I exhale several rapid breaths. If Gaia’s statuette is still intact, whoever stumbles upon this cave next will need more than a glider to win this round. With any luck, those Nobles might point their manicured fingers of blame at Ingrid.
Chapter 5
Once the ringing in my ears fades, I lower my arms from where they’re protecting my face and peer at the cave. The scent of burning fuel lingers in the air. It fills my nostrils, permeates my sinuses, and sticks to my throat. My pulse won’t stop racing, and my lungs heave with rapid breaths.
I peer down at the flames receding into the wreckage, guessing that the fire has consumed the liquid we used to fuel our explosives. Moonlight streams down into the debris of fallen rocks that was once the cave, illuminating a fallen tree we must have uprooted with our fire bottles. Even some of the chalk from the hill has broken off and lies in chunks over the debris.
Vitelotte releases my shoulder and exhales several panting breaths. I guess this was the first time she’s thrown an explosive, too.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” I whisper.
“As soon as my heart stops spasming,” she replies with a tiny laugh. “That was unexpectedly destructive.”
“It must be the QuickBurn.” I grope around the branch, my fingertips checking for breaks. The explosion was forceful enough to knock me back, and I’m not sure if the branch will hold if I move. We’re still perched above the largest bitterthorn shrubs I’ve ever seen, and I don’t want to fall and impale myself with its spikes.
I’ve dealt with bitterthorn before, but we learned about it in Modern History and Agricultural Studies. It’s a plant that was cultivated by the early Phanglorians to protect their domes. Nothing can get past bitterthorn’s spikes, not wild men, not bears, not rabid wolves. Anything insane enough to charge through the shrub became lacerated as the barbs imprisoned their flesh. Later, scavengers picked them apart, and their bones tangled into the plant.
A convulsion seizes my throat, and I cough. Whatever happens, we needed to avoid that bitterthorn.
Bracing my back against the trunk, I ease myself up to standing. Its rough and uneven bark provides me the comfort of several places to hook my fingers in case the branch fails. We’d be safer if we withdrew to the tree on the other side of the bitterthorn, but I need to put as much distance between us and the dead girls.
With my arms outstretched for balance, I walk along the length of the branch using the diligence of a tightrope walker. My weight balances on my back foot, with the tiniest pressure on the front in case the wood beneath me cracks. The first dozen steps are steady, and the branch thick, but as it curves downward and twists, my heart quickens.
I glance over the edge, and the bitterthorn's wiry stems stretch to the underside of my branch. Vitelotte moves behind me, her weight lowering us toward the shrub.
“Stay back,” I hiss. “We’re too heavy for the branch.”
The fabric of her backpacks rustles as she retreats toward the trunk. “Is that better?”
“Much,” I reply. “If you wait for me to jump before moving, I think we’ll reach the other side.”
I edge farther across the branch, which sinks with every forward step. Sweat gathers around the edge of my hood, and a drop trickles down my forehead. I don’t know if it’s my impending fall or the stench of scorched QuickBurn, but my vision blurs. I glance down, hoping I’ve cleared the dangerous shrub.
With my next step, the wood creaks. Before I cause it to snap under my weight, I leap off the branch and land onto the rocky ground in a crouch.
“Zea-Mays?” hisses Vitelotte.
“I’m fine.” A shuddering breath escapes my lungs as I rise. “Did you see where I jumped?”
“Yes.”
“That’s where the wood creaks.” I glance at the shrub, which stands a foot away. “Don’t jump before then and be careful as you’re walking.”
It takes Vitelotte a little longer to travel down the branch. She’s confident but not as sure-footed as me. The branch’s noisy creaks cause her breathing to quicken, and she asks at regular intervals if it’s safe for her to jump. It hurts to ask her to continue down a branch that sounds like it’s about to splinter, but it’s the only way to avoid the bitterthorn.
As soon as she drops to the ground, I exhale a breath and clasp her hand. We stand together in the dark for several heartbeats before realization hits, and we continue away from yet another crime scene.
