Even the Darkest Stars
Page 23
Finally, the ghosts slowed and began to drift apart again. We had come to a vast cavern—at least, I guessed it was vast; the roof was hidden in shadow. Dark holes in the rock wall hinted at passages leading to yet more rooms of stone. I barely had a chance to look around, however, because suddenly the ghosts released me, and to my horror, I was falling.
I hit the ground hard, my arm bent painfully beneath me. The ghosts moved away, all but the terrible, drifting head, which leaned over me, baring its teeth. I rolled away from the thing desperately, overwhelmed by terror and repugnance.
“What’s the matter, girl?” the ghost said, widening its bloodshot eyes. “Not regretting your decision to come to our mountain, are you? To sneak around like a thief in places you don’t belong?”
“Quiet, Orti,” said the first ghost. He was young, or had been when he died. His large eyes gave him an almost girlish look, or would have, if not for his dark, brooding brow. He had an aristocratic bearing, his back unnaturally straight and his head held high, as if there was a hook in his scalp drawing him up. I couldn’t help thinking that he looked familiar somehow, but the memory darted away like a silverfish. He appeared to be wearing a tahrskin chuba.
“Why have you brought me here?” I rasped. I drew myself to my feet. “How dare you—”
“How dare we?” the ghost said. “How dare you—trespassing on the forbidden mountain.”
“Forbidden,” the ghosts whispered.
“Nobody gets away with that,” the bodiless head said, with a snort of mad laughter. “We certainly didn’t.”
I was baffled, even through my terror. “Forbidden? By who?”
“What shall we do with her?” Orti demanded. “Shall we play with her before we kill her? Or watch her starve to death?”
The ghosts began clamoring at that. But the young man waved his hand.
“No one will hurt her. Not before we’ve determined her purpose here, and located the others.”
“I don’t mean any harm,” I said. “And I’m sorry if I disturbed your rest. I’m here to find the sky city.”
A hush descended. Goose bumps spread over my body as the dead gazed at me in silence, their stillness more disconcerting than a threat.
“Luta, Penzing,” the leader said at last, motioning to two ghosts, “find her some accommodation.”
I was lifted into the air again and borne down another passageway. This time I didn’t scream or flail about—I tried to focus on my surroundings, to commit the path to memory. But after numerous twists and turns, I was no longer certain of anything, even which way was up or down. The end of the passage had caved in, revealing a gaping, open pit. Into this pit the ghosts half dragged, half dropped me. I barely had time to take in the terrifying sight of bones piled in the corner, and the towering, featureless walls, before my head struck the ground and the world dissolved.
I fought against unconsciousness, willing my vision to steady and my head to stop pounding. The darkness was absolute—the ghosts had gone, taking their lights with them. The only sound was that of my own breathing, and my pounding heart. I would have given anything to hear the murmur of the wind or patter of snow—something, anything to prove that there was a world somewhere beyond the black place I had fallen into.
After two failed attempts, I managed to push myself onto my hands and knees. My head swam, and I had to lean against the wall, which was cold and damp, and smelled like a grave.
What did the ghosts want with me?
Where was River? Had he been captured too? He must have been—I pictured the ghosts dragging him away as I slept, as surely as they had dragged me. I thought about shouting his name, but I didn’t want to draw the ghosts’ attention.
I put my hand to my head. Despite the pain, it wasn’t bleeding. I held my hand in front of my face and waved it. I felt the motion stir the air, but that was all. I could see nothing.
A sob escaped me. Where was I? The ghosts had carried me some distance, but precisely how far I had traveled off my course was a mystery. River and I had come so far—we had only a few thousand feet of distance between us and the summit. And now—
Now I was lost. And for the first time since leaving Azmiri, I was alone.
Forcing back another sob, I pulled myself to my feet, using the wall for support. My balance was shaky, but I was able to take several tentative steps. Something crunched beneath my boot.
I knelt, fumbling around in the darkness. My fingers brushed against what was, unmistakably, a thin, curved bone, possibly a rib. I jerked my hand back as if burned.
Whose bones were these? Did they belong to the ghosts? Had they kidnapped other explorers and left them here until they starved?
I was shivering. The silence was spiteful; it played tricks with my ears, making me hear bumps, groans, and mysterious rustlings. I knew the pit was empty, apart from the bones; I had seen that. So why did I sometimes catch a flickering movement out of the corner of my eye?
I gave my head a hard shake. No. I would not start doubting my sanity now.
The rustling came again, louder this time, a pat-pat-pat as of tiny feet against bare earth. I was certain now that there was something in the pit with me. The something brushed my leg and let out a low growl—a familiar growl.
“Ragtooth!” I almost passed out with relief. Faintly, ever-so-faintly, I could make out the green glow of the fox’s eyes, which even in this dark place found a little light to reflect. “You followed me.”
The fox nipped my hand and darted away. Now that my eyes had adjusted, I could just make out the blur of movement in the darkness. His claws scrabbled up the side of the pit.
I ran my fingers over the wall—it was solid rock, much of it loose and crumbling. And it was high—thirty feet at least. It would be an impossible obstacle for most people, particularly in total darkness.
