Where was her body? Where was this pain coming from? Was she screaming? The skin on her legs burned, and did hands grip her waist? Blinking showed nothing.
‘Phos, answer me. Are you there?’ Caliper’s voice faded before returning, but he sounded miles distant.
‘What’s happened to her?’ Frinelia’s voice had recovered its quiet fury.
‘The birds – where are the birds?’ The words scalded Phos’s throat as she spoke, and she sprawled on the grass before jerking herself into a sitting position to flail her arms forward. Her hands bounced off glass – a helmet?
‘I made them see threats, and they bowled over your fat priest and buggered his boating plans, so we’ve bought time,’ Caliper said. ‘I can’t do that again – not for hours. What can you see, Phos?’
‘Everything’s black.’ Phos blinked and shook her head. Her suit chirruped but darkness still smothered her.
Caliper clasped her shoulders. ‘Can you see nothing?’
‘If you’ve cost Phos her sight….’ Frinelia’s voice faded.
‘I’ve lost sight before, but it usually only lasts minutes.’
‘Usually?’
‘Don’t spend your days scrabbling for the worst, Frinelia: you’ll go sour. Mitch, grab Phos’s hand: she’s safest on the boat.’
Red-hot wires screwed themselves into her scalp, and her hands shook as her suit writhed around her body, but any pattern stayed hidden. Mitch’s fingers threaded through hers, and he drew her upward; his hands steadied her as she walked.
‘Your helmet’s growing letters,’ Mitch said.
‘And I can’t read them.’ She had to prune away the panic, but blindness meant they’d never find the rim, and Rastersen would recover from Caliper’s sabotage. Phos rubbed her gloves against her helmet, but nothing broke the darkness, and Mitch’s fingers sought hers again.
‘Your symbols are glowing green, and my helmet’s showing pictures,’ he said.
‘The boat might help me, Mitch, so steer me there.’
Her hands stroked the boat’s sides; Rastersen’s rips still clawed the smooth curves, but she heaved herself onto the deck and steadied herself against the slope.
‘Where’s the stem?’
Mitch embraced her waist and nudged her forward. Her fingers fell into the familiar niches, but the boat wasn’t listening.
Mitch paused. ‘Can you teach me the steering?’
His suggestion made sense – being the only pilot left them vulnerable – but Rastersen’s words still tugged at her mind, and Mitch had heard them as well. What was showing on his helmet?
‘The basics, Phos,’ he said. ‘Start and steer.’
The boat trembled as Caliper slogged on board. ‘We didn’t do more than scratch Rastersen, and right now your fat boy is repairing our damage. Mitch is right; we must shift.’
Phos gripped the stem and bowed her head. ‘No matter who steers, this boat still needs repair. Take me to the hull.’
Frinelia’s voice squawked inside Phos’s helmet. ‘There’re thirty birds swarming above – is that your work, Caliper?’
‘Everything’s my fault. I’ll take you, Phos.’
The hull wriggled under her touch, and bands of vibration clamped her wrists as she sensed the boat yearning to speak, but her blindness broke the links.
Mitch’s hands clamped her shoulders, and she shivered. A faint curve hovered in front of her, the darkest grey against black. She shut her eyes but the curve remained – no, not a curve: a crescent, a globe. Phos slid her left glove over her helmet, and the crescent flickered. ‘Close your eyes one moment, Mitch.’ The curve blacked out before emerging again. Mitch took a few more directions until Phos realised the blurred shadows of grey and black were what Mitch saw.
Phos tottered upright, and her own body unfolded before her, all gangle and stretch. Mitch nodded and her stomach churned, but she gulped down several breaths and pointed at the boat.
‘Stare at my left hand, Mitch, and keep staring wherever it goes.’
Colour leeched back into her borrowed sight, and she saw the cracks running through the hull. Phos bent, and sand frothed under her hands again. She remembered the gliding motion plasterers made when repairing walls. Sand surged from the ground and into the gaps, and the boat trembled as the dust stayed to fill the gouges resting in the sand. Caliper’s work had stopped Rastersen’s fiddling for now.
