“I’d wait for reinforcements,” Calix said, chewing on a piece of meat. “Maybe she’s around here somewhere and now that the Safarans are gone, she’ll reveal herself.”
Dysis paced along the ridge. “I don’t know. I don’t think I’d stay. I’d be too scared the Safarans would search the area. She doesn’t know we faked her death . . . she’ll assume they’re looking for her.”
“What about her transponder? Why hasn’t she triggered it?” Daakon polished off a nutrigel in a couple seconds, washing it down with a few sips of water from his flask.
“Maybe she has by now. You never know.” Dysis sipped on her own pouch, the too-sweet gel making her grimace.
“Oh we’d know,” Daakon replied. “There’d be Atalantan wingjets swarming all over the place.”
As they talked, morning light filtered more and more brightly through the trees.
“Okay, then let’s assume she can’t activate it for some reason. Where do we search next?” Calix rolled up his thin bedroll and stuffed it into his pack, his movements jerky with nervous energy.
Dysis continued to pace, her mind racing. If it were her . . . if she were injured and hadn’t made it to the crash site in time, if she couldn’t use her beacon for help . . .
“I’d head for the border.”
Daakon turned to watch her. “What?”
Dysis stopped. “If it were me, I’d try to cross into Atalanta. I’d try to get home, however I could.”
“But there are mountains in the way,” Calix said.
“Okay, yes. There are mountains. It’d be a long, painful hike. But what other choice would she have?” The more Dysis thought about it, the more convinced she was that she was right.
“This is all assuming she hasn’t been captured,” Daakon added.
Dysis grabbed her bedroll, stuffed it into her pack, and heaved the bag onto her shoulders. “We’re supposed to be searching for her. I say we head east toward Atalanta. If you two actually have any useful suggestions, by all means offer them. Otherwise, let’s get moving.”
She ignored the look the two men shared. She’d hiked a few feet along the ridge, away from the crash site, before they caught up.
Dysis, Calix, and Daakon spread out and walked slowly, systematically, looking for more blood spatter or footprints in the underbrush. Every time a bird cried or a leaf rustled, Dysis’s head jerked up and her heart pounded. She kept expecting to hear footsteps or Aris’s voice humming an old lullaby.
It was still cool in the shade beneath the gnarled trees, but pockets of heat collected everywhere the sun touched.
“What do you think you’ll do, once the war is over?” Calix’s voice made her jump.
She glanced at him, eyebrow raised.
“Just . . . making conversation. These woods are getting to me.”
Dysis rolled her eyes, but she understood. The trees were spindly and sickly, the underbrush interspersed with falls of rock and crumbling dirt. Everything smelled old somehow, like dried flowers. There was no color, no escape from the heat of the rising sun. It was like walking through a forest of skeletons.
“I have no idea,” she answered. “Back home I taught mechanics, but . . . well, I hate it, to be honest. I guess I’m hoping there will still be a place for me in Military. Maybe I can work for a police detail in my village. Something where I can be close to my brother.” She studied the ground as she spoke, searching for signs of passage.
“What about you?” she asked. She wasn’t about to involve Daakon in the conversation. She didn’t want to know about his future. Not unless he’d magically decided she should be a part of it.
Calix’s features tightened. “I . . . I’m not sure either. My plans are kind of in flux right now.”
Right. He was a deserter. His plans could very well be time in jail.
“Maybe I’ll—” He stopped suddenly and dropped to his haunches. “Does this look like a footprint to anyone else?”
Dysis and Daakon hurried over. Calix pointed to a shallow impression in the dirt.
“Could be,” Daakon said, straightening. “Fan out. We’ll give this area a closer look.”
Dysis crept forward, examining every bent leaf and broken twig. Then something else caught her eye, a suspicious smudge in the small clearing ahead.
“Hey, I think I’ve got something.” She rushed forward.
