by Sarah Driver
‘Stay still!’ she commands. ‘Those are men’s breeches, and they are in tatters, and—’
‘They ent men’s breeches – they’re my flaming breeches.’ I screw my eyes tight and suck my teeth. ‘Can’t you patch them for me?’
She sighs. ‘Very well.’
Beast-chatter greets my ears. Men’s breeches. Ettler scuffles about inside the chute. Witches call to me, atop the Wildersea! he yodels. My neck prickles. That’s a line from the old song – the song that makes magyk when my brother sings it. Why’s this squidge chattering those words?
When the wound is stitched, daubed with ointment and dressed, the light has thinned to a greyish murk. Dawn is coming. Kestrel lifts my sleeve and starts washing the brand Stag cut into my arm. Heat spills across my cheeks, cos I didn’t know she’d spied it, and a deep shame crawls through my bones when I think how I’m marked for life with the sign of the Hunter, slashes for the hate Stag showed my Tribe.
Kestrel fixes me with a look that stops me wrenching away from her. But when the blood and grime are cleaned away, the antlers show even stronger and I curl my tongue.
She gently rubs ointment into the brand. ‘So. What’s it like out there, in the great wide?’ Yearning swells in her eyes.
I pull my arm away. ‘What d’you mean? Don’t you know?’
She shakes her head. ‘Used to. Well, I knew the sky above the Iron Valley, at least.’
Hunger to rove makes my toes itch. ‘The great wide is the best thing since cinnamon buns,’ I whisper.
Kestrel props her chin in her hand. ‘Our Protector says travel is dangerous.’
I shrug. ‘Travel’s how my Tribe live. It’s who we are.’
Kestrel gazes at me with a gentle, eager fierceness. ‘I think it might be who I am, too.’
Suddenly footsteps ring in the pipes. Kestrel jerks her head towards them, all the life falling from her cheeks. She hauls herself up and runs to the door, pressing her ear flat against it. ‘Oh no, no, no, not now!’
The steps bang along the passageway outside, growing closer to the cell with every beat. Then a rider garbed in raindrop mail barges inside and stares at Kestrel. ‘What are you doing in here?’
‘Greetings, Pangolin Spearsister,’ says Kestrel breathlessly. ‘I was sent to shear the prisoner’s head and I thought, whilst I was here—’ Her voice trails off.
I stare at her. Is she lying?
‘So why does the creature still have a headful of rat’s tails?’ spits Pangolin. ‘Our blessed Protector will be displeased when she finds out you’ve been treating an outsider.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Kestrel says quickly. ‘Please, do not tell anyone you found me here. Remember when I helped heal your wounds so you might still be chosen as a Spearwarrior?’
Pangolin watches her coldly. Then she blows out her cheeks and rolls her eyes. ‘I won’t tell the Protector or Lunda this time. Probably.’
‘Oh, thank you, Pangolin!’ Kestrel stoops to collect her things. The light dims as she tips the moonsprite out of the glass jar, into her pocket. Ettler plops down from the chute and scurries into her bag. Then her skirts shush against the stone as she hurries off without looking at me. My heart punches my chest once, twice, and she’s sucked into the gloom.
Pangolin’s brown eyes stare dully through her raindrop armour. ‘Looks like you’re alone again,’ she says calmly.
When I rush at her, snarling, she brings her spear up to her chest to block me and then uses it to shove me roughly onto the floor. ‘I’ll be back for you tomorrow.’ Then she turns and leaves.
Fright gnaws away my insides, leaving me with a gutful of shame. Once, I was fearless – or at least I made myself believe the lie that I was brave. Now it’s like my scars have cut so deep that all my hurt shows up on the outside, and I hate it.
All day and night, as I huddle amongst the goat skins, I ponder the strange sawbones girl. Why was she so frighted at being found in here; enough to bow and scrape to that wretch of a Spearsister? And why can’t I shake the feeling that she might want to help us, even though she ran off and left me here?
I’m scared of dream-dancing again, so I keep pinching myself awake, but in the end I lose the battle and drift into a restless doze. My dream-dance is short and I don’t get further than the window before I jolt awake in a frightful sweat. I pinch my thigh. ‘Stay awake!’