From Phos to Mitch to the boat, the link was feeble and slow, but the boat listened. Yellow letters danced across Mitch’s helmet – too blurred to read. Maybe words of healing, thought Phos, like the signs she’d seen when Caliper’s suit had healed him, though hadn’t those figures appeared in green? She’d ask once they’d paused – once she had time for breath.
***
Caliper watched colour drain from the girl’s face, and her matted hair had lost its copper sheen. Phos’s hands wafted through air as sand packed itself into the hull. Mitch smiled, and his eyes darted over the tiny yellow letters scrolling over his helmet.
Phos’s voice croaked out. ‘I think the boat’s steerable now, and we should press on. Mitch, lead me to the stem, and keep your eyes steady.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Mitch stepped behind Phos and caressed her shoulders before nudging her up the stairs. His hands flitted over her arms, more exploration than needed, and Caliper stepped forward but stopped himself. This wasn’t a boy’s groping; shapes cascaded across both their helmets, so Mitch was dipping into Phos’s knowledge. Frinelia sat near the pillar and watched the pair.
Phos stooped to scrabble at the boat’s stem. Mitch grinned and whispered to himself as new letters snaked over his face. The boy squatted to stare at Phos’s fingers.
Phos pressed her fingers into the stem’s hollows, but her eyes streamed with tears. ‘Can you stare ahead, Mitch? Focus on the earth before the boat, and I’ll work the stem.’
‘Those words on your helmet, Mitch,’ Frinelia said. ‘Who are you conversing with?’
‘I’m not conversing, Frinelia – I never converse.’ Mitch’s head shook a fraction before he faced forward. ‘It’s not just Phos who sees the magic.’
Frinelia glanced at Caliper. She opened her mouth but stayed silent.
Caliper stepped behind Mitch and squinted at the yellow letters. Was the boy chatting to the birds? Hadn’t Phos mentioned ancient machinery lingering in the First? Had it woken for Mitch?
The boat jolted forward a few inches before grinding to a stop.
Phos sighed. ‘You looked away, Mitch. Don’t get distracted; concentrate on the soil the boat’s about to touch. Try again?’
‘Sure.’
Caliper turned as movement flickered; birds glided behind, pursuing streaks of blue. The boat quivered and shifted forward, and Phos shuddered.
One bird broke from the flock and raced forward to storm towards their boat with oiled wings, all beak and outstretched talon. The animal surged past Phos’s shoulder, and the boat quivered as Mitch winced, but after three heartbeats they picked up speed.
‘Those birds aren’t as charming up close,’ Mitch said.
‘Shift us forward, you two,’ Caliper said. ‘I’ll set up the scythe.’
Thirty birds knifed through the sky to chase, their blue bodies black against the sallow cloud capping their bowl. The flock jostled into a horseshoe of pursuit to wrap their boat; their slow-pulsing wings let them keep pace. Mitch fixed his stare ahead, and Phos swung the boat leftward to face the rim, a distant goal Caliper couldn’t imagine. Bile leaked into Caliper’s mouth as his fingers fumbled with the scythe’s blade. One nick meant death.
Chapter 24: the past can catch fire
Sand grated underneath the hull. Phos’s teeth rattled, but colour seeped into what she saw of Mitch’s shaking vision. A sea of emerald grass stretched ahead, and a blue-grey band slid from the mist to stretch from left to right.
Mitch’s head snapped to his right, and her sight blurred before focusing on two smears of blue. The birds we
re overtaking. She urged their boat leftward and stumbled as rock scraped their hull. Her hands slid from the stem, and the boat slithered to a crawl. More streaks of blue rattled past, and Phos toppled sideways and smacked into the deck.
‘Mitch, is there a way through the birds?’
‘They’re coming closer. They’re—’
A hard jolt rocked the deck as a bird slammed into the side. Phos scrambled upright and shoved her hands back into the stem’s hollows.
‘We need speed.’ Frinelia’s voice sounded faint.
Phos blinked. Rastersen’s damage still tainted their boat, but Mitch’s vision fixed on a sprawling ridge of hedge ahead, and she heaved the craft towards the streak of dark green – she’d run their boat along its length for cover.
‘See any red triangles?’
