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different circumstances, she might have felt relieved.
    She pictured the continent she knew from maps and matched it with the topography below. Caskentia, a long valley tucked against the western coast. This ravine formed the southern border. Here, the land of Tamarania tapered in a jagged peninsula with the collective southern nations at the tip. To the far north of Caskentia lay Frengia, a country known for its endless forests and bitter cold. The high peaks of the Pinnacles formed Caskentia’s natural eastern border, though Caskentia had for centuries claimed ownership of the sprawling plains beyond the mountains: the Waste.
    Many centuries ago, the Waste had been known as the Dallows. Then something changed—­according to the Wasters, Caskentia had laid a magicked curse on the land. Whatever the reason, it became an inhospitable wasteland. Only in the past hundred years had the terrain been settled again—­and half of the time since had been devoted to a near-­constant war for independence from Caskentia.
    War is all we know, all we’ve known since my grandparents’ time. No wonder Caskentia thinks it’s best to kill me. It’s their easiest solution for any problem.
    Alonzo yelled something that was lost against the wind and engine. She leaned forward. Even with the bite and clarity of the air, he exuded that particular masculine ripeness that couldn’t be helped after over a week without baths.
    â€œWatch that buzzer!” He had to yell it three more times before she discerned what he was saying.
    Octavia craned around in the seat to check. “Far away! Staying on Caskentia side!” she yelled right into his ear. Alonzo nodded.
    â€œMore military, then!”
    Caskentia knew they were alive. Knew where they were. The buzzer might not cross in their pursuit, but plenty more threats awaited them on the ground.
    Oh Lady. I’m a medician. I want a quiet cottage with an ­atelier, a garden, and woods for gleaning. I don’t want any of this attention. The icy wind blasted tears from her eyes and dried them upon her cheeks. The warmth of the dead man’s blood was utterly gone. Her warded uniform had absorbed it.
    Tall steam plumes stroked the gray sky up ahead. Alonzo aimed directly for them. Some civilization might be a good thing. Perhaps they could buy horses. There was still a good bit of wilderness to travel until they reached the city-­states.
    The buzzer dipped. Octavia yelped and flung an arm out to protect her satchel. Snow-­crested pines crowded the ground below.
    Trees. A realization struck her like a slap to the face. The blessed branch of the Lady’s Tree. She had left it tied to her mare’s saddle.
    Octavia moaned and pressed her forehead to Alonzo’s back. Of all the stupid, foolish things. A holy icon, something that had actively assisted in saving their lives, and she’d left it behind. Lost it. Over the past week, she had toyed with the thought of planting it in the ground again to harvest more leaves, but it had never happened. She was always too bone-­tired after each long day in the saddle, and more than that, she was afraid of what might happen. The tree had been vicious before. It killed men. It had tried to physically grab her and force her to the safety of its branches. It was an aspect of the Lady, but nothing like the Lady, whom Octavia thought she understood and worshipped. The grieving mother. The protector of the lost. The balm for any ill. The entity whose vines ripped the leg from a living Waster and dragged the limb across the dirt, like a dog toying with a bone.
    Now the branch was gone. The only other one she knew of was in the palace vault in Caskentia, protected behind blood-­magicked wards that only the true royal bloodline could penetrate.
    Then there was the actual Tree, hidden somewhere in the Waste.
    She worked a hand to Alonzo’s ribs and clutched him as tightly as she could, as if she