Then, as my belly twists with emptiness, I remember the pancakes Kestrel brought. I stumble around in the half-light, clutching a goat skin around my shoulders as I search for the platter I sent skidding across the floor. Finally, near the chute, I close my fingers around a fat, greasy lump of dough. Both pancakes are drizzled with icy squidge ink, but I take a big bite of one and a wave of relief rolls through me as I swallow mouthfuls of smooth, rich stodge. I have to make myself slow down in case I’m sick again.
I finish chewing and wrap a goat skin tighter around me, rubbing my nose to keep the blood flowing. When I push my hair out of my face, it’s stiff with ice.
My glance snags on a folded scrap of something wedged into a crack in the wall, level with my bleary eyeballs. I reach up and slide it out. It’s a grey piece of dried fish skin. I unfold it and squint at a clutter of black marks etched onto it, but the light’s too gloomy to make them out. I tuck the scrap into my pocket.
Someone grabs me by the elbow. I can’t remember where I am. I’m wrenched to my feet, my arm almost tearing from its socket. The memory of all that’s happened drips into my brain as Pangolin bundles me towards the door. I must’ve dozed off again.
‘Get off me!’ But I’m forced into the passageway without even being told to shut my trap.
Outside in the murk, prisoners shovel snow from the courtyard. Snow lashes my face, stinging fiercely. There’s just enough dawn to see the looming outlines of frozen banks of cloud. Hail clatters against them. A pearly shimmering dances above the mountain’s jags; I reckon it might be the fire spirits, veiled by the gathering fog.
I tip back my head and gift the timid spirits a howl, hoping to coax them brighter, but Pangolin smacks me hard in the ribs, knocking the howl from my mouth. ‘Shush yourself ! Show respect when the gods flicker, or you will bring sickness to us!’
I’m gonna tell her what I think about her notion of respect but then a fog-horn booms, and she pushes me to the right, towards the sweep of steps and the wooden doors that Crow disappeared through. We pass the smoking stone hut, clanking with the sound of hammers striking metal, and an armoury.
‘Everyone inside,’ yells the horn-blower. ‘Sky-wolves have been scented in the foothills!’
I’m forced up the steps, beneath a pair of golden spears crossed over the eaves.
Inside, smoke paints the air stew-thick. I’m standing in a long-hall cut into the mountain, forming a cavern so tall that when I tip back my head I can’t see the top. Clouds drift up there, made of smoke and sour breath.
Great horned stamping beasts with shaggy brown coats watch me from stalls near the doors. They stink of restless fear and their skittish nerves make me think of horses. Their fright spreads among them like fire, and latches onto me.
Hayhayhayhoofshufflehayhayhay. Whooshfear bloodstink wulffrights feardrops, safe, herd, hayhayhay, they stutter, their big brown eyes rolled back.
Pangolin ushers me past the stalls and I shudder as the beasts thrust wet snouts against me, snorting and shuffling.
Folk sit on benches along the walls, some weaving bright cloth, others sharpening weapons or rubbing fat into their boots. They keep silent, darting their eyes fearfully around.
Steam writhes from battered cauldrons set on a huge fire-hearth in the middle of the hall. Pictures of draggles, goats and warriors with spears are etched into them. We’re halfway across the room when I stumble against a simmering cauldron on the edge of the hearth. The heat burns through my breeches and a greyish gloop floods across the floor. A cook in a fawn-brown shawl shoots a look of fearful disgust at me. ‘Mind where it treads
,’ she hisses, in a low voice scraped and scratched from lack of use.
A group of thin-faced kids stare at me from the benches. I ent never felt so small and far from home as I do when their hollow eyes touch me; all painted with black stripes to their jaws. Eyes full of mistrust.
I wish I could pinch myself and wake up back on deck with Squirrel and Hammer and the others, playing a rune-game under the stars.
But the sky-kids curl their lips at me as I pass, and an old man stops picking his teeth with a quill to spit at my boots.
Then a scream rips at the air.
‘Next trial!’ cries a shrill voice.
I try to stand arrow-straight, even though my legs are shaking, but Pangolin shoves me roughly in the back. ‘Keep moving!’
‘Touch me again and the voyage won’t end well for you,’ I snarl, cheeks on fire. I stumble through the shifting smoke, leaving her cursing behind me.
At the end of the hall looms a raised platform of damp, glistening rock. Filthy moon-lamps hang from long chains. Spearwarriors flank a throne with clawed feet and a back carved to look like unfurled draggle wings. I step towards the platform, down a path between two rows of ancient riders who sit facing each other on high-backed wooden chairs. One by one, they turn to watch me.
