She shook her head and turned away from the stage. Focus, she had to focus. Her magic might be getting stronger, but it could not get her out of this crate, nor could it break the chains that had bound her wrists last night. She knew in her heart of hearts that Cerulean magic was not made for that sort of thing—it was healing, and loving, and communicative. It wasn’t violent or aggressive. And even if she did get out, where would she go next? She needed help. She could not do this on her own.
The performers only practiced until early afternoon. Once they had gone and the theater was empty, Sera called out for Errol. It took some time, but he finally emerged, looking disgruntled.
“It is too bright, Sera Lighthaven. Light may be pleasant for Cerulean but not for mertags.” He held up a clawed hand to block out the sun.
“Errol, I need to ask you something,” she said, her fingertips flashing. “Do you know of a temple made of stone? It would be on an island somewhere, on a cliff overlooking the sea, with spires protruding from it, and a many-pointed star above its doors.”
Errol let out his croaky laugh. “She speaks of the temple of Braxos,” he said. “But no human has seen Braxos in many, many long years, by waves and whitefish. So how does a Cerulean know of it?”
“I saw a picture,” Sera said. “In the place they took me yesterday. The humans have seen it, Errol.”
All the laughter vanished from Errol’s face, and his huge eyes bulged even bigger. “That is not possible,” he said, his filaments lighting up in serious blues and grays. “Humans cannot find Braxos. Only mertags know which waters lead to it.”
“How do mertags know where it is?”
Errol puffed out his smooth green chest. “The first mertag came from Braxos. It is known by all of us. It is in our scales, in our fins, in our bones.”
“Is it close?” she asked. “How do I get there?”
“Not close, Sera Lighthaven. Oh no, in Pelago is where it lies, across the Adronic Ocean and far, far to the north, in islands hidden by rock and fog and other dangers.” He shuddered.
“But you could find it? If you had the chance?”
“Of course I could.” He swept out a hand at the space around them. “But neither you nor I will be sailing across the sea to Braxos any time in the future.” Then he cringed, hissed at the light shining down from the ceiling, and wriggled back into his pond with a plop.
A thought occurred to her then. If Errol was right—and she believed he was—then he was the surest way to find this island. She must bring him with her. And she felt a private relief at not having to leave him behind. But now there were two who had to escape instead of only one. She chewed on her bottom lip, wondering if she was creating more problems for herself than she could solve.
Suddenly Errol’s head popped back up over the mossy banks. “Ask Tree,” he said. “She will know Braxos too.” Then he vanished.
Boris looking to be sleeping. It was hard to tell with her three-eyed tree face—it wasn’t expressive like a human’s, or even a mertag’s. Her branches drooped and her saplings seemed to lean toward her as if wishing to rest their heads against her trunk. More flowers had grown around her since Sera’s arrival, cheery yellow chrysanthemums, big blue hydrangeas, and slender red tulips. And right beside Boris’s trunk there were tiny silver flowers that Sera could swear were moonflowers, except that moonflowers were Cerulean and should not grow on planets. It was a jubilant explosion of color that was at odds with the prison they were all trapped in.
She sighed and brushed a curl out of her eyes. She didn’t know how to speak to Boris. Errol’s lights had come naturally and blood bonding with Agnes had made sense, but how exactly did one talk to a tree?
“There must be a way,” Sera said. “If I can hear her, I can make her hear me.”
The High Priestess would probably know the answer—she had been around at the time when the Cerulean would visit planets. She must know how this facet of their magic worked. But hadn’t Sera just been feeling a sense of control over this part of herself? Hadn’t she been feeling stronger all on her own? She looked down at her hands, and they began to glow.
Show me what to do, she commanded. Show me how to speak with her.
Her chest started to tingle, lightly at first, but then the sensation traveled down her arms, tickling her as if a hundred flower petals were drifting over her skin, and tiny spots of light appeared on her palms like stars. Sera watched in awe as the first star rose up out of her hand, her magic slipping out of her skin as seamlessly and precisely as a thread through a needle. But the lights were not stars—they looked like dandelion seeds, tiny bulbs with stems attached to a halo of delicate silvery hairs. As soon as the first one emerged, others begin to rise, until a dozen or more of them were floating in her cupped hands. And once she saw them, she somehow knew what she was supposed to do. Very carefully, she lifted her hands and blew the seeds of magic toward the sleeping Arboreal.
They were captivating to watch, almost ghostly in their movements. The first one reached Boris and landed lightly on a blue-green leaf; the others seemed to take its command and followed suit. Soon her leaves were dotted with tiny shimmering lights, the seedlings’ feathery hairs pulsing in the air. And then they began to melt, leaving a farewell flash of silver before vanishing.
Boris made a noise that sounded to Sera like a person being awoken abruptly from a dream, if that person was a tree—a shocked creaking groan, like a large branch bending before snapping.
“Seeds of life,” Boris said. “Seeds of love in my leaves, in my roots, in my trunk. How I missed you.”
“H-hello,” Sera stammered. Her voice once again had a slightly different timbre in her ears, but instead of a higher pitch, it was low and rustling. “My name is Sera Lighthaven, and I—can you hear me? Can you understand my words?”
Boris looked at her with her three wise eyes and she felt like a little girl again, because despite Boris’s small stature, Sera had the overwhelming feeling she was looking into the eyes of something as ancient as the High Priestess.
“She speaks the wind,” Boris gasped.
“I—yes, I speak the wind.” Sera was delighted. “Do you know of the island of Braxos? And the temple on it?”
“I know you,” Boris said, the same refrain Sera had heard her say before. “And you know me.”
“Yes,” she said. “I know you and you know me. But the mertag who lives in the pond says you know the island with the stone temple on it.”
Boris turned her leaves back and forth as a woman might when examining a new ring on her finger. “The first seeds came from the island. Seeds of life and love. Seeds to grow hope and replenish. I have not seen a seed in many, many years and I am old, older than the men in this false forest, older than the fish in that false pond. The Arboreals have become small and few. The island fades from our minds and hearts. I fear this world is not as it once was.”
“But what is it?” Sera asked, her patience straining. “Have you seen the tether? Is that where the seeds came from?”
It seemed to her that the tree frowned. “The island lives in all of us, as it lived in our Mother. We are all connected. Even the fish. Even Sera Lighthaven.”