Jagged stones dig into the soles of my boots as we hurry around the site of the pile of rocks and rubble that was once the cave. We scramble over the fallen tree and run side-by-side down a stone path around the hill. Our panting breaths and footsteps crunching the gravel echo across the hillside.
We should be quiet and take care sneaking toward the cover of the forest, but we can’t afford that luxury. Descending the tree was time-consuming. Now that whoever was operating the drones knows that someone shot them down, I expect replacements to arrive in minutes.
We skid down a dusty slope, sending clouds of white around our feet, and then through a patch of forest where the only sound is our hurried footsteps and the pounding of my heart. Wisps of old man’s beard lichen hang from every tree branch-like net curtains. In places, it’s so thick that it winds around our arms and slows our escape.
By the time we reach the end of the woods, my thigh muscles burn, and my lungs cry out for oxygen. I lean against a birch tree and catch my breath. Vitelotte doubles over and braces her forearms on her thighs. Thick clouds cover the moon, casting the meadow ahead in semi-darkness.
Flat land stretches straight ahead for about half a mile with a forest of tall trees on its left that slope upward to the hills. The chalk hills continue along its right side, lighting up as the clouds drift away from the moon.
My breath slows, and the pounding in my ears fades to a steady beat. That’s when I hear it—the snores and snuffles and snouts. I cast my gaze down to the meadow where moonlight illuminates the grass and more importantly, hundreds of dark lumps. They’re elephant-sized, maybe larger, and they’re asleep.
“What is that?” I whisper.
“Bison bumelia,” Vitelotte replies in a monotone.
My head whips around to meet the other girl’s eyes, but she stares straight ahead at the field. “Bison?”
“Before my mother died, my father tried to transfer us to Bos.”
I nod. That’s the town in the Harvester Region where they raise cows. I don’t ask why he wanted to leave. The Harvester girls from that town looked better fed than us. Who wouldn’t strive for the chance of extra milk and offal?
“We all studied for the entrance exams and had to learn about the bovidae family.” She dips her head. “Mom’s water broke in the test hall. She couldn’t complete her exam, and the family was disqualified.”
My heart aches at the tragedy. From what Vitelotte said earlier, it sounds like her mother might have died in childbirth, so the family would also have had to suffer a visit from the Midwives, the guardians who investigate abnormal births.
A loud snort jolts me out of my musings, and I place a hand on her arm. “We’d better take the long route around the bison. Maybe we’ll find shelter on the other side of the meadow.”
We head toward the chalk hill, using the trees as cover from any searching drones and as a barrier from the sleeping bison. Neither of us runs as we’ve put enough distance between us and the explosion, but we’re also not taking a leisurely stroll.
After what feels like three hours, something scuttles toward us from behind, making us both stop. My heart flutters in my chest, and I imagine a stray bison, a wild boar, or some other charging animal.
Hoping it was just the wind, I turn and stare into the forest. Moonlight illuminates the tips of the trees and casts their trunks in shadow. My heart pounds so hard that it makes my rib cage tremble.
We stand for several moments, looking for signs of movement, for a mass of darkness to dart between the trunks. When nothing eme
rges from behind the trees, we continue on our way.
We walk about four trees deep into the meadow with the bison on our left and the forest’s depths on our right. Straight ahead is another giant shrub, but this one doesn’t have thorns, but berries.
The small fruit is nearly an inch in diameter with hard crowns at one end. I roll one in my fingers, noting its powdery covering. My mouth waters and I place a berry on my tongue.
Vitelotte’s breath catches but she doesn’t speak.
I bite down, and an explosion of sweetness and acidity spreads across my tongue. As I suspected, it’s a blueberry.
Vitelotte plucks a berry and sniffs. “Are you sure they’re safe to eat?”
“From the size of them, they’ve been cultivated.” I snatch them off the plant, gather a small handful, and place them in my mouth.
“What do you mean?” She places the berry between her lips and chews. A moment later, she stills and gathers her own handful.
