by Paul Stewart
‘I’d better tend to that fire. Eli will have need of it when he wakes. I’ll rouse him at sun-up I reckon.’
‘Micah, what do you mean?’
‘I saw you, Thrace. I saw you kill that wyrmekith back there. I saw the look in your eyes. You relished the killing …’
‘I had good reason.’
‘What did those wyrmekith do to you at the speckled stack?’
‘Micah?’
‘Yes?’
‘Why do you watch me? You think I haven’t noticed, but I have. In the craghut, on the trail, by the campfire … Now, in the middle of the night. You watch me. Your eyes never leave my face … Why do you watch me?’
‘You interest me.’
‘Because I kill and relish the killing?’
‘No … not just because of that.’
‘Then why?’
‘There was a girl … Back on the plains. Her name was Seraphita … She was rich and I was poor …’
‘What has that got to do with me?’
‘I came to the wyrmeweald to make my fortune so I could return to her …’
‘And yet you watch me.’
‘I can’t help it …’
‘Thrace?’
‘Yes?’
‘When you fell from the stack … You were gagged. You had cloth stuffed into your mouth. I removed it …’
‘I didn’t fall. I jumped.’
‘What did happen?’
‘The wyrmekith they called Jesse. He had a knife. A sharp knife – soulskin sharp. You saw what they did to Jura, well, Jesse was going to do the same to me … So I jumped.’
‘And Eli and I found you.’
‘Yes, you found me.’
Forty
Eli hunkered down next to the fire, poking at the glowing embers with a green stick and sending sparks soaring up to the arched roof of the cave, where they clung to the rock, glowing like red stars for a moment, before flickering and dying. He held a spoon, its bowl thick with pale clag.
‘Either of you two care for any more?’
Micah stared down at his bowl. It was still half full, and he shook his head. The rootmash held no appeal, despite the saltmeat that flavoured it.
‘Don’t seem to have much of an appetite,’ Eli observed. He turned to Thrace, who was crouched by the cave entrance, staring out. ‘Either of you.’
She didn’t turn at the sound of his voice, and Eli saw that the bowl that he had set beside her was untouched. He climbed to his feet and kicked sand and dust over the shimmering orange-blue embers, taking care not to allow his boots to smoulder. He clapped his hands together.
‘Reckon we should be moving on out,’ he said.
Micah and Thrace looked up at him, and it was clear to them both that this was not the first time he’d made the suggestion, though it was the first time either of them had heard it. Micah climbed to his feet. Thrace pulled herself up onto her knees, flicked her hair behind her ears and handed her bowl to Micah.
Eli sluiced out the cooking pot and tipped the dregs away. He wiped it clean with a soft rag, which he dropped onto the remains of the fire, where it flared for a moment, turned black as it curled, and collapsed into ash.
Micah cleaned his own bowl, and Thrace’s, and stowed them both away in his backpack, which bulged taut with the gleaned possessions of the two dead kith – saltmeat, drying-cloths, bone-spikes and crampwedges; a coiled length of gutrope; a heavy knife with a serrated blade and a black and gold haft …
He heaved the pack onto his back, and felt the tremor of the slim spitbolt strapped to its side. Small knots of muscle flexed in his jaw and his face grew hot, and he glanced round at Thrace, to find that the kingirl was staring at him intently – though her gaze slid away as their eyes met.
She picked up the long black lance that had been strapped to Esau’s backpack and gripped it fiercely. It was her kinlance; the lance she’d left behind at the top of the speckled stack when she’d jumped, and that Esau had kept as a trophy. At the sight of it in Thrace’s hands, Micah’s shoulder gave a small but uncomfortable twinge.
With the fire out, the cave was soon chilled. Micah could see his breath, and when he inhaled his eyes watered with the sharp coldness of the air. There was a smell to it too that he couldn’t identify. Like ink. Or potato peelings …
‘This cave’s afforded us good shelter,’ said Eli. His mouth turned down and his bruised neck creased into thin ridges as he inspected and adjusted one of the chest buckles of his rucksack. ‘I shall endeavour to remember it for future use.’