When I reach the platform, I stop and stare up.
A woman is slumped in the throne with her legs hooked over one of the arms, peering round the hall through shrivelled eyes. Her headdress is a goat’s head with horns so long they curve up and over to touch her shoulder blades. Red scratches are gouged down her cheeks and her scraggly dark hair creeps with shiny grey bugs. As I watch, one falls out and lands on the arm of the throne with a clack.
I don’t need to be told who she is. The sight of her shrinks my insides.
Someone darts through the smoke and a gag is wrapped over my mouth. Pain sears through me as the cloth is yanked tight over my stitches. I lash out with my fists but my hands are grabbed and bound behind my back.
At the throne’s clawed feet sits a slack-skinned old woman with blue lips, using long bone needles to knit spidery lace from what looks like a pile of brown hair. To the left of the throne is a midnight-blue door decorated with yellow stars. And as the smoke drifts, another, smaller throne blurs into view on the right.
Kestrel sits on it stiffly, hands balled in her lap. Why is she up there in front of everyone?
The Protector of the Mountain jerks her face towards Kestrel, shedding more beetles. ‘Daughter, what is this ugly thing before me?’ Her words fall like rusty axes.
A drum booms in my marrow. Kestrel’s eyes lock onto mine. Her lips are pressed tight together and her cheeks are red.
The glimmer of hope turns to ash in my mouth. I glare my hate out at her. She never would’ve helped me.
Kestrel stays quiet, nibbling her lips, and the Protector of the Mountain cocks her head at her, never blinking. Then she turns, slowly, to face me. ‘You come before the Star Door to answer for your crimes!’ she gargles, voice like a shaken bag of broken glass.
I will my heart strong, but a tear drops down my cheek.
‘Don’t cry,’ she says with a chuckle. ‘You’ll be one with the wind and the rock, before you know it.’
Kestrel shifts in her throne, and the Protector of the Mountain twitches to gift her a sharp look.
I think of Crow and Sparrow. Maybe the wrecker turned into a crow and left without us. The thought pits a growling hollow in my belly, but I do want him to have gone, just to spite this lot.
A distant wolf howl judders into the hall. I flinch and glance back at the doors. The draggle-riders on the rows of chairs tremble in their goat skins. ‘Younglings say they saw the Wilder-King flying with his pack, the day they netted the outsiders!’ mutters one.
The Wilder-King ?
‘That drunken old witch has no right to call himself king!’ calls the Protector of the Mountain. A frighted silence settles. She picks at her nails, eyeing me like I’m worth less than a bone button. Then from nowhere the shimmering face of the snagged spirit I saw in my dream-dance flickers behind my eyes. My heart is awash in darkness. The Protector is swamped in hate and fear.
Lunda and another rider barge through the smoky air, dragging someone with them. My heart stutters.
Crow’s skin is grey and sweat glistens around his eyes. His rust-brown hair’s shorn so close that I can see patches of his scalp, and clumps of dried blood cling to what’s left of it. He’s bound and gagged, same as me. When they let him go he collapses to the floor. I crouch next to him.
A violent crow-cry spews from his mouth, he starts to shake, and the cries keep coming. Why ent he changed his shape and flown out of here?
The Protector watches us. A chirping beetle falls from her tangled eyebrows and slides down her cheek. ‘How should these trespassers be punished, daughter?’ she rasps.
Kestrel grips the arms of her throne and stares at Crow. I squint at her – it looks like tiny bulbs of blood have sprung out across her face. She opens her mouth, but only a faint croaking comes from the back of her throat. ‘I—’
‘Come, now,’ says the Protector. ‘You while away your life watching the skies, but for once your idleness bore fruit. You spied the sea-creepers, allowing my Spearwarriors to capture them. So speak. What is to be done with them?’
It was Kestrel ? She’s the reason they found us and shot us down? I fix my eyes on Kestrel’s face and quick-sharp I reckon she knows that if my hands weren’t bound I’d be the one to win a fight, though she’s twice my size.
‘They flew into our territory!’ rages the Protector. Kestrel shudders. Thin trails of blood streak her cheeks. A rush of muttered curses and hollow chest-thumps swarms around the hall.