There are few blueberry bushes in the Harvester region. If the birds don’t pluck the shrubs clean, other Harvesters gather get a chance at the fruit. While we gorge ourselves, Vitelotte pulls out a large water bottle from the stolen pack, and we take turns sipping its contents.
I explain what I know about the mountains from the lessons Mom passed on that she learned from Mistress Melrose, the Noble who taught her Modern History in the Barrens.
Hundreds of years ago, Phangloria and its surroundings were mostly wasteland. Rising sea levels swallowed the east coast of our continent, and one side of the Great Smoky Mountains crumbled into the ocean. The erosion continued for decades until the ground cover and legume crops the early Phanglorians planted fixed the soil with their extensive roots.
Afterward, they planted fruit trees and fruiting shrubs to create Gaia’s Food Forest. It was supposed to be a second Eden, where food would grow on every tree and shrub and the ground would be covered in plants. When the wild men attacked the new country and its inhabitants, the Phanglorians switched their energies into constructing the Great Wall, and non-food-producing species took over the forest.
Vitelotte munches a handful of blueberries. “Somewhere along the centuries, those ideals twisted into Echelons.”
I nod but don’t comment. This is the Princess Trials, where anything can be twisted out of context.
After eating, we head toward the hill to find shelter. A breeze rustles through the overhead leaves, and the gentle chirp of cicadas fills the air. An owl hoots in the distance, and the melody reassures me that we’re the only people traveling through this part of the forest.
The trees end at the hill, and we follow its vertical edge toward the other side of the meadow. With the bison lying hundreds of feet away and the forest at our backs, nobody can sneak up on us in the dark.
After several minutes, I find a dark spot about six feet off the ground. I nudge Vitelotte and motion that I’m going to climb up. She drops to her knees and holds out her laced fingers to create a step-up, but I shake my head and place my foot on a bulge. There are enough footholds in this landform to help me reach the hollow, and I’ve had years of climbing trees to train my feet to curl around nearly flat surfaces such as trunks.
I place my hands on the floor of a four-foot-high hollow with an area about the size of my bed. One leg rises to its surface and then another. Once I’m fully encased, I lie on my belly and poke out my head. Outside, a cloud covers the moon, casting Vitelotte in shadow, but I think she’s looking up.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“What did you find?”
“Enough space for two.” I stretch out my hand. “Come up.”
It takes my new friend several tries to scale high enough for our hands to meet, as she’s not used to climbing. By the time I’ve helped her into our hideout, she’s out of breath and falls straight onto her back with several huffing laughs.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
“I should be thanking you for saving my life.” I rest my head by her feet so we’re lying top to tail.
Unease about the dead girls stirs in my chest. Before I can rationalize that it was self-defense and they would have killed me, fatigue sweeps over my senses.
As a yawn pushes its way out of my lungs, I murmur, “Let’s get some rest.”
Hours later, a distant voice pulls me out of slumber. Sunlight shines through my eyelids, and I raise my hand to my brow. It no longer throbs from the air rifle, and the pain in the back of my head from being shoved to the ground has gone.
I twist around and squint into the dawn. The sun rises above the trees, casting a haze of orange across the horizon and coloring the thin streaks of clouds candle-flame yellow.
Rolling grunts sound across the meadow, and I realize that our safe sleeping nook comes with a cost. How on earth are we going to get past hundreds of bison without creating a stampede?
The voice sounds again. I stick my head out of the hideout and peer into the sky.
A passenger drone hovers several feet above, its blaring what I hope is the end of this challenge. The wind and sounds of the bison mean that I can’t hear the message, but Guardians only ever send these vehicles in emergencies. I’m too drowsy to panic, but I wrap a hand around Vitelotte’s ankle and shake.
She raises her head and stares at me through bleary eyes. “Good morning.”
“Time to go,” I say.
A moan sounds in the back of her throat. “We’ve got to discard the guns and packs.”
Vitelotte doesn’t need to explain why. Even if the QuickBurn doesn’t reduce the girls’ bodies to ash, the fact that anyone burned them at all indicates foul play. If we arrive with their stolen backpacks, it won’t take a trial to work out their murderers.