Yellow words still caked Mitch’s borrowed vision, but the writing blurred like ink over damp paper. Another crash knocked her forward, and three birds with outstretched talons scudded her way. Phos slowed the boat, and the animals crashed into the hedge, but crackling sounds itched against the boat’s side. Her borrowed sight failed, and blackness swallowed her, but Caliper’s feet thumped on the deck behind as the boat juddered to a halt.
‘There’re green scribbles on your helmet, Phos; it’s a right dance there.’ Caliper’s arms held her steady, but grit scoured her eyes, and she sealed her lips to hold the scream inside.
Sight returned in a tempest of dazzle – not Mitch’s blurred imitation but her own. Her hand rose to her helmet, and she blinked as those birds hovered thirty feet away from their stalled craft to avoid the hedge. Red triangles swarmed over the thicket and crept closer, and Phos seized the stem to grind the boat forward. They’d run out of hedge in a minute, but moving might ward off those tentacles.
Caliper laid his scythe on the deck. ‘Keep it slow, Phos.’ He jumped out to lope between the boat and hedge. ‘I’ll handle any tentacles, but stay close. Keep turning and don’t be predictable.’
‘Are we ever?’
Caliper snatched a vine as he ran, and the triangles juddered his way. A knot of stunted elms forced her to swing the boat rightward, and he disappeared behind the boat’s rear. She’d lost her armour, and two birds skimmed towards her before rearing up with their talons at head height. Phos threw herself down to let the pair hurtle a few inches above the stem. Mitch hurled a stick, which clattered off a bird’s body.
She hauled herself up, but a heavy blow cuffed her back, and colours stormed over her visor. The boat tilted as an invader boarded. She remembered talons and beaks as snapping noises rattled around her helmet, but hands steadied her body.
‘Keep the boat shifting, but stay low.’ Caliper scooped up his scythe as the swirling helmet colours faded.
‘Are you burning shrubs again?’ Phos pushed the boat forward.
‘Everyone needs hobbies, but stay near the thicket.’
Gouts of smoke spiralled into the air, and one glance back showed the hedge’s red triangles winking out as the birds retreated ten yards.
‘What happens once the hedge burns out?’
‘Keep circling. I need Frinelia’s words,’ Caliper said.
She curved their boat into a slow loop as black smoke boiled from the thicket to give a few heartbeats of shelter.
Caliper returned, panting. ‘No time for practice, but we’ve a way forward. Head for the rim.’
‘The birds will catch us.’
‘I’ve learned a new trick.’ He crouched and fiddled with his boots. The smoking hedge fell behind, and the birds raced to ring the boat. The blue-grey band drew closer, but it was minutes away, and the unbroken grassland left them naked.
‘Go slow,’ Caliper said. ‘Keep going straight, and give me your permission.’
‘Permission for what?’
‘This.’ He touched her shoulders, and her suit shivered as it linked with his. Caliper’s thoughts rippled past her body, through the boat and into the sand underneath, which seethed like boiling water.
‘What’s happening?’
‘Frinelia sold me a fierce tale, so we’ll have fun. Take a left when your feet tingle. And that’s no road ahead.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s not just you with the exploits.’
Her soles tingled as the boat’s hull scorched the grass and smoke spewed behind. Frinelia had burned footprints into grass after Torzene, and Caliper had twisted his own strength into her exploit. The birds veered away another twenty yards, and she tugged the boat leftward to spray out an arc of smog.
Phos stared ahead. ‘If that’s not a road….’
‘Ever seen the sea back home?’
‘Will we float?’
‘This place makes dreams real,’ Caliper said. ‘Imagine you’re riding a boat, and you’ll smell the salt.’
The band rushed closer, and Caliper released her shoulders as the boat sped up. The sand beneath had been a constant nag, like a tight shoe, but now it vanished, and her senses snapped back into their craft. Phos understood: the earth had dipped away, and their speed had spewed them into the air. They flew before smashing into water, and she tumbled to the deck as spray spattered over their suits. The boat glided through sea before drifting to a stop. The birds watched from the bank.
Frinelia stood and clutched the rear wall. ‘Will they follow?’
Caliper stood beside her. ‘Living in spires means they’re not fond of the ground, and they’ll not enjoy the swimming.’
