Under Earth

by Ellen Renner

  “Sure.” Cloud bent his head, busily tidying up. “Someone else has disappeared.”

  “Who?”

  “That girl you hung out with. Mer. Some are saying she was in league with the Fire-witch. Anyway, they’re looking for her, but no luck yet. You need to stay indoors for a while, until they catch the witch. No going off into town by yourself, understood?”

  “Since when are you the boss of me, Cloud?” Shock at the thought that Mer might be working, not with the Drowned Ones, but with the Fire-witch, made her snap before she could stop herself. But Cloud almost seemed to welcome her anger, nodding with approval.

  “I’m serious! You may be the witch, but I know what I’m talking about.”

  He was so happy in his self-appointed role of protector of magic that she softened. “I promise, all right? Now get back to work before they beat you. I want to sleep some more.”

  But she tossed and turned as sleep refused to come. Could it be true? Had Mer been working with the Fire-witch? Or had she finally decided to join the rebels in body as well as spirit? Maybe it was simply that Mer knew Storm had found the sawn rung and was frightened to meet her.

  When at last exhaustion tipped her into sleep, Storm slept badly, half expecting another attempt on her life by the Salamander. What had happened to the Fire-witch? The woman could be dead, her body washed up on a distant beach. It depended on how far the whirlwind had carried her, and that depended on the whim of the Albatross.

  She woke before dawn, dressed, strapped her knife around her waist and hung the flute the Air-witch had given her around her neck. She had made a soft leather case for it, which hung by a hemp cord.

  She would visit the small lake to watch the white carp swim. She didn’t want to be noticed by the guest-house officials and guards, so Storm opened her window and swung herself down on to the ground. In a few heartbeats she was strolling through the garden.

  She stood beside the lake for a long time, watching the white carp circle beneath the water, wondering if the Dolphin would give her a sign. Or the Albatross. Was the danger over? Was the witch dead?

  But none of the Elementals spoke. The carp was plainly an ordinary fish, and had nothing to tell her either. Only the line dug through the earth like the mark of an enormous hoe – and the corpses of blasted and uprooted trees and shrubs tossed either side of it – testified that the night of fire had really happened.

  If the Elementals weren’t going to help her, she would have to help herself. Storm looked for a spot to practise the flute the Air-witch had given her. An enormous yew tree stood beside the lake. Its lower branches bent low and swept the ground, forming a green tent.

  Storm pushed through into a hidden chamber circling the tree’s trunk. She settled cross-legged on the thick brown carpet of shed needles and drew the flute from its case. She was eager to try tiny, precise magic. Remembering the Air-witch’s trick with the paper whirligigs, she put the flute to her lips and began to blow.

  Soon Storm found that it was only in those moments when she could stop worrying – about the Fire-witch, about Scoundrel, about Talon – that her Air-magic was completely under control. After many failed attempts, she managed a new level of concentration and suddenly the needles rose from the ground one by one as though strung like beads upon an invisible string. They played follow-my-leader, circling in a slow fairy dance around her head, up to the ceiling of thick brown-red branches and back down. Storm watched them in delight and the flute warbled sweetly. Gentle magic! She had done it at last!

  Then a movement somewhere above her in the tree made her think of Scoundrel. A blast of wind sent the tree’s branches flapping, and the dancing needles flew away in all directions.

  “Ancestors!” Storm muttered and looked up, trying to quell hope but not quite succeeding. It must have been a bird; there was no sign of the cling-monkey. She sighed, brushed needles from her hair and put away the flute.

  She ought to practise some more, but suddenly her heart wasn’t in it.

  You may need all your magic soon, warned her mind-voice. The Salamander has not finished with you.

  Storm frowned, rubbed her nose. Later. She would go and sit beside the pond again, and watch the white carp circle. The loss of Dain was sharp today.

  Storm crawled out from beneath the sweeping branches of the yew, stood straight and stretched, unbending her spine. Head back she saw, lodged high in the branches of the tree above her, the shaft of an arrow.

