The two of us climb back up the cliffside, onto the plateau where the cows and bulls are lolling around. Going up is easier than going down was, partly because of my new boots, which are a little big but much better than nothing. Duilleag trots over as soon as he sees Mór, and then we’re up on his back and galloping off once again.
“Have you ridden this way before?” I ask, raising my voice so Mór can hear me over the clomp of Duilleag’s hooves.
“Never,” Mór replies. “So I hope you know where you’re going.”
If she’s relying on me for directions, we’re in trouble. “Hendry made it sound quite simple: around the inlet, north until we pass the ruins of an old fort and then west until we’re back on the coast.”
“If that’s where His Majesty wishes to go, that’s where His Majesty shall be taken.” She’s joking but — in true Mór fashion — delivers it without a hint of a smile.
Duilleag tramples the grass beneath us, filling the air with the strong scent of thyme and wild garlic, made even fresher by last night’s downpour. It doesn’t look like it’ll rain again today; there are plenty of clouds — swarming together in fungal clumps — but they’re a soft, peaceful silver, not the angry gray of an approaching downpour.
As we ride, I scan the land for any signs of Donal or Violet, even though the chances of us passing them are almost nonexistent. If nothing else, it helps suppress my guilt for leaving them behind.
We’re riding past an area of dense forest when I hear a noise from within, like someone shouting out in confusion. The sound is cut short almost as soon as it starts. I don’t need to ask Mór if she heard it, as she immediately alters Duilleag’s direction. Or maybe it was the bull himself who decided it was a sound worth investigating.
Once we’re in the forest, Duilleag is forced to walk, hindered by the density of the trees.
“We should continue on foot,” says Mór. She slips from Duilleag, clutching her spear tight to her waist.
“Why?” I ask. I hold on to the hair on Duilleag’s back, not yet ready to give up his protection.
“Duilleag can hardly move in here. It’s too risky to go that slow.”
I heave myself down next to her, and Duilleag retraces his steps out of the forest.
“Don’t — !” The shout comes again. Only this time I’m almost certain I recognize the voice. From the look on Mór’s face, she recognizes it too.
Cray.
She starts running, deeper into the forest. I try to match her pace, but my oversize boots keep sliding on the damp soil. Mór scoots between the trees, gone one moment and then visible again the next. “Cray!” she shouts.
There’s no response. I wish I had a weapon. What if there’s an imitator in here, disguised as a tree or a shrub or a fallen log? It could be hiding anywhere, and I wouldn’t know until it was too late.
I’ve been here before: running through a forest, chasing the sound of a friend’s cry for help. Last time it was Lileas. Last time . . .
It’s not going to end that way again.
I’ve lost sight of Mór. Which way should I go? There’s a sound ahead that could have been Mór, could have been Cray, could have been nothing. I head toward it, my pace slowing with every step. Then I see him.
He is high above me, tied between two trees, at least ten feet in the air. His arms and legs are spread wide, pulled taunt with some sort of vines, forcing his body into a large cross. His whole face — including his eyes — is covered in what looks like blue-black mud, preventing him from seeing clearly. There are tears in his clothes and a cut above his ear.
“Cray!” I say. “It’s me, Jaime.”
As soon as he hears me, he starts shaking his head, muffled cries leaking through the gag that’s been stuffed into his mouth. That’s when I realize I’ve walked straight into a trap.