Daakon knelt at the spot. “Someone made a fire.” He touched the small circle of ash and blackened wood. “It’s cold.”
“Aris was here,” Calix said, hope igniting in his eyes.
Daakon glanced up, his expression still serious. “Or her captors were.”
Dysis made her way around the makeshift campsite, looking for other evidence. There, by the rock, a sweep of dirt. A tiny rust splotch, maybe a drop of blood?
The rising sun shone mercilessly from a cloudless sky, filling the otherwise empty clearing with heat. The trees waited, motionless, for a breeze that never came.
A faint rumble filled the air. It almost sounded like . . .
“Take cover!” she yelled and dove for a small patch of shadow beneath the trees, just as a flurry of black Safaran wingjets flew overhead. Everyone remained frozen until the sound of the jets disappeared completely. No shots were fired, and the wingjets never varied from their course.
“Was that a patrol?” Calix asked. “We need to figure out which way Aris went and get moving.”
Dysis stepped in his direction, but a strange sound stopped her. She turned.
Daakon was jerking his leg up and down, clutching at his knee. He groaned again, a pained noise that slid into a high-pitched hiss. A long, golden rope hung from his ankle, rattling each time his leg moved.
Time slowed.
“Lieutenant!” Calix shouted, running toward Daakon. He slipped his utility knife from the sheath at his ankle and sliced through the rope . . .
No. Not the rope.
The snake.
Chapter 25
The Safaran wingjets were louder than Aris expected as they landed. She kept the worn sheet up over her cheek, but she could still see most of the room. Alistar and another mender whispered in low, urgent voices. Both of the other patients had their backs to her, but she could tell by the small lumps they made under the sheets that they were probably children.
Were Balias’s men here to collect them?
What if they were here for her?
Aris tried to keep her breathing under control but it was difficult, particularly when shouting erupted outside.
Alistar slipped from the room.
Aris strained to hear the commotion. Was that the hiss of solagun fire? She was about to sit up and sneak to the door, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on, when a beam of light struck her.
Someone had pulled back the scrap of fabric that covered the doorway.
Aris scrunched lower beneath the sheets and closed her eyes, feigning sleep, but her heart slammed in her chest with the power of a stampeding horse.
“Have you seen any strangers in the area?” a gruff voiced asked.
Aris held her breath. Gods, this is it. Alistar will expose me right now.
She braced herself. What chance did she really have?
“No strangers.” Alistar’s voice was calm. “We saw an explosion a few days ago but nothing else has been out of the ordinary.”
Aris released her breath quietly.
The footsteps got closer. “You always have so many patients for such a small village. Last week it was five. This week, three.”
“Our water is bad. There’s a lot of sickness,” Alistar said smoothly.
“Three menders in such a small place. Seems like a waste of resources,” the soldier growled in an offhand way, but a whisper of suspicion undercut his words.
“I’m not a true mender, Major, as you’re aware.” Tension crept into Alistar’s voice. Aris snuck a peek through lowered lashes. The two men, hazy shadows, had almost reached her cot.
The
larger man—the Major—stopped. “That’s right. What are you exactly, Alistar?”
Silence. Aris counted it in heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Four.
“You know me, Major. I’m just trying to keep my people safe,” Alistar said. “I’m useless for anything else.”
One. Two. Three.
“They’re not your people. They’re Ward Balias’s.”
“Of course.”
A slide of boot against floor. Aris opened her eyes a fraction wider. The Major had turned away. He was leaving.
For a long time, Aris remained exactly as she was, counting her heartbeats as they pounded in her temples. It wasn’t until the roar of the Safaran wingjets faded into silence that she dared pulled the sheet away from her face and sit up.
When Alistar didn’t return to collect her, she crept from the bed to the doorway, as cautiously as she could. Outside, the clearing was empty. Aris glanced to the blue-washed sky. Empty of clouds and wingjets.
She swayed on unsteady legs.