  Her heart lurched. She dropped to the ground, wormed back beneath the tree. Heart pounding, she crouched, waiting for an unknown enemy to attack again. Many breaths she waited, fear dry in her throat. Nothing happened. The garden birds sang. Squirrels chased each other across the sun-patches between the trees. At last, Storm made herself accept the fact that there would not be another arrow-shot.

  Had this one, in fact, been aimed at her? It would have taken incredible luck for it to penetrate the thick needle-clad branches of the tree with enough force to hurt. And it had been shot high in the tree in any case. Nowhere near where she had been hiding. Storm jumped to her feet and began to climb. The thick branches were closely spaced, the needles sharp. It was an awkward, prickly, breathless climb. But she reached the arrow, pulled it free and, one-handed, half climbed, half fell back to earth.

  Storm stood in the dappled green light beneath the yew and unrolled the parchment wrapped around the arrow shaft. She gasped aloud when she saw it was a piece torn from her own journal! How? And then she saw that the torn fragment was part of the page that recorded her journey over the rooftops with Mer.

  Storm turned the fragment over and saw, drawn in charcoal lines on the reverse, a diagram of the centre of the city. It was a crude copy of the map Betaan had shown her. The tavern where she had met her uncle and Foam the day she escaped from Tolbar was circled. And beside it someone had drawn the mark that meant high moon, the middle of the night – a crescent moon perched on the point of a vertical arrow.

  Storm frowned as she considered what to do. This message was meant for her and it wasn’t difficult to interpret. Someone wanted her to meet them at the tavern at high moon. Tonight? It must be. And as to the person … it must be Mer herself. The other girl must have seen it often in her old room. Storm chewed her bottom lip as she thought.

  Dangerous to go. But impossible not to. Mer was her route to the rebels. She needed to convince them that the Fifteen recognised the need for reform. Talon might be reluctant, but he was leader in name only now. She wondered how Mer would feel about the fact that it was her mother, Waffa, who had taken control.

  And what if it’s a trap? asked her mind-voice. What if you’re wrong and she does work with the Fire-witch? What if she’s been paid to betray you?

  Then I will find out. And what will be will be. No more waiting! I can’t keep hidden here in the Pact quarter, hoping my enemies won’t hurt me.

  Decision made, Storm stabbed the arrow into the deep litter of decaying yew needles and reached for her flute. Time to practise. More than just her life depended upon her magic. Dain had taught her to always keep trying, no matter how difficult things got or how many mistakes she made. I won’t give up, Ma! I promise.

  The star rose into the night sky, green as a the eye of a strangle snake. She had been ready for a countless time, crouched beside her open window, watching the Snake Star emerge from the sea.

  Nearly time. Storm rubbed her nose. So much could go wrong. She shook her head. She had decided: she would meet with Mer. She strapped on her knife, slung the flute around her neck.

  Storm pushed open the casement, slipped over the sill and dropped lightly to the ground. It was safer to leave by the window: less risk of waking another guest. And, although she didn’t think there were guest-house officials about, she could be wrong. Keeping low, she darted from shadow to shadow, keeping trees and shrubs between her and the gatehouse.

  Too dangerous to try to sneak into Talon’s garden to use the route out of the garden Mer had sho
wn her. But there was another way she could escape. The whirlwind that had carried off the Fire-witch had destroyed part of the wall around the central garden. She had scouted it out after lunch, while pretending to stroll around the garden. A rough wooden fence had been erected until repairs were made, but for someone used to scaling sea cliffs to collect gulls’ eggs, it would be an easy climb. As long as the guards posted in the guardhouse didn’t spot her.

  Storm crouched in the shadow beneath an old spreading tree for a long time, watching the stretch of the broken wall and listening to her heart pounding in her ears. No sign of a watcher. She took a deep breath, gathered herself and sprinted forward, feeling as though the rising moon was aiming its light directly at her. She leapt for the first plank, pulled herself up and was at the top and over before she could breathe twice.

