Borderlands

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  I lurch behind the nearest boulder, fighting to slow the patter of my heart. I have to find my friends before the fighting ends. But my mind is awhirl with confusion at what I’ve just seen. Earth and Water proclivities, and nothing else. Well, some might be Mud or Dirt or Stone, but they’re all so similar. Why? Why would an entire squad of soldiers be limited to just two types of magic?

  I risk a glance around the edge of the boulders. The fight seems to be intensifying, not petering out. The Water hunter staggers, screaming, a bullet through his shoulder. On the way down, his head cracks on the rocks with an awful noise. His body slips below the water and the froth turns pink. He doesn’t resurface.

  Sharr shouts an obscenity and blasts a new volley of fireballs. Soldiers scream and duck aside, dissolving into earth and river. A few seek shelter behind trees, only to scatter in terror when the branches explode into flame. If it weren’t for all the Water proclivities in the soldiers’ platoon, I’d bet good money on Sharr starting a forest fire. As it is, the soldiers coax up roaring waves to extinguish the flames.

  I suck down a deep breath, dive below the sur­face and swim until my lungs burn. I dart behind boulders and crawl through the murk. Water fizzes around my face until finally, gasping, I hit the shore.

  Back on dry land, I sprint for the shelter of the trees. I suck down shaky breaths, and allow myself thirty seconds to recover. Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty . . .

  Then I’m up and running, ignoring the ache in my legs. My friends are back there, guarded by the Air hunter. As I stumble through the trees, an image of Maisy’s bleeding body swims back into my mind. I fight a surge of nausea, pump my legs harder, and hope like hell I’m not too late.

  The Air hunter stands near the shore, silhouetted like a tree trunk. His captives hang in the air in front of him. Teddy’s face is a sweaty red as he strains against the man’s proclivity. Clementine looks ready to bite through the air; she gnashes her teeth and wriggles her fingers, but the breeze just tightens with every protest, like an invisible straitjacket.

  And beside them, Maisy floats limply. Her limbs do not move. Her breath is so shallow that I can barely pick out the movement in her chest. Slow and silent, I pull my knife from my boot.

  Then I leap.

  I’m on the hunter’s back before he knows what’s happening. My knife presses against his throat – I don’t slice, but I let him feel the metal on his skin. ‘Let them go!’

  His hands fly back up to wrestle me away, and his concentration shatters like glass. I hear thuds as my friends’ bodies fall to the forest floor; hopefully I haven’t worsened Maisy’s injuries. There are a few shouts of pain and alarm before they’re upon us.

  Teddy and Clementine help me shove the hunter to his knees, and I pin his arms behind his back. He flexes his fingers and grits his teeth, conjuring a few half-hearted little spurts of wind to blast our faces. Teddy clamps his hands around the man’s fists, forcing him to keep the fingers still. Abruptly, the wind dies. It’s as though the hunter is a violinist and Teddy has forced his bow from the strings.

  We stare at the hunter. What are we supposed to do with him? The logical answer is to kill him – after all, he wouldn’t have flinched at delivering us to our executioners. But I know I can’t do it, and I have no right to expect the others to do my dirty work for me.

  Clementine peels away from our group and staggers over to check on Maisy. She lets out a soft cry.

  ‘Is she alive?’ I force myself to ask.

  Clementine takes a moment to respond. ‘Yes!’ she chokes. ‘Yes.’

  I glance at Teddy. We can’t take long to make this decision. The ex-burglar’s eyes are hard. For a terrible second I think he’s really going to do it – to kill the hunter. The horror of the moment isn’t just the idea of killing this man. It’s deeper than that. It’s horror at the realisation that, deep down, some part of me wants to see him die. To punish him for what he did to Maisy.

  I can taste bile in my throat. I don’t want to be a murderer. If we kill this man, are we really any better than the hunters? But still, that tiny corner of my mind screams: kill him, kill him . . .

  The hunter’s shoulders stiffen under my grip. He knows he is going to die. He mutters something under his breath: a plea for mercy, maybe? His skin trembles.

  I meet Teddy’s eyes. ‘Can you knock him out?’