He went out through the cave entrance with Thrace by his side, and Micah followed. As he stepped outside, Micah’s boot-heel skidded, and his eyes were filled with dazzling brightness. It was snow. That was what he’d been able to smell, the cold harsh earthy tang of snow that had fallen through the night while they had been sheltering in the cave. It wasn’t thick, just a light dusting, yet it had transformed the landscape, draining it of colour and softening its sharp edges. It clung to the windward sides of boulders, crags and rockscree, leaving them white and sparkling in the low pale sun, while the leeward sides were bare and dark, and stood out in stark relief.
‘First snow of halfwinter. And mighty early by my reckoning,’ Eli commented as he examined the mistspun sun and the length of the shadows it was casting. He looked at Micah, who was raising his collar and pulling his cuffs down over his clenched hands. ‘You watch your step, boy,’ he said. ‘Frailcover such as this can be irksome.’
Micah nodded back at him, then saw how the cragclimber’s gaze strayed to Thrace. She had her back to them and was standing rigid still, her head raised as she surveyed the pale sky ahead. Eli raised an arm and scratched gingerly at the side of his neck.
‘Happen I owe you thanks, Thrace,’ he said slowly. ‘If you hadn’t forced the woman to speak … Back there. Well …’ He breathed in noisily and exhaled through his nostrils, the two plumes of breath white and fragile. ‘With this unseasonable snowfall we would have surely lost track of Solomon and the other kith.’ He jerked his chin far ahead. ‘Their traces are concealed and will be washed away utterly when the snow melts. Had it not been for her information we might never …’
Thrace turned. ‘I don’t know this … this gutting tarn she spoke of. This clear lake …’
‘I do,’ Eli told her. ‘Clear lake is just that, diamond-clear and bottomless deep. It nestles far yonder, at the western end of a winding range of mountains that are striped orange and ochre brown. Like a manderwyrme,’ he added, and flapped a hand at the horizon. ‘The gutting tarn is close by it. Gutsmen gather there – have done for as long as I can remember – and the water has been tainted by their visceral trade …’
‘Ah.’ Thrace nodded gravely. ‘Redwater. This I know.’
She returned her attention to the landscape before her, then raised her lance and aimed it towards the point on the horizon that Eli had indicated, before swinging it further south. She jabbed at the air. Eli frowned.
‘That’s some distance out of our way, Thrace,’ he observed.
‘But the pass is lower,’ she countered. ‘Easier. And on the far side, the rockface is stepped and quick to climb, and leads down to a gulch that will take us most of the way there …’
‘Now that the floodwaters have gone,’ Eli said, nodding. He rubbed his stubbled chin. ‘How long do you reckon it’d take us?’
‘To redwater?’ She paused and squinted into the distance. ‘Two days by my trail. Three or more by yours.’
Eli nodded. ‘Happen you’re right,’ he said, and added with a tight smile, ‘I shall defer to your superior knowledge. We’ll follow your trail.’
They set off, the low sun to one side and their elongated shadows gliding along over the uneven surface to the other. Despite his talk of following, Eli walked alongside Thrace, with Micah walking behind.
&n
bsp; He observed the laboured rolling gait of the rugged cragclimber, and the spring in the wyrmekin’s step. She seemed to want to pull ahead, which caused Eli to lengthen his stride, and Micah watched his exhaled breath flap at the sides of his head like fine white hair. Then Micah skidded, jarring his knee, and felt foolish under Eli’s knowing backward glance. He continued more cautiously, placing his boots flat on the ground with each step, rather than heel to toe, just as the cragclimber was doing.
He listened to the soft crunch of their footsteps, and noted the light impressions left in the snow where the kith and kin, walking side by side, had passed. The ridges on the soles of Eli’s boots shifted the snow, exposing bare rock, whereas Thrace’s step left the covering unbroken, and her slough boots were so fine that the arch of the foot they encased could be seen with every step. Micah glanced back the way they’d come and saw how similar his own footprints were to Eli’s.
