ithak was twelve, he was stitching a cork shoe and suddenly he could no longer see his fingers. It gave Ithak a fright. The needle and thread were floating in the air—Ithak’s fingers had vanished!” He shook his hand to show her, making them vanish and reappear. “The fingers returned. Ithak assumed it was just a hallucination caused by sausage gas. Ithak went to bed, and his parents both kissed him good night and told him how much they loved their perfect child.”

  Fen thought she heard a coughing noise behind them. She turned, but the flat salt mire stretched on forever. The air was obscured by salt dust. She was glad to be done coughing. In fact, she’d never before had fresher air.

  Ithak was touching the pouch on the side of his belt. Then he nodded as if in answer to a question and looked up.

  If she could have spoken, Fen would have asked what was in the pouch.

  He gave her a smile. “Now where was Ithak? Oh, yes. In the morning, Ithak’s mother strolled into his room and screamed. ‘What is it, dear Mother, ye who birthed me into this world?’ Ithak asked.

  “‘You are gone!’ she shouted. She was correct. His body was the same colour as the sheets. Ithak patted his chest and arms. They were still there. ‘I am here, dear Mother,’ Ithak said in his most loving of voices. He grew visible, but he wasn’t certain how he’d done it. ‘Your hair!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s evil red!’ Ithak’s father bumbled into the room holding his cobbler hammer. ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘Oh dear.’ He brought the hammer up as though he were going to strike his beloved child from the world. ‘This is just a momentary sickness,’ Ithak uttered in innocence. ‘I will get well and become the shoemaker you always dreamed I would be.’

  “‘Stay in your room,’ Ithak’s father said. He was still holding the hammer in a tight fist. ‘Yes, don’t move,’ Mother added. She closed the door. Ithak lifted his hand mirror. His beautiful, boyish, long, blond tresses had become a cursed red.”

  He wiped at his face. Tears? Fen wondered. No. Just salt dust in his eye. She wished she could mention that she, too, had been overtaken by the magic during the night.

  “Ithak was certain his parents were planning to hide him in their wagon and flee and live happily ever after far away.

  “But Ithak’s door was kicked open and a glittering Queen’s guard crashed inside, sword in hand. Ithak vanished in fear. ‘Show yourself, coward!’ the guard shouted. Ithak threw the blankets off and leapt out of bed. His flesh had matched the room. The guard swung and cut Ithak’s bed in half. He killed Ithak’s shelves. Stabbed Ithak’s dolls. Sliced Ithak’s shoe collection from the dresser. Ithak darted past him into the hallway. ‘He’s here, right here!’ Ithak’s father said. The hand that had patted Ithak’s head a thousand times was a vise on Ithak’s arm. ‘Oh, dear Father,’ Ithak said. ‘Release me in the name of love.’ Ithak’s mother was crying in a corner and Father shouted, ‘The monster is here!’ The Queen’s guard burst out of the room—he’d slain all the furniture—and another Queen’s guard charged through the front door. Ithak bit his father and he let go. ‘The evil demon bit me!’ Those were the last words Ithak heard from his father’s mouth. Ithak dived out the window and ran into the streets.” Ithak took a deep breath. “Ithak can see you are moved by my story.”

  Fen was, though she didn’t think she was showing it. The poor man, to be betrayed by his parents.

  “Well, the Queen’s guards pursued and Ithak knew they’d soon have the hounds out. So Ithak had a brilliant thought. A survival thought. Ithak dashed through a pigsty. Oh, the stench. Oh, the ignominy. The guards soon lost him. Ithak eventually found his way out of the city gates and, in time, after many grand adventures and thrilling events, Ithak came to live in the great forest of Helwood. A very stirring tale, was it not?”

  Fen nodded. It was all she could do.

  “Ithak hopes they gutted his parents,” he hissed. “How dare they betray Ithak? Their prince. The master cobbler-to-be.”

  Fen wanted to say something to comfort him. Her mother had attempted to save her and was killed for it. Fen stifled a sob imagining her mother’s execution. To see the sword coming . . . Perhaps her mother had been spared the sight of May being flung into a cage bound for Regentium. Fen clenched her right fist.

  The wood felt strong. She had a hand again. A hand! It was soft and green. Its five tiny branches were covered by pale bark, but they opened and closed as easily as the fingers on her original hand. She was no longer Fen of the One Hand. The thief.

  She was tired of not being able to speak. She imagined the leaves clearing inside her throat and mouth and found they responded to what she pictured in her head. To test her theory, she breathed in through her mouth and the poison air burned. She coughed. Then she sucked in sweet air through her nose. She took several more deep breaths.

  “How—how long ago did you leave Regentium?” she asked. Her throat was dry, the words crackled.

  Ithak glanced her way. “Hmph! You can talk again.”

  “I’m breathing through my nose.”

  “Clever! Ithak left Regentium seventy summers ago.”

  “You’re over seventy summers old!” She couldn’t hide the incredulity in her voice. “But you . . . you look no more than thirty.”

  “Thirty! Oh, hurtful child! Ithak has applied wagonloads of moisturizing clay to his skin, rubbed buckets of green tea leaves under his eyes, all to look twenty-five summers old.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Well, to be specific, Ithak has been in this world for eighty-three springs, eighty-three summers, eighty-two autumns and eighty-two winters.”

  “But how can you have lived so long?”

  “Not all of us wildmagics are gifted with long lives. Some have such great powers that they are burned out quickly. Or their heads get chopped off. But some will live centuries. The good ones, Ithak humbly adds. You might even live for ages if you’re part tree. Several wildmagics have lived longer than the Queen herself. Ithak has not met them in the flesh. Well, Ithak may have met one. But he . . . well, he didn’t quite have his head.” Ithak put his hands on his belt. It was the third time she’d seen him tap the pouch, as if it held some sort of good luck trinket.

  “What’s in your pouch?” she asked finally. He gave her a sharp look, holding his hand tight against it.

  “A chunk of history,” he said. “Would you like to see it?”

  “I suppose.”

  He flipped open the pouch and pulled out a dark object, about four inches long.

  “It’s a finger,” she said.

  “A stone finger. It’s my good luck charm. There was a statue once of a . . . a poet. A dreamer. A statue that was made before the Queen was born. The rest of it is broken to bits. But Ithak found its finger. Ithak carries it to remember there was a time before the Queen. It also carries me.” He chuckled. His laugh made her think he spent far too much time alone.

  “May I hold it?” She reached out, but Ithak shoved the finger back in his pouch.

  “It’s my finger. Not to be pawed by—”

  He fell over. At first, she thought he’d tripped. But he squirmed on his back and gasped in pain. A crossbow bolt was sticking out of his right shoulder. A hissing swept past her head and at the same moment a sharp sting jolted the side of her face. She put her hand to her ear and felt blood.

  “Get down, fool!” Ithak shouted. “Before you become a pincushion!”

  Chapter Ten

  The Voice Inside Him

  FEN THREW HERSELF TO HER STOMACH, LANDING HARD. Salt dust shot into her eyes, making them water.