  Teddy picks up a heavy stone. He doesn’t hesitate. He swings it at the side of the man’s head, and the hunter collapses like a log into the undergrowth. My heart freezes. The man looks dead, and for an awful second I think we’ve achieved my darkest desire by accident. But his chest moves, and when I touch his lips I feel breath upon my fingertips.

  ‘Where’s Lukas?’ Teddy says.

  I shake my head. ‘Gone.’ When I see Teddy’s look of alarm, I realise the flaw in my choice of words. ‘He’s not dead,’ I add hastily. ‘He’s safe, so far as I know. But he left our crew.’

  Teddy’s lip curls. ‘Knew we couldn’t trust him. Like father, like son.’

  ‘He’s not the king, Teddy.’

  ‘Not one of us, either.’

  I’m not in the mood to argue about Lukas, and we’ve got more urgent things to deal with. So I dismiss his comment with a shake of my head and stumble across to where Maisy lies. Her skin is cold, but clammy with sweat. Every so often, a shiver racks her body. Clementine tears off her jacket and presses the fabric into her sister’s wound. ‘What do we do?’ she asks, voice barely above a whisper. ‘What do we do?’

  ‘I met someone who might help,’ I say.

  The others look up at me, surprised.

  ‘What, out here?’ Teddy says.

  I nod. ‘Smugglers, like Hackel. I think they use the borderlands as their base. I met an old woman called Silver, and if she takes us back to her people –’

  Clementine looks furious. ‘Smugglers? You want to trust Maisy to a bunch of filthy smugglers? I don’t know if you noticed this, Danika, but Hackel betrayed us.’

  ‘I know,’ I say. ‘But she needs healing, Clementine. She needs alchemy. We can’t fix a wound like this on our own.’

  Clementine glances back down at her twin. It’s an odd moment to observe: two near-identical faces framed by golden curls. But one face is pale, sweaty, dying. The other is tight with fear.

  Finally, Clementine nods. ‘Okay.’

  I glance at Teddy, asking silently for his ­permission.

  He doesn’t look happy, but he echoes Clementine’s nod. ‘Don’t reckon we’ve got much choice,’ he says. ‘But if these smugglers try to double­cross us, I swear I’ll nick the pants right off their ­backsides.’

  Once the decision is made, we move quickly, pausing only to retrieve my magnets from the foliage. We find Silver where I left her, up in the canopy. She slips easily down her tree and says, ‘Been watchin’ the shore from up high. You sure know how to put on a show, my friend.’

  ‘This is Maisy,’ I say, gesturing. Teddy carries the unconscious girl in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulder. ‘Can you help her?’

  Silver raises an eyebrow. ‘Nasty wound, that.’

  ‘Can you help her?’ I repeat. ‘I’ll owe you extra –’

  ‘Extra?’ Teddy looks worried. ‘What do you mean, you’ll owe her extra?’

  I falter, glancing at the old woman. She lets out a nasty laugh. ‘Our mutual friend here needed some helpin’ to find you,’ she tells Teddy. ‘Now she owes my people a job.’

  Clementine looks up, eyes red. ‘I’ll do a job too,’ she says. ‘I’ll do anything. Just help my sister.’

  Silver seems to consider this. She gives Clementine a noncommittal nod, then steps closer to examine Maisy. ‘Put her down.’

  Teddy lays Maisy gently on the ground. He chooses a bed of flowers to lay her in – but unfortunately they make the whole scene resemble a funeral. C
lementine gives a sharp little cry, then sinks to her knees beside her sister. She grabs Maisy’s hand, squeezes it tightly and stares at the undergrowth.

  Silver bends down. Her braid falls like a rope across Maisy’s torso, and she gives an irritable snort and tosses it back over her shoulder. I can’t help but notice that its tips are bloody, and my heart gives a little shudder. That’s not good. Whether it was the Air man’s dropping her, or Teddy’s carrying her, something has re-opened Maisy’s wound.

  ‘Not good, my friends.’ Silver prods the injured torso. ‘But it ain’t unfixable, I’d judge.’