An imitator jumps down from the tree on Cray’s left, a blur of leaves and air and bark. It lands with a light thud three paces in front of me. I freeze. So does the imitator. It’s the same shape and size as a human but is completely naked and hairless. Colors slip across its skin like oil on water, swirling in hypnotic patterns. Its eyes are bulbous and dominated by huge black pupils, dark wells filled with a monstrous emptiness. We stare at each other for one beat, two, then it launches itself at me. I fall to the ground and we become a mess of grabbing and kicking limbs. Wet leaves fly up all around us, clogging the air with their bitter smell. I remember Mór’s warning: Don’t let its fingers touch your skin. I grab hold of its wrists as its knee digs into my stomach. It opens and closes its mouth in a succession of silent frustrated screams. There’s a fallen branch at my side. I release my grip and snatch the branch with trembling hands. The imitator’s fingers hunt for my face, but I’m quicker, swinging the branch in a wild arc up into the imitator’s ribs. The branch snaps on impact, causing enough of a distraction for me to scramble away. Once I’m at a safe distance, I glance back. The imitator has disappeared. Is it camouflaged in the undergrowth or did it bolt up one of the trees? It’d be too much to hope that I’ve scared it away. I race toward Cray. If I can free him somehow, it’ll be two against one. I reach the base of the tree and start to climb. The branches are smooth and cold. The higher I get, the more I worry that I’m making a huge mistake; if the imitator attacks while I’m in the tree, it’ll be even harder to defend myself.
I push that thought aside and keep climbing. I reach the first of Cray’s bonds — the one tied to his left ankle — and start pulling at the loops of vine that are wound around the tree. They’re so tight that it’s a struggle to squeeze my fingers under. The gloves I’m wearing aren’t helping either, so I tear them off with my teeth and let them drop to the ground. Cray shakes his head, the gag muffling his voice. He’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t figure out what. His shrieks become more desperate, and his eyes bulge in the direction of his waist.
A dagger. That’s what he’s trying to tell me. I climb a bit higher — the knots and twigs of the tree scratching me with every chance they get — and stretch my fingers toward it. It’s still too far away; I’m going to have to climb up Cray’s leg to reach it. I slide away from the tree and grab hold of his calf with both hands. His leg wobbles under my weight, and I make the mistake of looking down. It’s a dizzying drop. I focus on the dagger and inch myself upward until I’m close enough to pull it from its sheath. Its blade is short but sharp. I clutch it in my teeth and fumble back to the tree. The vine around Cray’s ankle is tough, but a few slices are enough to cut it. The first of Cray’s legs falls free, but rather than look relieved, he starts shrieking through his gag again, pointing down with his foot. There’s nothing there, though, only —
A hand-shaped piece of bark peels away from the tree and snatches my ankle. I slip, the branch I was standing on landing hard between my legs. A yell bursts from my mouth. I wrap my limbs around the branch except for the one leg that the imitator is still pulling down. Its fingers tug and probe at the cloth Mór tied around my ankle, hunting for the bare skin underneath. I kick with all my strength, but can’t loosen its grasp. The cloth starts to unravel, the imitator pulling at it with greedy tugs.
I’m still holding Cray’s dagger. It’s the only way I can stop the imitator, but in the tangled position I’m in, it’s going to be nearly impossible to hit it. The imitator has replicated the colors and texture of the tree bark so perfectly that it’s hard to see exactly where its body is. I’ve only got one chance.
I throw the dagger.
It bangs into the trunk just above the imitator’s head, and then plummets like a dead bird. Tiud. When will I learn not to throw away my only weapon?
The imitator yanks the cloth one final time and the whole strip falls away. My kicking becomes even more frantic. The imitator’s fingers squirm up the side of my boot toward the newly created gap at the bottom of my trouser leg. Cray is still making distressed sounds above me. He slams the tree with his leg, attempting to shake it, but the trunk is too sturdy.
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“Cray, keep still!”
Mór appears and launches her spear at the bonds holding Cray’s right wrist. Her aim is good, and the spear tears through the vine. His opposing arm and leg are now free, but he’s still tied diagonally between the two trees. He uses his free hand to remove the vines from his mouth.
“Imitator!” he shouts. “On Jaime’s leg.”
Mór doesn’t hesitate. She throws herself at the tree and scrambles up toward me. The imitator sees her coming and lets go of my foot. I whip my leg up with a whimper and kneel on the branch.
“Are you okay? Where is it?” Mór asks me.
“I don’t know. It was just here. It looks the same as the bark.”
“Get back down. I’ll get Cray.”
Mór takes out her own dagger, but before she can use it, a shimmer of forest swings down from above us and shoves her out of the tree. She falls to the forest floor and hits her head with a loud crack.