He turned back and looked at Thrace. This wyrmekin, she was strange and savage and wild, but so beautiful that Micah struggled to take his eyes off her. She was deadly too. But last night, in the glow of the firelight, Micah felt they’d made a connection. The unpredictable cruel girl had understood his shock and pain at taking Esau’s life, and had shown him pity. And he had shown her that he wasn’t like the kith she hated.
He’d wanted to reach out and touch that extraordinary soulskin of hers, seemingly so soft and pliable, yet strong enough to deflect a crossbow bolt. He’d wanted to run his fingers through her pale hair and breathe in its smoky musk. Most of all, he’d wanted to feel the fierce crush of her beautiful disdainful lips against his, to hold this delicate dangerous girl close to him in that cold dark cave and feel their heat mingle …
But his courage had failed him, and now, as he tramped along behind her, all he could feel was a heavy ache of longing in his chest, as burdensome as the guilt he carried in his laden backpack.
The sun rose, and the breath that billowed from their mouths grew wispy, then disappeared completely. Beneath their feet, their footprints became wet. The sheet of snow thinned to finest lace, then gossamer filaments, like a covering of spiderweb, before melting to nothing, leaving the ground softer than it had been, and glistening. The wind bit though, and far ahead, beyond the pale blue above their heads, the sky was yellow-grey and threatening, and seemed laden with heavier falls of snow to come.
It was midday when Micah noticed the speck in the sky, far to the east, like a smut of soot on a freshly laundered shirt. Thrace and Eli tramped on ahead, both lost in thoughts of their own, but it wouldn’t be long before they also noticed the speck in the sky.
Micah looked back at the ground, then up at the mountain range that towered ahead. The morning’s climb had brought them to its splayed and jagged foothills, and Micah’s gaze rested on the narrow pass high above. He raised a hand and tugged at the brim of his hat. He clenched his jaw. Bit of luck, and they should get over it before the sun set. But as he let his hand drop back to his side, he couldn’t resist stealing a sideways glance, hoping that the speck in the sky might have gone, and his mouth twitched with disappointment when it had not.
It had become larger, and Micah told himself that it was probably just a carrionwyrme scanning the weald for something to scavenge. Or a screechwyrme. Or one of them snatterjabs whose warbled call Eli had taught him to imitate. But then Thrace spotted it and let out a cry of unbridled joy – and Micah knew his worst fear had been realized.
The whitewyrme approached, his long neck arched and gleaming between two powerfully beating scalloped wings. Aseel in flight was a magnificent sight, his great silver-white body gleaming bright against the darkening clouds as he circled overhead and came in to land.
Micah turned to Thrace. She was standing stockstill, her head raised and hair hanging loose over her shoulders, which were braced and slightly hunched. The soulskin that clung to her lithe body glowed in the eerie yellow-grey light. Her face had never looked more beautiful. The full lips were parted, the dark eyes were wide and filled with such joyful anticipation that Micah felt himself shrink inside.
He wanted to say something to her. That he was glad for her. That he too was pleased to see Aseel alive and well. That he hoped nothing would change …
But the words wouldn’t settle, and those that did struck him as silly or insincere, and when he had finally decided what he would say, it was too late. Unable to wait a moment longer, Thrace had bounded forward across the rocky slope. Micah took a step after her, uncertain, and was relieved when Eli’s heavy hand stayed him.
‘Leave them, Micah,’ he said gently.
Micah nodded and watched helpless as Thrace leaped gracefully up over the rocks, towards the head of the narrow pass, away from him. He watched the rhythmic judder of the black lance gripped in a single hand, and her long hair that fluttered behind her like a farewell. And his stomach cramped. And his mouth felt dry. And when he swallowed, the ache in his chest grew all the more intense.
The whitewyrme landed on a narrow spur that overhung the pass, his outstretched legs steadying him as his claws grasped the rock. He flapped his mighty wings till he was balanced, then folded them upon his broad sleek back. His tail was raised, the arrowhead tip flicking from side to side. White smoke snorted from his nostrils, and as the girl ran towards him, he lowered his neck and breathed harder, and the pair of them abruptly disappeared inside swirling white clouds.