  She pulls a chain from beneath her shirt, revealing half a dozen silver charms. I recognise their type immediately. Alchemy charms, like the ones Lukas owns. I wear one myself: a tiny silver rose that I’ve attached to my bracelet. Its power hides the wearer’s scent from beasts. Lukas has some handy ones, like a silver padlock to escape from chains, but Lukas isn’t here. Anyway, what we need now isn’t escape. It’s healing.

  Silver stretches the chain as far as it will extend, allowing her to peer at the charms along her crooked nose. She frowns, trying to make up her mind, then selects a tiny silver bone. It looks a bit like the bone designs that richies print on collars for their pampered pooches, but it’s solid silver, and it glints between her fingers. Alchemy.

  ‘You’ll do a job for my people, eh?’ Silver looks from Clementine to Teddy. ‘Both of you. You’ll owe the same debt as your friend.’

  There is no hesitation in their nods. Both Teddy and Clementine know the power of alchemy charms; they saw Lukas use one to free our crew from the Curiefer silo. If this is a healing charm, they’ll agree to anything to get the old woman to use it.

  ‘I swear it,’ Clementine says breathlessly.

  Teddy glances down at Maisy. ‘Me too.’

  Silver pinches the bone charm between her thumb and forefinger. With her other hand, she presses her palm against Maisy’s wound.

  The air snaps with power. It’s not something you can see – not like a bolt of lightning, or a flicker of lights. It’s just a feeling. When the magic engages, everything twangs like a slingshot. Maisy’s body jolts, arching up from the forest floor. Then she slumps back down, still unconscious.

  ‘Did it work?’ Clementine says.

  Silver pulls her hand away, frowning. ‘A bit,’ she says. ‘But a charm ain’t a miracle. I’ve closed up her wound. I’d judge she’ll live long enough to reach my people.’

  ‘And then?’

  Silver climbs to her feet. Only the slightest huff betrays her age. ‘And then we’ll see what a proper healer can do.’

  Day fades to evening, with no sign of Silver’s people. The old woman leads us from island to island, river to river. We clamber through thickets and wade through streams. In some places, the land is just a thin tendril of rock between waterways. In others, it takes us half an hour of solid trekking to cross between shores.

  We take turns to carry Maisy, slinging her between us in pairs. Occasionally she murmurs, but for the most part she seems barely conscious. Although we tread as gently as possible, it’s obvious the journey must be hurting her. Every log we climb over, every jostle of trees and water . . .

  ‘Steady,’ Clementine snaps, as Teddy ducks into a clearing. ‘You almost walloped her head on that branch.’

  I half-expect Teddy to snap back. Instead, he gives a quiet nod. ‘Sorry. Branch was lower than I thought.’

  ‘Sorry for snapping,’ Clementine says, after a while. ‘I’m just . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Teddy says. ‘Forget it.’

  I stare between them, even more worried than I was ten minutes ago. If Teddy Nort and Clementine Pembroke are apologising to each other, you know things are serious.

  Every so often, at the junction of waterways, Silver stops to examine a nearby tree. She leans in close, peels a strip of bark, and traces her fingers on the smoother wood beneath. Then she replaces the bark, presses a silver charm against the trunk, and steps away. The loose bark melts back into place upon the tree, looking for all the world as if it had never been removed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I say.

  Silver gives me a look. ‘That, my friend, ain’t none of your business.’

  ‘She’s reading messages from other smugglers,’ Teddy says.

  We all turn to stare at him.

  ‘And how, pray tell,’ Silver says, ‘did you know that?’

  Teddy shrugs. ‘Obvious, really. We used to hide messages on lamp poles and stuff back in Rourton. “Thieves’ Post-boxes” we called them. Notes about the guards’ beats, easy houses to nick from, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Rourton, eh? You’ve come a long way.’

  I exchange a glance with the others. If Silver doesn’t know we’re from Rourton, that means she still doesn’t know who we are. Hasn’t she seen the wanted posters? They’re plastered all over Taladia’s cities, as far as we know, and all the newspapers. Perhaps she’s been hanging around the borderlands for the last few weeks, and hasn’t caught up on news. If she knew the reward she could get for our scalps . . .