But not for me.
I set my jaw. Wherever River was, I knew that he wouldn’t simply give up—it wasn’t in his nature, no matter how terrifying the situation. So I wasn’t going to give up either.
I braced my foot against a tiny crevice, lifting myself cautiously onto the wall. But the rock was softer than I had expected, and it collapsed beneath me with a shattering crash.
I fell with it, rolling onto my back, my injured shoulder spasming in protest. The crash seemed to echo endlessly, reverberating through the empty caverns of the mountain.
I lay there, motionless, suddenly fearing the return of the light—for it would mean the return of the ghosts. My heart thundered in my chest.
All was quiet and still.
I drew myself to my feet. Ragtooth had already reached the top. He made a questioning sound, a low squeak that emanated from the darkness above me. I couldn’t see him.
All right, I thought. First things first. I removed my boots and hurled them, one after the other, over the top of the wall. It took several tries, but I finally succeeded. Then, balancing carefully on the sides of my feet to spread my weight evenly over the rock, I started climbing.
It was an uneasy balancing act. I had to move slowly to find the strongest holds, but not so slowly that the weak rock gave way beneath my weight. When I slipped, I sent showers of rubble to the floor of the pit. Each time I froze, holding my breath. I focused on moving as silently as possible. I pictured a mouse scurrying up a tree, a spider clinging to a wall—River could move that silently, when he wanted to.
My foot slipped, sending another rock tumbling to the bottom of the pit. I put River out of my mind, forcing myself to concentrate on rock, hands, feet.
Finally, I felt fresher air against my face—I was almost there, mere feet from the top. Conscious of the distance between myself and the ground, I slowed still further, testing each hand- and foothold. My feet, by this time, were scratched and bruised, and so cold I could barely feel them. My hands too were battered by the jagged rock, my nails broken and bloody.
When at last I clambered over the edge of the pit, I collapsed. I felt as spent as I had w
hen I reached the top of the Ngadi face, though the distances were not even close.
Ragtooth pressed his cold, wet nose against my temple and let out another squeak.
“I’m all right,” I said. “I think.”
It was only slightly less shadowed in the passageway than it had been in the pit, but to my light-starved eyes, that was enough. I could make out the walls, and Ragtooth’s small body. The fox darted off to retrieve my boots, dragging them one by one in his mouth.
Once I was dressed, I picked him up and we set off together.
“Which way?” I murmured when we came to a fork in the corridor. Despite my efforts to pay attention to the route the ghosts took, I was hopelessly lost. Ragtooth sniffed the right-hand path, then the left. He growled low in his throat. I took the way he indicated.
“Who built these?” I couldn’t help musing, running a hand along the smooth wall of the tunnel. It certainly wasn’t the ghosts. I splashed through a frigid stream—there was runoff here, meltwater from the snow blanketing the surface. Patches of the tunnel were covered in ice.
I was soon convinced that Ragtooth was leading me in the wrong direction. The ground was rubbly, and the tunnel now was much narrower than I remembered. I hesitated, wondering if I should turn back.
The fox bit me.
“Ouch!” I rubbed my arm. “All right, all right. But if we end up right back where we started, making friends with a pile of old bones, I’m blaming you.”
We turned another corner, and I stifled a gasp. Ragtooth had led me to the cavern—not to the threshold I had crossed with the ghosts, but to another, narrow opening concealed behind a pillar of rock. The air was almost fresh here, with a hint of snow. Water dripped somewhere nearby. We were close, so close, to the broad tunnel that led to the surface of the mountain. I stood still for a moment, weighing whether it would be better to make a dash for it and risk immediate detection, or sneak carefully through the shadows along the edge of the cavern. But as I was making up my mind, Ragtooth let out a growl.
I turned slowly. The light should have alerted me sooner—I found myself facing the ghost I had first met, the dark-eyed leader. He stood with his arms crossed, watching me.
“Well,” he said drily, “this is inconvenient.”
Something in his voice made me freeze. I gazed at the tahrskin chuba he wore, at his strong, long-fingered hands. Artist’s hands. And then at his face.
It can’t be.
And yet I knew, as I gazed at him with mingled terror and awe, that it was.
The ghost shrugged, seeming to take no notice of my reaction. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You made it up the Ngadi face, didn’t you?”
“Please.” My voice was barely above a whisper. “Please let me go.”
He snorted. “Why would I do that? I’m the one who brought you here, you stupid girl.”
“Because I know who you are.” I swallowed. “You’re Mingma.”
The ghost stared at me. His expression softened slightly, some of the bitterness leeching away. “I didn’t think anyone still spoke of me.”
“You’re one of the greatest explorers who ever lived,” I said. “I—I have your map of Raksha.”
“The map.” The ghost looked stunned. “It survived?”
I knew, in some distant corner of my mind, that I should have been planning my escape. The other ghosts hadn’t noticed me yet, and if I could get past him before he sounded the alarm . . . But I couldn’t tear my gaze away.
Mingma.
Looking at him, I thought I could see hints of the man who had helped guide me this far—in the wry tilt of his mouth, the focused intelligence in his gaze. He was Mingma, but what else had he become, in the long decades he had endured in this lonely place? And why had he brought me here?