‘She will leave us,’ Eli observed, and sucked in air through his teeth. ‘Now her wyrme has returned.’ He nodded, as if to himself, but then glanced at Micah. ‘Wyrmekin are different, lad. They are as wild and untameable as the wyrmes they ride.’ His blue eyes scrutinized Micah’s face, and Micah felt himself reddening. ‘Believe me when I tell you,’ the cragclimber said, ‘however much you wish it, you can never expect them to return your feelings, or be bound by them.’
Micah nodded. ‘You heard us talking last night?’
‘I did,’ Eli admitted, ‘and it brought back powerful memories …’
The clouds of smoke had cleared, and at the head of the pass Thrace and Aseel were moving with strange languid gestures of hand and claw, of tilted heads and sweeping limbs, and Micah saw that their bodies were the exact same shade of silver-grey, so that when Thrace was before him, her body seemed to melt into his.
‘She’s telling him of all that has befallen her,’ said Eli. ‘And he is doing the same. Kinship has no need of words.’
The whitewyrme showed evidence of recent injuries. The tips of his wings were scorched and tattered in places and there were scratches along his flanks. But Thrace ignored these. Instead, Micah watched as she reached up and traced the jagged black scar of an old wound that ran down its sinuous white neck. He saw her eyes close, her body judder …
He turned away. His mouth tasted stale. It was an intrusion, and Thrace deserved better from him.
When he looked back, moments later, the whitewyrme had taken to the air once more. His wings were open and full and beating hard, with no hint of any weakness that might have been caused by the tattered edges Micah had glimpsed. He soared up into the sky, and for a moment Micah dared to believe Thrace might have stayed behind, to continue with them on their journey …
But the spur was deserted.
It was a foolish thought, Micah chided himself, fumbling in the folds of his jacket for his spyglass and holding it up to his eye. When he focused on the whitewyrme, his gaze fell at once upon Thrace’s slender figure, which was braced against the creature’s clavicle and vertebral spur, her thighs gripping tight and the long black lance held at her side. She had raised her hood over her head, concealing her face, and apart from the lance, she and Aseel seemed to be one and the same. Neither of them looked back.
Micah felt a hand pat him on the back, then rest upon his shoulder and squeeze lightly, and he turned to see Eli looking at him. ‘Let her go,’ he said.
Micah raise
d his spyglass once again. Aseel and Thrace were flying over the pass, a single dark shape against the yellow-grey sky beyond, which, even now, was blurring with falling flakes of snow. Then they were gone.
Micah sighed, and turned to Eli. ‘What now?’ he said.
‘We go on to the gutting tarn,’ Eli said simply, ‘for that is where Thrace is surely headed – and where I shall settle my own score with those kith.’
As they started on the long climb through the pass, Micah followed Eli in silence, the cragclimber’s words repeating themselves over and over in his head. Let her go. Let her go. Micah picked his way arduously over the screestrewn trail, the heavy backpack pressing down on his shoulders, anchoring him to the earth. He pushed back his hat and looked up into the empty grey sky.
‘I can’t let you go,’ he whispered.
Forty-One
Where had Solomon got to? What could be taking him so long?
Leah climbed slowly to her feet. The cumbersome sidewinder, chipped and scratched from heavy use, was clutched in both hands, and she silently cursed the fact that she had not cranked and loaded it herself.
But that was Solomon’s job – and Solomon was nowhere to be seen.
The stranger was standing on a low screemound. He was stick-thin and had a shock of hair that looked like teased sisal. At his scrawny neck were several strings of tiny wyrmeteeth, and the tattered shirt and raggedy breeks he wore were covered with scrawled signs and symbols.
‘You stop right there,’ Leah called.
The man didn’t appear to be carrying a weapon, leastways, none she could see. Yet there might well be a small knife or a spike of some sort concealed in his flapping rags.
‘Greetings,’ he called out, his voice, hoarse and rasping. ‘Ichabod’s the name. Ichabod, the truth-seeker. Stone prophet and visionary.’ He grinned. ‘I declare you’re the first living thing I’ve clapped eyes upon that ain’t scaled and winged since I came to these hills.’