Antheia Botanis's Arc

Chapter 7 of 15

Antheia came back to the burnt garden at dusk with empty hands and a plan she had not yet spoken aloud. Verdis sat on the same low bench. The wreath and the comb rested at their feet, untouched. Antheia stopped at the arch. "You kept both," she said. "That means you will hear one thing." Verdis did not look up. "Say it." "A table," Antheia said. "Built by our four hands. Half your soil. Half mine. Living plants on one side. Rotting on the other. Balanced. If it holds, the blight stops. If it fails, I leave the seat." Verdis lifted their head. Green eyes, flat. "Who taught you the pairing?" "No one yet," Antheia said. "I know who did teach it. I will bring her." She rode south through the night and found Lily Duskdawn in a plain house at the edge of a walled orchard. Lily opened the door before Antheia knocked. "You want the old pairing," Lily said. "Verdis Thornheart. I heard three hours ago." "Will you come." "Yes. And I will bring the one who tends both sides at once. Verdant Shade holds a garden like the one you are trying to build. They can weigh the halves while you two work." Antheia said, "How long do I have." "Verdis will wait one day. No more." They met at the shrine at first light. Verdant Shade set a plain stone pedestal on the terrace between the two gardens, marked with a flowing yin-yang. "The table goes on this," Verdant Shade said. "Not on soil. Soil takes a side." Lily laid out the rule. "One plant from her. One from you. Alternating. No power until the last piece. If either of you pushes early, it breaks." Antheia cut a white blossom from the lower terrace and placed it on the north edge of the pedestal. Verdis lifted a charred stem from the burnt garden and set it beside the blossom. They worked without speaking. Living, dead, living, dead. Antheia's hands shook once. She did not touch the dead pieces. Verdis did not touch the living. Verdant Shade watched the weights shift and moved a stem a finger's width when the balance leaned. At the center, Antheia laid a golden crocus Zeus had left in her camp. Verdis laid a black seed head beside it. The pedestal held. "Now," Lily said. Antheia and Verdis set their hands on opposite edges. Antheia felt her power run down into the wood and meet Verdis's coming up. The joint held. A slow warmth crossed the table both ways. The charred stems put out one green node. The white blossoms browned at the tips and stopped. Balance, not victory. Verdis pulled their hands back first. "It holds today," they said. "Move it under glass by nightfall. Sun and shade both. If it sits in open weather, it will tip." Lily named the place before Antheia asked. "The half-eclipse dome. Built for this." Verdis stood, finally, and looked at Antheia straight. "The blight stops at the groves it has already taken. I keep my garden. You keep the seat. We share the table." Then, flat: "I am not done watching you." Verdis walked back up the shrine steps. This time, at the top, they turned around.