  She was in an alley so narrow it was nearly a gutter. The land to her left fell away towards the sea, and in the moonlight she could clearly see the opening cut through the scrubby hillside, which ended a few paces away in a sheer cliff. Storm walked to the edge; peered down. Far below was a rocky spit, and then the sea. She heard the waves pounding the shingle spit. Surely no one could have survived that fall … unless the tornado had carried the Fire-witch all the way to the water before releasing its victim. Storm shivered, and began the journey to the Merry Whale.

  It was fast approaching high moon. The Snake Star was nearly overhead. On Yanlin, the town would be deserted, the townsfolk asleep in their houses, but the streets near the main square were half full of loiterers and drunks going in and out of the many taverns lining the streets, signed by the yellow glow of lanterns hung above their doors.

  At least she need not worry about being noticed. Sailors of all ages swarmed the streets. Even so, she ducked into doorways three times to watch in case she was being followed. Nothing. Ignoring her feelings of unease, Storm strode as quickly as she could the rest of the way to the tavern.

  The inside of the Merry Whale was gloomy. Tallow lamps oozed yellow smoke and filled the room with distorting shadows. Storm stood against a wall near the entrance until her eyes adjusted. She spotted Mer almost at once, even though her face was bare of paint and her clothes were made of hemp instead of silk. The girl sat at a small table by herself. Her face flashed relief as their eyes met.

  Storm walked as normally as she could across the room. Her heart was thudding, but now that she was here, she found she was strangely calm. What will be will be, agreed her mind-voice.

  “Didn’t really expect to see you.” Mer gestured to the mat beside her and, with a last careful look around the room, Storm sat down.

  “Why are we here? And why did you leave home?”

  “For the same reason.” Mer leaned nearer, lowered her voice. “I’ve decided it was a good thing I didn’t kill you on the stairs. Sorry about that, by the way. In fact, I think the Ancestors may have sent you to Bellum to help us.”

  Storm felt her mouth open. Was it really going to be so easy? “Are there many of you? Are you organised?”

  “As many as aren’t too deep in drink or poverty to care. Or who aren’t in the pay of the Pact. Of course, we have to keep ourselves secret. If the Pact scents the slightest dissent it strikes with the viciousness of a spit-snake. Many have disappeared. Even though we are powerless to do more than watch and talk and … hate. We need a champion. Someone with the power to fight the Pact. We need you!”

  “It may not come to fighting. I have news…” Something was wrong. Mer’s face had gone pale as parchment. She was staring at something behind them. Fear had flickered to life in her eyes. “The innkeeper! She keeps looking at us and pretending not to. There’s a reward out for me. I think I’ve been spotted.”

  Carefully, Storm turned her head toward the spot the other girl was watching. And saw the tavern keeper, a tall strong woman with muscular arms, staring intently at the door. The woman’s eyes swivelled to them, flinched from Storm’s gaze and flicked back to the door.

  “We need to get out of here,” Storm said.

  But just then she saw a look of relief flash across the tavern keeper’s face. Storm’s stomach lurched. Too late!

  Two Pact guards pushed through the door and the tavern keeper pointed at Mer. The guards had their batons out. No swords or knives. And only two, a man and a woman. The tavern keeper hadn’t known who she was informing on, and that meant they had a chance.

  Storm readied her magic as she pulled the flute from its pouch, hoping her practice earlier in the day had paid off.

  “Stay close!” she told Mer as she grabbed a mindful of music out of the air and used it to fashion a slender battering ram of wind. “Just the doorway, please,” she muttered, and blew into the flute. The air in the room vibrated. Storm took a deep breath and shrilled a fierce note that grabbed the column of air and rammed it at the man and woman stalking towards them.

  The air struck the guards with a heavy thudding noise and sent them flying. Storm grabbed Mer’s arm and pushed her towards the door. Too late, she saw another pair of guards waiting outside. One of them grabbed at Mer, but the tall girl kicked out and knocked her attacker off his feet. Storm fluted a blast of notes that sent the guards tumbling along the ground, shouting and hollering.

  Just the guards, she noted. None of the bystanders or drunks. Even the inn sign overhead barely swayed in its brackets. Nice and precise. Storm turned to Mer with a satisfied grin. “Are you all right?”