  ‘So,’ I say, trying to change the subject, ‘smugglers leave messages for each other on trees?’

  Silver looks displeased, but she nods. ‘No point hiding it now, I’d judge. If we pass a message tree, we leave a note in code. I’ve been out scoutin’ for a couple of days, so I’m tryin’ to learn where Quirin’s shifted the home.’

  ‘You mean, your home moves?’

  ‘Would’ve thought you’d learned that by now,’ Silver says. ‘If you don’t want no one to catch you, my friend, it’s best to avoid staying still.’

  Eventually, though, stay still we must. The sky grows dark and the shadows deepen. If it weren’t for Maisy we could probably keep walking – it’s not as if we’ve never travelled by night – but Teddy keeps stumbling, tripping over obstacles in the dark.

  ‘At this rate,’ Silver says, ‘you’ll tear the girl in half by sunrise. Best let her sleep.’

  As the others lay Maisy in our few remaining sleeping sacks, I lay out our magnets in the usual circle around our camp. I concentrate, summoning the magic from the back of my mind. Nothing to see here, I think. Just empty space. With a twang, the illusion catches.

  Too late, I realise Silver is watching me. ‘Illusionist, eh?’ Her expression is oddly calculating. ‘You ain’t mentioned that before.’

  ‘It’s no big deal,’ I say. ‘Just a party trick.’

  The old woman raises an eyebrow. ‘Really.’

  We stare at each other for a moment. Finally, Silver turns back to help the others with Maisy.

  I let out my breath, then open the food supply pack. No one’s touched it since Lukas did last night, before he went missing. As soon as I open it, I spy a tiny paper package atop the oats bag. It’s a homemade envelope, folded from scraps of a flour cake wrapper, and my fingers detect something small and solid inside. On the outside, someone’s used a scrap of charcoal to write a single word. Danika.

  I glance up at the others. They’re all busy with Maisy now; no one’s looking in my direction. Good. This isn’t something I want to share. The thought of everyone poring over it and discussing Lukas’s motives makes my insides twist.

  I don’t want to talk about Lukas. I don’t want to think about Lukas. There’s too much going on right now, and more urgent things to worry about. It would be selfish to draw the group’s attention away from Maisy. So I slip the envelope into my pocket and set about preparing dinner.

  When it’s time to sleep, I can’t keep my eyes shut. I lie on my side, buried in a makeshift blanket of leaves. There are no sleeping sacks to share tonight; the bloodstained sack lies abandoned at our last camp, of course, and any remaining warmth must go to Maisy. The rest of us are squirrelled away under bushes. Oddly, no one suggests huddling up to share our warmth. The idea fee
ls awkward now, like something in our crew has broken. Lukas has left us. Maisy is wounded. And instead of chasing the Valley, we’re following a smuggler who holds us all in debt.

  I lie alone in the dark. Subconsciously, my hand strays to my pocket. I can feel the little envelope, firm and solid in the dark. I tease it out, as quietly as possible, and clutch it tightly in my palm. Lukas folded this paper for me. Lukas wrote my name upon its surface. I squeeze it so tight that the charcoal smudges; when I hold my hand up to the moonlight, all that remains is a smear. My name, lost to night.

  My mind writhes with memories. The way Lukas’s hand felt, wrapped tightly in my own. The way his fingers brushed my proclivity tattoo: gentle, quiet, never judging.

  And of course, my doubts. My uncertainty about whether Lukas blames me for his fate – and whether some small part of me still blames him for being a pilot. With this paper clutched in my hands, I know with a pang that the answer is yes. It’s a yes that can’t be changed, that can’t be erased. Not this quickly. Not this easily.

  But that doesn’t mean my other feelings are untrue.

  My fingers tremble as I unfold the paper. A charm falls from its folds into my palm. I recognise it immediately: a tiny silver star. I roll it across my skin and it gleams.

  I know what this charm means to Lukas. It doesn’t have any magical powers – not like the rest of the trinkets on his necklace. But Lukas’s grandmother gave it to him before she died. She was the sole member of his family to truly love him: to treat him as more than a pawn in royal politics. From what Lukas has told me, this charm is his sole memory of her.