Prince of Malorn (Annals of Alasia Book 3)

by Annie Douglass Lima

  The next morning Korram set off uphill with his pockets overflowing with roasted fish and half a dozen more dangling by the gills from his spear. They were awkward to carry that way, but he knew very well how glad he would be of them later. His biggest concern, however, was water. He had drunk all he could hold from the river before he left, but he knew it wouldn’t take long before he grew thirsty again. He could only hope he would encounter a stream, or perhaps berries or fruit trees, on his way up.

  This slope was the steepest he had ascended yet. Korram discovered faint traces of what was almost a path, probably made by other young men and women trekking up this final slope toward their goal. The thought encouraged him. He was comforted to think of other people walking right where he walked now.

  Korram hadn’t counted on being lonely up here in the mountains by himself, but he found that he missed having someone to talk to. It would have been pleasant to discuss his travels with a companion; to make plans together and complain about the difficulties they had faced. Except for his brief encounter with the girl, Korram had heard no voice but his own since he had left Ernth and the others.

  Well, no matter. The return journey would be much quicker on horseback, and before long he would be back with the Mountain Folk family. A family that he hoped would be much friendlier to him after this.

  Korram propped his spear against a boulder and sat down to rest in the shade, brushing a trickle of sweat from his forehead. Water. He was already thirsty, and the morning wasn’t even half over. There had been no fruit or berries along his path so far, and though he was hungry, he was reluctant to eat any of his fish. They would only make him thirstier, and he needed them to last.

  A low green plant caught his eye among the lush grass where he sat. Wood sorrel. Grinning with delight at the discovery, Korram plucked one of the leaves and popped it into his mouth, enjoying the tangy, refreshing flavor. He filled his hands with the little plants, picking and munching. Though nowhere near as good as a drink, they did take the edge off his thirst.

  Throughout the rest of that day, Korram stopped every few minutes to eat wood sorrel, which he saw growing all along the path, now that he was looking for it. His thirst never felt completely quenched, especially after he ate a couple of fish for lunch, but the little green leaves definitely helped.

  In the early afternoon, the faint path he was following curved left into a large, sunny clearing. Korram was delighted to see a large cluster of berry bushes draped over other brush and twining their way up tree trunks. The clearing was full of the squawking and chattering of birds competing for their share of the juicy treats.

  Korram hurried over to examine his find. They were blackberries, some not yet ripe, but many a deep, shiny, purplish-black. His mouth watering, he dropped his spear and set to work stripping the bushes of every ripe berry he could find. When he had mostly quenched his thirst on their tart sweetness, he filled his pockets with more berries, transferring the fish he had been carrying there onto the shaft of his spear with the others. When he finally continued his trek, he was confident he had left no good berries for the birds.

  That evening Korram made camp under some of the last of the trees, their leaves an orange and gold canopy above him. A thin layer of snow covered the ground now, but he gathered firewood and managed to light a fire after only a brief struggle. Dining on blackberries and fish, he was comfortable and warm in the shelter of a pile of boulders left over from some long-ago landslide. Once again, he had camped in a spot where he could tell someone else had stayed recently, a few dry animal bones and charred sticks evidence of another traveler’s presence.

  The sight filled him with an odd sense of belonging. He was following the route many others had taken before him, doing as thousands of Mountain Folk – all Mountain Folk adults, apparently – had done before. And Korram thought that he was beginning to understand a little better why their people were required to undergo this grueling ordeal. In the last few days he had gained a new respect for the world of the Impassables: for the mountains’ might and dangers; for the majestic way they stood unmoving while he struggled up and down their slopes on his little quest that they cared nothing about. It didn’t matter to the mountains that he was the Prince of Malorn, heir to this land and everything in it. They gazed down exactly the same way on every one of the hungry, footsore, determined Mountain Folk who undertook the Rite of Acceptance; on every snowcat and rabbit and blade of grass, for that matter. They had stood gazing down that way a thousand years before he was born; would still be there a thousand years after he died. The thought filled Korram with a humbling sense of his own smallness that he had never felt before.

  That’s why this quest is so important to the Mountain Folk. It gives them a proper respect for the mountains and a clearer picture of their place in the world. Korram could see now why they thought that only those who succeeded in the Rite of Acceptance deserved to live in the Impassables.

  And if he did succeed, he would become one of the Mountain Folk himself. Korram lay on his back and stared up at the star-speckled sky, pondering the strangeness of this thought. In one sense, of course, he would never really be like them, with his vastly different upbringing and knowledge of city life, not to mention his responsibilities to Malorn. But if what they had told him was true, all the Mountain Folk would consider him one of them. He would be free to live among them, speak out at their Mid-Autumn Gathering, travel for a year with any family that would take him – even marry one of them, not that he had any intention of doing such a thing. All of them would accept him.

  If things don’t work out back in Sazellia, I could stay in the Impassables. The thought crossed his mind before he could stop it, but almost immediately Korram felt ashamed. Father would have been ashamed of me too. He couldn’t just abandon his mother and Kalendria to life in Rampus-controlled Malorn, and he certainly couldn’t imagine either of them wearing deerskin or living off of the land. No, Acceptance among the Mountain Folk would have its advantages while he was here, but his future lay back in the Lowlands. His kingdom and his family needed him.