  Mer started to nod. Then she gazed over Storm’s shoulder, and her face froze. More guards! thought Storm. But she was wrong.

  “Run!” shouted Mer. “The witch!” She gave Storm an almighty push that sent her spinning across the road. The flute flew out of her hand into the darkness.

  Storm felt a searing flash of heat behind her. Something scorched her hair. The Fire-witch had found her again!

  Storm was already moving, racing away on legs made fast by fear. Dodging, weaving, readying the fiercest magic she could rip from the air around her. She wouldn’t let the Fire-witch kill her, not without a fight!

  She glimpsed a thin, red-robed figure standing in the middle of the square. Mer had vanished. At least now she knew the other girl had not been working with the Salamander’s child. The Fire-witch might have been trailing Mer for days, or even followed the guards here. The most likely explanation is that she had been keeping watch on Talon’s guest house and followed Storm herself to the tavern. It didn’t matter. Staying alive did! Another fireball screamed towards her, but Storm was already somewhere else.

  As she ran, she drew more and more air to her. The light above the tavern began to sway wildly, illuminating a chaos of terror as drinkers and passers-by ran for their lives. The night was full of screams and wails. One of the guards that had come to arrest Mer ran past, shouting, sword raised. She heard his death cry as fire licked forward, hungry. The other guard retreated, frantically notching an arrow to her bow.

  The witch will only burn the shafts in mid-air. Storm reached the edge of the square. By some instinct, she swerved suddenly, and the house that had been in front of her only a breath before burst into flames.

  No space. No time. Albatross! Aid me. The Dolphin could not help. The Tortoise would help if it felt it necessary, no doubt. And the fact that the ground did not shift beneath her feet gave Storm courage. The Earth spirit wasn’t intervening, which meant it had faith in her magic. She could defeat the Salamander’s agent if she was brave enough. If she believed…

  A guard had just died because of her. Storm turned to face the Fire-witch.

  The woman was standing at the centre of the square. Fire danced in her long hair, flowed down her arms to drip like molten lava on to the pavement at her feet. Fire raged inside the witch’s body – she stood like a human sun illuminating the night.

  The Fire-witch laughed as she saw Storm turn. She raised both her clenched fists, pointed them at her prey.

  “This will stop!” Storm roared, and her open mouth released the wind-b
last of her anger and fear, channelling it as well as she could without the flute. Wind poured out of her mouth, fierce as a typhoon, cold as frost. Unforgiving as the ever-ice on the high mountains, Storm’s battering ram of wind flew at the Fire-witch.

  It met the fireball head on. For less than the time than it takes for a cling-monkey’s heart to beat once, the two forces struggled, neither making way. Still Storm screamed her anger. Her teeth ached from cold. She lost feeling in her hands and feet, then her legs. Ice formed on her body, crawled up her arms and legs, froze her hair. She saw it creep down her forehead towards her eyes until it glazed them over and the Fire-witch was only an orange glow on the other side of a cocoon of ice. The pain of the cold was so intense her scream was now one of agony.

  And then, with a loud, vibrating boom that shattered the ice covering Storm’s eyes, the wind she had magicked swallowed the fireball and rushed on towards the witch. Storm watched the woman cry out, cower on the ground. She saw a dome of fire cover the crouching figure like a shield. Then the fire-dome and the witch were engulfed by the wind and swept away.

  Storm stopped screaming. She was empty of air, empty of magic. She lacked even the strength necessary to close her mouth. Her eyes, which seemed the only part of her able to move, searched the darkness for any sign of the Fire-witch.

  The only thing left of the witch was the devastation Storm had wrought fighting her: lanterns, signs and doors torn from buildings, carts overturned. Even the small crumbling fountain skulking in a corner of the square had been plucked from the ground and lay broken on its side, water spraying from a broken pipe. It formed a stream which meandered, black and wet, through the rubble, like a trickle of blood.

  Storm felt her legs unfreeze. Pain redoubled as her blood warmed and feeling came back into her legs and arms. When the blood reached her fingers, she screamed. She felt herself sway, fall as a grey blankness swam up over her eyes and blotted out everything.