A cool wind swirls into our nook, removing all remnants of warmth. Cold fear seeps through my jumpsuit and penetrates my bones. The muscles of my chest tighten around my lungs like a dozen hangman’s nooses. I bolt upright with a pained gasp.
“What’s wrong?” asks Vitelotte.
“What if the producers find the computer and work out that the girls were tracking me?” My words tumble over each other.
It was bad enough last night to see the blood seep from one girl’s throat and to watch Vitelotte bury the blade of her ax into another. It was self-defense. No, she was protecting me from Ingrid’s assassins. But in the harsh light of the day, nobody’s going to believe us. They’ll just see that two Harvesters killed two Guardians, and they’ll extract every punishment from our bodies before they let us die.
Vitelotte doesn’t answer at first. And as the silence stretches between us, the pressure squeezing my lungs tightens. We’re both guilty. She may have killed those girls, she may have poured the QuickBurn over their corpses, but it was me who set them alight.
Finally, she exhales a long breath. “You threw the computer on the fire, remember?”
“But aren’t all computers linked to a net—”
“No.” Her word cuts through my sentence like an ax. “One of them said she blocked the camera frequency. That’s the time they needed to find and kill you. Whatever those girls did to cover their attempt to murder you backfired because it’s going to cover ours.”
My tongue darts out to lick my dry lips. Networks, frequencies, channels… they all mean nothing to Harvesters like us. I hope Vitelotte is right. If she isn’t, it won’t just be General Ridgeback casting his accusing glare at me.
“Come on.” She swings her legs over the edge of our hideout. “Let’s make a move before they leave without us.”
As she jumps down, I turn my gaze to the oversized drone, which now hovers above the distant trees. Now would be an excellent time to dump the Guardians’ bags.
With the threat of discovery hovering over our heads, the bison herd no longer seems like our biggest threat. We keep to the edge of the field in single file and try not to make eye contact. The huge, brown bovines are larger than any creature I’ve ever seen. This particular breed stands ten-feet-tall. Elev
en, if you count the huge humps behind their necks.
Guttural noises, a mix of growls and snorts, fill my ears. I quicken my steps, keeping my eyes front and fixed on the tall conifers a quarter-mile ahead.
As we reach the forest, a deep breath whooshes from my lungs, and the muscles of my shoulders finally relax. I turn my head up to the sky, where the drone broadcasts its message about a mile ahead.
Gentle splashing and the trickle of water reaches us from deeper into the woods. We follow the path of a shallow stream, looking from left to right for lurking contestants, cameras, or predators. Eventually, it leads to a beaver dam, a ten-foot-tall mass of twigs and branches that spans a thirty-foot stretch of water.
“This is it,” says Vitelotte.
“What are you talking about?” I ask.
“If we continue further along this body of water, we’ll find a deep spot where we can bury these packs.” She points further upstream and explains that beavers burrow into the ground to make the water deeper. Nobody will think of looking here when the girls’ bodies are so far away.
We fill the bags with stones, hurl them into the water, and watch them sink. When we’re satisfied that they won’t rise to the surface, Vitelotte and I continue on our way and follow the passenger drone.
Later, as we continue along a narrow track, a blonde figure walks ahead of us in the distance. She limps with her head bowed and her shoulders slumped. Sunlight streaming from the gaps in the canopy makes her hair shine like spun gold. I nudge Vitelotte, who nods. This has to be Emmera.
Both of us break into a run. Emmera turns around and sprints.
“Hey!” I shout. “It’s us.”
She screams.
“Zea-Mays and Lotte,” shouts Vitelotte.
Emmera slows, allowing us to catch up. But the closer we get, the more I realize she’s been hurt. Her left eye is swollen shut and resembles two tomato quarters, but it’s nothing compared to her bottom lip. The camouflage makeup only makes her look worse as it fades over the stretched skin.
The Princess Games: A young adult dystopian romance (The Princess Trials Book 2) Page 7