Phos wiped water from her helmet. ‘How did you know smoke would scare them?’
‘Go tread on the undergrowth by the hedges; it’s yards thick, and fire would clear it, so you’re sure they’ve not seen smoke. They only attack in numbers, so they’re cowards, and cowards never manage the strange.’
‘You guessed, didn’t you?’
‘It worked, so stop wailing.’
Frinelia slumped onto her seat. ‘Cross this belt of sea, and we’ll reach the rim.’
Phos grasped the stem and let her threads explore, but the water stayed dead. Shallow waves chopped at the hull, and she closed her eyes to force out her senses as the boat hung in an expanse of nothing.
‘This is only water; it won’t answer. We’ve no wind or sails.’
Five hundred yards of ripples stretched to the dim shadow of the far bank, where mist clotted above a grey beach. The bowl’s far side arched above her with its dim blurs of brown and green, and the ocean band scratched a belt around the world.
Fog rolled ahead, more wall than cap, a plate covering the bowl they’d climbed, and a yellow-orange glow simmered behind the mist. Gravity still stuck her to the ground. She imagined herself standing inside a swollen tunnel, but unlike the Second, the First had an exit.
‘Reach past your limits,’ Phos whispered.
Writhing bundles of energy flitted between their hull and the quiet mud six yards below; fish and eels nosed back towards their bobbing boat, and Phos sensed a rollicking wriggle of muscle and nerves she couldn’t place. She shuddered: these were creatures without tools or fire; their sea made a prison where every child copied its parents.
The water wasn’t listening, and Phos raised her arms to waft threads through the air. A whispered breeze pinged dust against her helmet. Did the boat hold memories of sails inside its machinery? She’d seen rigged masts in books, but wasn’t a sail just a billowing surface? A few thoughts told the boat to wring out a slab of frosted glass, a massive crystal slate. It sprouted from the deck like a sail twice her height, and symbols capered across – maybe signs for wind and speed.
Air gusted around her body as the sail caught the dusty wind, and the boat drifted towards the distant beach. Mitch’s mouth moved without words as letters slid across his helmet. He frowned and shook his head but glanced at her before looking away. She stepped his way. Questions festered inside her, but tremors rippled under her boots, and sand spilled over the boat’s inner walls as cracks ploughed across their deck. The left wall slumped
outwards into the sea, and Phos dashed her threads through the deck to explore the hull. Fresh wounds had hacked through the sand, and she rushed out a single plea to the grains to hold together, but they stayed silent.
‘Wonderful. Our boat can’t handle the sea.’
The dissolving boat still fluttered forward, and heat came; not the sweaty pleasure of summer but an oven’s swelter. The builders had shaped suns to their needs, and their boat’s drifting had thinned the fog to unleash the light. The boat shook, and Phos sensed a black crevice chewing through the hull to spit out smaller cracks. She scrunched her eyes shut and flicked threads deep into the boat with one message.
Pour yourself into the large crack.
Two pulses trembled against her feet as she sensed grain knitting to grain, and their boat tilted upright again to bustle through the choppy waves.
Ahead, silent ripples lapped a slope of grey sand, and a shallow hill climbed into the mist. Clouds cleared to show an immense wall standing ahead like a plate balanced on its edge, a vast mottled yellow-orange disc, a cover over the First Enclave’s bowl.
Frinelia’s head drooped towards the deck, and green symbols flickered around her helmet while Mitch crouched and looked back at the land behind. Sand crunched beneath their hull, and Phos stumbled forward; they’d butted against the far shore. She jumped over the wall into shallow water before wading shoreward, and coarse sand gritted against her boots as she stumbled onto the beach.
Flat stones pocked the sand, and Phos kicked one over – no trace of moss or lichen. Christina’s argument weighed down her backpack and waited for action, but where were the builders’ tiny huts, and where was Christina’s map room?
She padded up the short slope. At the top, jagged boulders squatted on a flat desert of gritty sand while rocks threw shadows towards her. Ahead, the yellow disc glowered, but she glanced sideways; the First Enclave’s bowl curved up and away on each side. Ten miles of curving landscape arched over her head, a band of beige sand, and rocks looked as if they’d been glued to the curling strip of barren dunes.
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