  The next morning after breakfast Korram once again used his belt to bundle up as much firewood as he could carry. He made sure his fire stones were safe and dry in his pocket, along with handfuls of bark and lichen and small twigs for kindling. He still had five cooked fish left, though he had finished the last of the berries.

  He passed the tree line later that morning and was soon surrounded by low, snowy brush. Twice Korram saw rabbits, and once a white fox trotted across his route – there was no longer a discernable path – but none was close enough to try to kill, even if his spear hadn’t been full of fish. Some other kind of meat in his diet would have been a welcome change, but that would probably have to wait until his quest was over.

  The sun was out, and Korram was able to munch handfuls of snow from time to time without growing too chilled. Though clouds veiled Clinja’s summit, he could tell from the sun that he was still traveling in the right direction. The twin peaks must be growing ever nearer. He wondered when he would find Horse Valley and whether it was as big as the others he had seen or if it would be easy to miss.

  That evening he dug out a hollow in the snow and made a cozy little camp for himself at the base of some more rocks. The air was frigid, and he was thankful he had made sure to bring firewood. He hoped the top of Mount Clinja was close, because he hadn’t been able to carry enough for two nights. Besides, his fish were gone, and he was already hungry, not to mention parched with thirst.

  Korram woke at dawn to the sight of Clinja’s twin snow-clad peaks rising into a clear blue sky. They were almost directly ahead of him, and so close that he had to crane his neck to see their tops. The sight was exhilarating. I’m nearly there! He kicked snow over what was left of the fire and picked up his spear. Time to start what he hoped would be his last day of trekking.

  The sky didn’t stay blue for long. Clouds began to build, and Korram hoped he wasn’t in for another bli
zzard. But the snow, when it began to fall, had none of the ferocity of the storm that had nearly killed him. Large flakes drifted almost dreamily down around him, coating the few exposed rocks with a smooth layer of what looked like vanilla icing.

  The air was bitingly cold, though, and the flakes kept falling all morning, coming down more and more thickly. Korram had to trudge with his head lowered to shield his face. It was nearly noon when he looked up and realized that the two peaks rose on either side of him, their tops muffled in cloud. Barely visible through the swirling snow, they stood like solid sentinels guarding the way to success. He was in the pass!

  Not long after that, the ground began to level out. But the snow was growing deeper, blown into this space between the peaks in great billowing heaps. It was too fluffy to crawl across, as he had done before, so Korram struggled along through waist- and sometimes armpit-deep drifts with the help of his spear.

  He gathered the ends of his sleeves into his hands again, but the snow was so deep that it kept finding its way in. Soon he couldn’t feel his hands at all, and he paused to breathe on his fingers, rubbing them together, trying to warm them. But a deep chill began to work its way through the rest of his body every time he stopped moving, so he forced himself to keep walking. His arms and hands were soon so cold he couldn’t feel the shaft of the spear he gripped.

  Finally the snow grew shallower and the going a little easier. And then the ground began to slope in the other direction, and Korram found himself trudging downhill. He was descending into Horse Valley!

  Korram had been looking forward to lying back and sliding downhill as he had done before, but to his disappointment, he found that the snow was still not packed tightly enough. Starting to grow shaky once again with hunger and exhaustion, he wondered how long he would be able to keep plowing his way through it. Stumbling over a hidden rock, he lost his balance and tripped, half-burying himself in an icy drift. Spluttering, his teeth chattering, he struggled to his feet, brushing snow off his face and groping around in the billows for his spear.

  My journey is almost over, he reminded himself, shivering as he shuffled forward once again. Horse Valley is just below. I’ll be there by tonight. This is the last hard part. I can make it.

  But the downhill slope stretched on and on, much longer than it had looked from above. Every time Korram stopped to rest, he peered over his shoulder to see how far he had come. To his dismay, the twin peaks never seemed much more distant, just as the dark, forested valley below him never seemed to grow much nearer. It was as though he were suspended between the two, his steps taking him nowhere. He had a sneaking suspicion that if he turned and tried to go back up, he would never make any progress in that direction either. He was destined to trudge in place in this snowy wilderness, his destination always eluding him, for the rest of his life. Thanks to the cold, hunger, and exhaustion, that wasn’t likely to be very long.

  The handfuls of snow Korram chewed made his hands and insides colder without quenching his thirst, and he could feel himself growing weaker as he grew hungrier. His head was throbbing once again.

  Gradually he noticed the snow growing shallower and the walking easier. But Korram was so worn out by this time that it scarcely made a difference. Whenever a large enough rock rose before him, he would stop and sit down on it, bending to rest his head in his arms, panting, exhausted and dehydrated and discouraged by his apparent lack of progress.