“No!” I shout.
She lies there, unmoving.
The imitator has disappeared again. Cray is heaving great breaths above me, his body still pulled taut. He stretches across with his free hand and tugs at the vines around his opposite wrist. All the while, he doesn’t take his eyes off Mór.
There is a sound of disturbed branches above me. The imitator is on the move again, climbing higher up the tree. As I try to focus on where it is, it leaps and lands directly on Cray’s outstretched body. Cray grits his teeth and elbows the imitator in its chest, but it absorbs the blow with little sign of discomfort. It scuttles around like a spider until it is upside down, its legs twisted around Cray’s torso. Its fingers stretch toward the exposed skin at Cray’s ankle. No. No way.
I hurl myself at the pair of them. For the briefest moment I’m flying and then I crash into their mess of bodies. Cray grunts at the impact. The vines holding him shudder but do not snap, meaning all three of us are now suspended above the forest floor. Flashes of red and orange ripple across the imitator’s back. I slam the heel of my foot into its head once, and then again, but it refuses to release its grip. Its hand finds Cray’s ankle and squeezes. Cray screams. I wrap my arms around the imitator’s waist and, letting go of Cray completely, pull down on the imitator with all of my weight. My legs dangle, treading nothing. The imitator lets go of Cray’s ankle and starts slapping the air behind its back, aiming for my face, as it slips a little farther down Cray’s body. I heave again. The imitator can no longer hold on; its legs unwind and then we’re both falling. The ground comes crashing up to meet us.
The impact is softened by the imitator’s body, which hits the earth first and absorbs the worst of the shock. Even so, my ears are ringing and my vision is blurred. I slide off the imitator, onto my hands and knees, and spit on the grass as I try to catch my breath. The imitator’s body is a chaos of patterns. I’m wondering if the fall may have killed it, but that hope disappears the moment it pulls itself to its feet.
It opens its mouth to reveal its toothless gums, which flash purple, then red, then black. I try to crawl away, but it flips me onto my back and pins my arms to the ground with its knees. My legs flail, hitting nothing but air. A burst of yellow dashes across the imitator’s huge black eyes, then it flexes its fingers and wraps them around my throat.
The effect of the poison is immediate. A long shudder ripples through my body, and tight convulsions shake my legs. The pain comes next, like a sea of scalding water flooding every part of me at once.
Someone in the sky is shouting my name.
A thud, a scuffle, more shouting . . . but I’m already gone.
“Ah, you found another one,” says Catriona.
I didn’t know she was there. She is next to us. Me and the deer I saved were looking at the empty loch.
“Where are all the — deers gone?” I ask to Catriona.
“They’re safer where they are now,” Catriona says. “Thank you for bringing this one back to us.” She is looking at the deer next to me. Something is bad.
Run! I say to the deer in my head.
The deer does what I say and runs but people are there. They are holding Reaper sticks. The deer goes a different way but a man with a net is that way and he throws it. It goes over her and she falls and is tangled. I don’t know how to help. The net man and another man try to get her but she kicks one of them and gets out of the net. She runs away and they can’t stop her this time.
“Find it,” says Catriona to the net man. “And then put it with the others.”
“W-w-w-where — ?” I say. It is hard to get the words. “W-where are all the other ones? Why are they not by the — loch?”
“I’m doing as you asked, Agatha. I’m keeping them safe,” says Catriona. I do not understand. She is smiling that is not a nice one. “If they are free to roam the whole enclave, we have no way of knowing where they are. They could get lost or injured and we wouldn’t know. If that happened, they would be at the mercy of the sgàilean. We can’t have that. So we’ve extended the old goat enclosure. Tonight, we’ll light fires all around it so they’ll be safe. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“No,” I say. “That is not — not what I — wanted. You can’t keep them there.”
“Why not?”
“They’re not the same as g-goats.”
“What’s the difference? They’re both animals, Agatha. And we’re humans. If they’re stupid enough to wander into our enclave, then we’re going to be smart enough to keep them here. It’s as simple as that.”