“Aris.” Alistar appeared at her side and took her arm. “Come with me.” He drew her across the clearing toward the mountain.
Alistar helped her onto a narrow path, along one of those terrifying wooden bridges strung against the rock. They passed several tiny houses, all empty, only to duck into the dark of a cave.
“Where are we going?” she asked. Her voice echoed oddly, and she couldn’t help but think of the last time she’d been in a cave. She and Milek had slept side by side, just after he’d found out she was a woman.
“Most of the structures in our village are actually decoys,” Alistar replied, pulling her from her memories. “We use the old clinic because our patients usually can’t manage the cliffs, but for the most part we live here, in the caves.”
He led her down a tunnel that burrowed deep into the cliff. Far ahead, a tiny light flickered.
“That’s how you do it,” Aris murmured in wonder. “You hide the children here.”
The soft orange glow lined Alistar’s face as he glanced back at her and grinned. “We hide everything in these caves.”
A few more steps and the narrow passageway opened to a large cavern lit by old-fashioned torchlight and a small cooking fire. The air was cool and clammy against Aris’s arms, contrasting to the dry heat outside. The fire sent flames toward a jagged opening in the rock, but a haze still filled the space. Long wooden tables sat in the center of the room, filled with villagers.
“When you were unconscious, I gave you fluids and liquid nutrition, but you need to eat.” The ache in Aris’s stomach agreed.
Alistar led her to the nearest table, occupied by several of the children she’d seen playing earlier. The boy with the limp and the blood-red scars perched on the bench across from her. He dropped his gaze as soon as he saw her looking at him. At the other end of the table, Samira breastfed Hazel. Beside her, Jaff shoveled porridge into his mouth with his hands.
Alistar walked away, reappearing with a bowl of porridge and a mug of water. “Go slowly. If this goes down alright, I’ll get you some egg.”
“Thank you,” Aris said, meeting his eyes. His resemblance to Elom still unnerved her, but he’d had her life in his hands twice now . . . and she was still breathing.
Alistar nodded. “After you eat, we’ll talk.”
Aris turned her attention to her bowl. The porridge was thick, with a hint of sweetness but little taste. Not the most appetizing meal, but the first she’d eaten since the piggin the day before. She scooped it up eagerly. Beside her, a young boy grinned.
She smiled back, puffing her cheeks out as if they were stuffed with food.
He giggled and bunched up his smooth cheeks in imitation. The children next to him turned to look.
“What’s your name?” she asked him. He was probably four or five years old, too young yet for Balias’s conscription. So he’d probably lost his parents. The thought stole the smile from her face.
“Zeb,” he said. “What’s yours?”
“Aris.” She forced another bite of porridge down. She’d only eaten a little but she already felt uncomfortably full.
“Why are you here?” asked the boy with the scars. His chin was raised a little too high, like he was psyching himself up to talk to her, trying to make himself look older.
She chose to answer him honestly. “My wingjet went down and Alistar saved my life.”
He cocked his head. The murmurs of the other children faded. “You’re a girl. And . . . and from Atalanta.” He stumbled over it, like he was saying a dirty word. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“That’s true,” Aris said. “All I want is to get back home.”
The boy’s arms were so thin, his brown eyes wary. Knowing he’d been in fights with Atalantan soldiers, that his was the face behind the blank Safaran helmets, made the porridge churn in her stomach. She took a small sip of water, trying to clear her throat.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
The boy rubbed a hand across his scars. Eventually he said grudgingly, “Kori.”
“When were you chosen to be a soldier?” she asked quietly.
He looked down, defiance still stiffening his narrow shoulders. “About six months ago. They came for us at night: me and a couple of my friends. My little sister was asleep in bed. I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
“Where is she now?” Aris tried to keep her voice steady.
Kori shrugged. “At home with my mother. Dead. I don’t know. I lived in a city far from here. I don’t know how to get back there.” He rubbed his arm harder. “Alistar says they’ll kill me if they catch me trying.”