  He never stayed there for long, though. Sitting on a snowy boulder chilled his backside, and exercise was the only thing that kept him anywhere close to warm. He knew that the longer he rested, the harder it would be to get up again. Besides, all he had to do was picture Rampus reclining on the throne that was supposed to be his next year, cracking his knuckles in satisfaction, and Korram was motivated to struggle to his feet again. I won’t let him win. Sitting in the snow till he passed out from cold and hunger and exhaustion meant letting Rampus win. Successfully reaching Horse Valley before dark meant that Korram would win. Or at least that was what he kept telling himself.

  But as the light faded, he began to worry that he wasn’t going to make it. The snow barely came up to his knees now, and more and more white-topped rocks and bushes stuck up from it. But the white slope still stretched before him for what seemed like miles and miles. Yes, there were trees somewhere in the distance, but they might as well have been on the other side of the world.

  I’ll never survive a night up here. I’ll freeze to death. Korram knew that even if he had firewood, he wouldn’t be able to light a fire with the snow falling like this. The wind was starting to pick up, whipping across the slope and slicing right through his clothes. If it hadn’t been for the snowcat, he would have died of exposure the other night, but he knew better than to hope for such an amazing stroke of luck again. What should I do?

  Passing what he could tell was the top of a snow-covered bush, Korram stopped and used his spear to shake the bush free of its white blanket. Then he broke off a double handful of dead twigs and stuffed them into his pockets, just in case he found a dry place to light a fire later. His hands were so numb he could scarcely feel what he was doing. He must have cut himself, because he saw blood on his fingers, but he couldn’t feel a thing. I hope I’m not getting frostbite.

  Behind the clouds, he knew the sun must be setting. Gradually, the brush began to grow taller around him, and he filled his pockets to overflowing with twigs and small sticks.

  The snow was down to ankle deep, and the sky nearly dark, by the time he was finally surrounded by low trees once again. They were further apart than before, blocking only a little of the wind and making the forest – if it could even be called that – seem spacious and airy. Korram stumbled wearily forward, peering around in the dimness for any sign of real shelter or something to eat or drink. There had to be food and water here among the trees. In the meantime, he knelt to pick up larger sticks and fallen branches whenever he saw them poking up above the surface of the snow. Each time, it was harder to force himself back to his feet again, to force himself to keep walking. His arms were almost too tired to support even the small load he carried.

  Stubbing his toe on an unseen rock, Korram tripped and dropped his armful of firewood. Unable to break his fall, he sprawled on top of it, one of the sharper pieces scraping a long gouge in the side of his hand. He felt no pain and saw hardly any blood this time, which couldn’t be normal. Too exhausted to care much, he lay there, groaning and letting the snow fall on his back.

  But he had heard of people losing fingers and toes to frostbite. Korram reminded himself that no matter how he felt now, he would certainly regret the loss of any body parts later. He pictured the way Rampus’s lip would curl in scorn at the sight of Korram returning home without all his fingers.

  He tried to examine his hands, but it was too dark now to see if anything looked wrong. With an effort, he pulled his arms all the way inside his sleeves and clamped his icy fingers into his armpits, the quickest way he could think to warm them up. If he couldn’t get some feeling back into them, he would never be able to build a fire anyway.

  The shock of cold in his warm armpits made him gasp, but he forced himself not to pull his hands away. When they started tingling uncomfortably, he took that as a good sign. The tingle grew painful, but he rubbed his hands against his sides, determined to bring the feeling back. At last, when he could wiggle his fingers and feel them rubbing against each other, he thrust his arms through his sleeves again and forced himself up to his knees.

  But as he fumbled to gather up his snow-dusted wood, he realized for the first time just how damp it was. Wet firewood in freezing temperatures was one problem he had not faced before on this expedition. Even if I can somehow find a cave to spend the night in, this wood will never burn. He was already shivering with cold, but the realization sent a colder spike of dread through him. I’m dead. I can’t survive the night out here without warmth. He knew it would be impossible.

  Despair rose in him. After
everything I’ve been through, I’m going to die right on the verge of reaching my goal. Rampus will get his wish.

  But once again he saw the regent’s face in his mind, heard him cracking his knuckles in triumph. Wouldn’t he laugh if he could see me like this.

  Angrily, Korram snatched up his spear and clambered to his feet, swaying and leaning on the weapon for support. If I’m going to die, I’ll do it on my feet, struggling on toward my goal, not crying on my knees. It didn’t matter that no one else would ever know the difference.

  Bashing his shins and tripping again on the useless firewood, Korram regained his balance and struck out once more through the snow. Making no particular effort to hurry, he took up a slow but steady pace. Die on my feet. Die on my feet, he chanted silently to the rhythm of his footsteps.

  There was almost no light anymore, and Korram had no idea where he was going except that it was downhill. He kept bumping into trees and tripping over rocks and bushes. Once he tumbled over the edge of a steep embankment, sliding several yards on his face and belly and rolling over and over before his back struck a hard rock at the bottom. Dazed and bruised, he lay gasping for breath while snowflakes settled softly over his cheeks and forehead. Die on my feet, he reminded himself finally, and struggled painfully up once more.

  Now and then low branches struck him across the face, though he was moving so slowly that it seldom hurt much. He knew he must be covered in bruises and scrapes, but nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but the need to keep walking. Die on my feet. Die on my feet.