It’s not as simple like that. I said for them to come here. I made the promise.
“Where is the goat en-en-? Where are they?” I say. I have to see them.
Catriona looks at me and her mouth is chewing slow but I don’t think there is food. “Next to the cookboth,” she says.
I turn to go there but Catriona holds on to my arm hard.
“Let — go,” I say. She does not let go. I try to pull my arm away but she holds it too tight. “Let go!” I say again.
She slaps me. It is hard and it stings and I am shock. Her face is too close to my face. “This is the way it is, Agatha, and that’s not going to change,” she says. Her eyes are big. There are red lines in the white parts. “I’m doing what is necessary for the survival of my clan — and for the survival of yours, even if you’re too stupid to realize it. Don’t go causing trouble or you’ll regret it; I can assure you of that.”
I pull away again and she lets go. I am hot and angry all the way through. I want to hit her or kick her. My teeth are crunching. She is just looking. She wants me to hit her. Then she will hit me again and harder. I do a breath and then another like how Maistreas Eilionoir taught me. I am better than Catriona. I do not hit her. I run away.
I cannot run for far or very fast so I stop after a bit and I walk. I am shaking and my face is stinging. I hate her. I hate her so much. She should not have hit me and she should not have taken the deers away. She is bad bad and mean.
It is easy to see the deers next to the cookboth because there are so many of them all together. Most of them are already behind the long fence. It is what I saw the Wasps making this morning. There are people with Reaper tools and sharp sticks and they are making the other deers go in. They hit the deers who try to go not the right way. It is like when the deamhain made all my clan go on their boats to be slaves and hit them if they didn’t do it. The last deer goes in and the people shut the gate. It is small inside and not enough room.
I go to the side of the fence away from the people. I have to talk to Thistle-River. I cannot see him and it is all a big jumble of deers and antlers and heads and bottoms. Thistle-River? I say in my head. There are too many voices and it is all the deers and they are scared and angry and frightened. Please, I cannot hear you all, I say loud in my head. I call for Thistle-River lots of times.
I am here, says Thistle-River. He puts his head higher and I see him. His eyes are sad. All the other voices go away. You have betrayed us, Sun-Leaf.
No, I say. It wasn’t me. I tell him it was Catriona and that I didn’t know it. He shakes his head. I will get you out, I say. I promise it.
He turns his head away. He does not believe me.
I will show him. I will do it. But how can I do it? The fence is too strong to break and the people are guarding the gate so I cannot open it.
“Agatha,” says someone behind me. It is Aileen. She is running toward me. “I just heard. This is terrible.”
“We need to f-free them,” I say.
“Yes,” says Aileen, “but we have to go about it the right way. Let’s find Maistreas Eilionoir.”
We go to the Lower Gate which is where Maistreas Eilionoir is. She is telling the people with the chopped trees where to put them.
“Excuse me, Maistreas Eilionoir,” says Aileen. “We need to speak to you.”
“I’m busy,” says Maistreas Eilionoir. “Find me later.”
“But it’s — it’s — important,” I say. “The deers — the deers . . .”
“Catriona has locked up all of the deer,” says Aileen.
“And she’s going to — kill them,” I say. “For everyone to eat!”
“Well, we do need food,” says Maistreas Eilionoir. “Our supplies are dangerously low, as you know. Maybe it was the right choice.”
“It wasn’t!” I say. Why is everyone wrong? “They are not — food! It was me who said them to come here. It is my fault. Please. Please, you have to tell C-Catriona not to — do it.”
“Hmmm,” says Maistreas Eilionoir. Her nose sniffs. “The problem is, we are guests here, Agatha, and I have very little sway over Catriona.” She holds one of her hands in her other hand. They are old wrinkle hands.
“Please talk to her,” I say. “Please you have to try it.” Maistreas Eilionoir does not look like she is going to say yes so I say it again. “Please. I promised they would be — safe.”
The Broken Raven Page 16