Another crow-cry bursts from Crow’s lips and then he sags, weeping silent tears.
The Protector swivels her gaze onto us, thin lips stretching into a grimace. ‘Stand!’
Pangolin jabs a spear into Crow’s back while Lunda wrenches me to my feet by my hair.
The Protector’s eyes bulge. ‘You blundered into our flight path while we were leading an attack, and alerted our enemies to our presence. You cost us the life of a rider and her draggle. You almost cost us the entire party.’ She says it so quietly I can feel the whole hall straining to hear. I shrink deeper into my boots.
Terror tiptoes up my spine. Crow tries to step back but Pangolin forces him still. I stare at Kestrel again, but this time I ent showing my rage. I’m trying to show my heart-strength, and tell her that I glimpsed hers.
No one here can help us. No one. But I wish she would, and my chest aches with it as I stare at her and she gazes back. Because I think she wants to help, but it’s like her voice is trapped.
Kestrel’s chest rises and falls too fast. She grips the arms of her throne so hard that it looks like the knuckles of her flesh hand are gonna break the skin.
‘You have the aura of a witch about you,’ bellows the Protector, making me flinch. ‘Your eyes sing that you are a wicked child.’
When she stops talking, the only sounds against the brittle silence are the clack of the old woman’s bone knitting needles, the snuffling of the beasts in their stalls and the bubbling cauldrons.
Why do bad-blubber full-growns always call me wicked?
The Protector leaps into a crouch and peers down at us. ‘I find you guilty, of crimes against the sky!’ she declares. ‘The punishment?’ A grin peels her face open. ‘Is execution.’
Execution. It clangs around the long-hall like a dropped spear. Murmurs seethe from the benches, like the riders are gobbling up the word and tasting its bones. I think of the scream I heard and stare at the midnight-blue door. An arrowhead of fright lodges in my chest.
Fingers dig into the small of my back and I’m pushed closer to the Star Door.
Then there’s a flurry of red and gold skirts as Kestrel leaps to her feet, trembling so hard she has to fold her arms around herself. ‘No!’ she blurts. Her voice cracks
through the murk, and her hand flies to cover her mouth.
The clacking knitting needles stop dead. The hall sharpens to a tense point. The Protector stiffens. ‘Did you speak, daughter?’
Silence. Kestrel quivers and twitches, battling with herself. Tears drip off her chin. ‘Y—’ she stammers, trying to force out a word.
The Protector grinds her jaw.
Clawing pity for Kestrel twists inside me. For the first time, I can see that having a living, breathing ma ent always better than being left with hazy memories.
‘Yes,’ gasps Kestrel. ‘I sp—’ She sighs heavily and gulps a breath before trying again. ‘I spoke.’
The Protector’s eyes widen. Then her face sets into an iron mask. ‘You are forbidden to speak unless commanded. And you risk it, for the sake of outsiders?’
Kestrel wipes her hands on her dress. Her cheeks are ablaze and her hair is wild. She snorts air out through her nose noisily and opens her mouth like she wants to say more, but can’t.
The blue-lipped old woman scurries towards her and tries to pull her back onto her throne.
‘No – no, get off me!’ screams Kestrel, and all the fear in her crashes away like a falling icicle. A splodge of ink spreads across her scarlet dress – Ettler must be hiding amongst the cloth.
‘Leave her alone!’ I yell, but all that comes out is a thick, wet warbling.
I twist and wrench at the ropes on my wrists. Cos one girl in the sky spoke up for us, and she’s filled me with heart-strength.
Slashes slice across Kestrel’s cheeks. She gasps in pain, and I see that the slashes are feathers. The old woman flinches away from her.
‘An abomination walks among us.’ The Protector scowls. ‘Those feathers tell me that you have not been drinking the potion to halt your disease. That is almost as foul a crime as trespass.’
Crow meets my eyes and then we both look back at Kestrel. Could she be a shape-changer, like him? Is that what the Protector means by disease ?
‘Please, Mother, don’t hurt them!’ sobs Kestrel. ‘The girl was just trying to get her brother to safety, and she was injured by a terrodyl, so she can’t have been thinking—’ She clutches her iron-arm, pain pinching her face as she flickers in and out of shape-changing. More feathers slice through her cheeks, the air around her seems to crackle and quiver, and her eyes darken to wide black pools, ringed with yellow.