“Did you look through it?” There was a wistful note in his voice. “I ran out of ink near the end.”
“Look through it?” I frowned, confused.
He shook his head slightly, dismissing the question. “How did you recognize me?”
“I know your face,” I said. “There’s a statue of you in the square of your village—it’s a good likeness. The Elder has it cleaned every day, in sunshine or snow.”
Mingma’s expression was distant now. Something in his bearing had altered, and the unearthly glow of his skin diminished. He looked almost alive. A young man in old-fashioned clothes. “Is the tree still there? The old fir next to Elder’s house that all the children used to climb?”
I frowned. It had been several years since I had visited Mingma’s village, a tiny place deep in the Southern Aryas. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry.”
The ghost seemed to shake himself. “No matter. I barely remember it myself. I’ve been here for so long.”
“What about the other ghosts?” I said. “Who are they?”
“The members of my expedition,” he said. “We came here, and we died here, without ever reaching our goal.”
“And this is what you’ve become,” I said softly.
“Not by choice,” Mingma said. “We were trapped on our way to the next world by a powerful spell.”
“What spell?” I started. “The witches? They trapped you here?”
He gazed up at the distant ceiling of the cavern. “These tunnels are ancient. They lead in all directions—some to the summit, others to the base of the mountain. You could not use them—no human could, unless they had wings, or were more shadow than substance.” Mingma’s gaze sharpened on me. “When the witches abandoned Raksha, they left more than their city behind. To protect it from thieves and explorers, they set a spell upon the mountain that would prevent any who died here from escaping its shadow, binding them to this world and stopping them from moving on.”
I felt cold. “Why? To punish trespassers?”
“More than that.” A shadow crossed his face. “You see, we are not merely bound to this place—we are bound to protect it against invaders. We are the guardians of Raksha.”
I swallowed, unable to look away from him. “Why? Why would you—”
“I have no choice.” Mingma’s hand went to his neck, as if remembering an old pain. “I didn’t die a natural death. I was killed—murdered by my own men. By the ghosts of those who died during a storm halfway up the mountain. They didn’t want to take my life.”
A sickening horror rose within me. “You can’t mean—”
“I have no choice,” the ghost repeated. “The spell is too strong.”
“Fight it. Please.” On an impulse, I reached out to seize his chuba, or perhaps his hand. I remembered myself a heartbeat too late, as my fingers drifted through him.
The dead explorer only looked at me.
Get out of here, a small voice urged. Go. Now.
I took a step back, and then another. I turned to run, but found myself face-to-face with the bodiless ghost, bug-eyed and gaping. I screamed. The ghost swooped toward me, but Ragtooth let out a hiss, and lunged at it, claws out. The ghost screeched as Ragtooth clawed and bit, raking its hideous face over and over again. The ghost finally shook him off, and the fox landed lightly on his paws. The ghost darted away, howling. The other ghosts who had gathered, drawn by the noise, made no move to approach me.
“Ragtooth!” I was astonished—how had he hurt a creature that had no substance? “How did you do that?”
The fox gave me an almost pitying look. He leaped lightly into my arms again, and took up his usual post on my shoulder, his teeth bared.
Mingma’s eyes narrowed. He looked as he had when I first saw him—any trace of regret was washed away, as if it had never been. All that remained was bitterness, raw as a wound.
I made a run for it, but one of the ghosts reached out with its ice-fog hand and tripped me. I landed hard, my hands scraping against the rock. The fox tumbled tail over snout until he collided with a rock and was still.
“Ragtooth!” I cried. I lurched toward him, but the ghosts were in the way, a swirling, whispering mass.
“I have no idea where they are,” I spat. Let him think there were others besides River—let him think there was an army. “And if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“We’ll find them,” Mingma said, nodding to the jeering ghosts. “As for you, Kamzin, I’m afraid we can’t have you escaping again.”
I drew myself to my feet. The ghosts surrounded me, blocking my path to the tunnel.
“How should we do it?” one of the ghosts demanded. “Throw her over the cliff?”
Mingma face darkened. “That’s an unpleasant end.”
“That’s the whole point,” the ghost said, but Mingma held up his hand, and they fell silent.
Mingma made another motion, and before I could even open my mouth, I was lifted in the air and borne to the back of the cave.
“Mingma!” I shouted. “Don’t do this, please—”
The sound of water grew louder. What was this? Did they intend to drown me? No sooner did I have the thought than I was falling onto a sheet of ice that cracked under my weight.
The cold hit me like a boulder, and I was breathless, gasping. Water flooded my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. I was choking. Dying.
I pushed at the ice that closed over me—it was thin, and my fist punched through it. But the ghosts were all around, drifting through the water, pulling me down as I fought to rise.
Forbidden, they whispered. Forbidden.
After what felt like an age, my head broke the surface. I choked on the air as if it too were a foreign element. Tremors wracked my body.
They had dropped me in a shallow pool, fed by some unseen stream that trickled out of the rocks. But I was clumsy, as if I had suddenly become twice my normal weight, pulled down by my boots, now filled with ice water, and my sodden clothing.