Aris gripped the edge of the heavy wooden table and fought the urge to look away.
“What happened to your face?” he asked.
“Someone tried to hurt me,” she said, her fingers unconsciously tracing the scar across the bridge of her nose. “I got away.”
Zeb tugged on her arm. Beside him, several other small boys were staring at her with rapt attention. “What’s it like in a wingjet? I’ve never been.”
Aris worked hard to find a smile. “I’m a flyer, so I spend a lot of time in wingjets. My favorite part is watching the ground rushing up toward me when I dive . . . it makes me feel free.”
Zeb shuddered. “It sounds scary.”
Farther down the bench, a little girl giggled at his reaction.
Aris smiled. “It can be. But sometimes the scary things turn out to be the most fun.”
“Like climbing a tall tree?” one of the other boys asked.
“Exactly,” Aris said.
Across from them, Kori stood up and shuffled away from the table. He leaned heavily on his stick; his leg hardly held his weight. Aris watched him slowly make his way to the cooking fire, his pain evident in every movement.
Her own memories of her childhood, barely surviving a fever and having to learn to walk again, sent a phantom echo of his agony through her own legs. How would he make the journey across the mountains? He could barely make it across the room.
A few minutes later, two older women gathered the children and disappeared down the dark tunnels that led from the cavern. One by one, the other adults left as well, until only Samira, her children, and Alistar were left.
Aris scooted down the bench to where they sat, abandoning her porridge. “Tell me your plan.”
Samira rubbed a hand down Jaff’s back. “Go with the others, love,” she said. When he started to whine, she turned her steely eyes on him and he did as she’d asked, scampering into the nearest tunnel.
Alistar leaned forward, elbows on the rough wooden table. “We need to leave as soon as possible. This morning’s raid gives us two or three days at most before they return.”
“They come so often?” Aris asked. “What do they want?”
“They search the village for deserters, check to be sure we aren’t harboring grown men or boys who could fight,” he replied.
“What about you?”
Beside
Aris, Samira stiffened. But Alistar didn’t seem fazed. Without comment, he stood and put his left foot on the bench. He drew up the leg of his pants, exposing a metal rod enclosed in clear synthetics, molded to the shape of a man’s leg.
Aris’s eyes widened.
“It happened a couple years ago, just after the start of the war. It wasn’t as bad back then . . . I was honorably discharged, given a new-tech prosthetic.” He dropped his pant leg and sat back down. “But it won’t be long until old soldiers like me are reenlisted. Ruslana’s putting too much pressure on Balias. No one is safe from his conscription orders.”
Aris leaned forward, rubbing her hands along the table. “But if the whole Military has been forced into service, why don’t you just turn on Ward Balias?”
“Not everyone has been forced,” Samira said. She held Hazel to her shoulder and rubbed her back. “There are many still loyal to Balias. Vocal dissenters often disappear. Some are even killed openly as an example to others.”
Aris suppressed a shiver. “So we leave before the next raid. What happens to those left behind?”
“They’ll hide in these caves,” Alistar said. “We’ll set part of the village on fire, make it look like we fled or were killed in the blaze. Hopefully that will buy us some time.”
Aris frowned. “And how much time do you think we’ll need?”
“A week.” Alistar sighed. “Maybe more.”
A week? Aris bit back a groan of frustration. “If only we could get our hands on a wingjet—a big one, like a transjet. We could be out in a matter of hours.”
Samira looked up. “What do you mean?”
“I’m a flyer. Surely it was mentioned in the news vids?”
Alistar shrugged. “We get our news second or thirdhand.” Still, his expression brightened. “But this could help us.”
“Do you have a wingjet we can use, then?” There hadn’t been any on the village’s landing pad. Aris tried not to get her hopes up.
Alistar shared a look with Samira before turning back to Aris “No. But we can get one.”
Aris raised a brow.
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