by E Hall
I get to my feet. Dire possibilities rush my way when the door flies open. I catch it before it hits me in the face.
“We should have left earlier, but I figured you needed some extra sleep so I went and gathered some supplies.” She hoists my bag onto the table. “Some of that nasty bread, two extra pouches of water. Some dried fish…”
I can’t help but smile with relief. “Then let’s go,” I say, stamping out the fire.
“Just like that?”
“Yes.”
She smiles as though relieved that I didn’t back out.
We prowl through the Roost and into the Flats. The morning mists hang low. The lights still flicker from Hallowtide, forming halos around dismal objects: a stump, a well pump, and the jutting signs of several shops. In muted tones, we discuss our exit and the first leg of the journey.
“I’ve only heard stories of a few people who’ve made it to the outerlands,” I start, feeling the particular thrill of becoming one of them.
Just as soon as the thought crosses my mind, a sharp whistle interrupts us. I spare a glance over my shoulder, pausing long enough to recognize Heath and Moss. This time they wear the crimson uniforms of the patrol. “Stop,” they shout.
We don’t.
Kiki and I hurry along the lanes strewn with trash and stubbed candles from last night. They gain on us, only thwarted by a mule with a wagon. A slow-moving elderly couple causes us to split up and veer around them. A cart cuts between us.
I call for Kiki, trying to dodge the patrol as the morning foot traffic thickens. I press through frail bodies and stamping feet but don’t spot her in the sea of people bumping and spilling into each other.
She’s gone.
Chapter 13
Ineke
A stream of laborers and shopkeepers, probably drowsy after the nights’ festivities, sweep me forward. Like being caught in rushing water, I can’t stop until they deposit me at an intersection—one way to the castle, the other to the Basin, at least I think so. I scan the crowd for Soren’s head, sticking out from the mass of people, but dark glances and early morning grouching meets my eyes and ears.
I move against the current to the Flats, only breaking my stride until I’m back where I started. Soren is probably waiting for me and if not, I’ll go to the outer wall. I glance over my shoulder at every bend in the lane, looking for Soren. I listen for him calling to me, but I don’t dare loiter when a company of guards descends on the intersection between the Flats and the Roost, eyes attentive as though they’re searching for trouble.
Or someone. Two someones. I overhear a guard asking about a man and a woman—a mountainy guy and a small, dark-haired girl.
Is it weird that I miss my desk and dealing with demons? How is it that now I’m the criminal? I’m just trying to save your lives, folks.
I stalk off in the opposite direction of the assembling guards and away from the outer wall. A voice like sandpaper shouts. A whistle blows. I have the instinct to run, but remain calm and continue walking, keeping my head down and my eyes open for Soren.
I start up the hill to the Roost. It makes sense that we’d reconvene here if separated. When I near the top of the hill, guards sack Soren’s house, shouting angrily. My pulse picks up. As a red-faced patrolman smashes the spindly chair against the hard ground, I smoothly swerve in the other direction.
The patrol from last night must have realized we tricked them and are searching for us. Stupid cider. My only choice is to go back down the lane to the gate and look for Soren in the Flats. Or maybe he went to Battersea, though that’s nearly as far as we could get from the path we’d planned to take out of Raven’s Landing. My breath quickens. Stay calm.
Patrols, with blades in hand, guard the lower gate, exiting the Roost. I pull my hat lower. I hear Henry’s name and the mention of a girl under the pier followed by laughter. I’d have imagined the bloated egos of the guards would have kept our deception under their helmets out of embarrassment or fear of consequences for not apprehending us immediately, but I misjudged them.
I took the risk in weaving the tale after having a dream about a guard named Henry. Those same two guards, Moss and Heath, were hassling him. However, he got the last laugh when he riffled through their things and discovered one slept with a straw doll and the other had a secret stash of food stolen from the kitchens. It was just a dream, but it felt real and strange because I’d never seen them before our encounter in Bearsden. But I have a lot of odd dreams that don’t seem to be my own.
As for Tinkerbell? That was just the first name that sprang to mind.
I stall by a scattering of small dwellings, windows and doors askew as though tossed like the tiles in the game Soren played last night. I clutch the rough wood, peering around, slowing my breath, and trying to figure out how and where to go when someone grips my empty hand.
My startle gives way to a shot of relief. A little boy with a smudge of dirt on his cheek smiles at me. His wide, lavender eyes, like my mother’s, brighten when I smile back. Tufts of light hair escape from his knit cap. I imagine Soren as a little boy, though his eyes are dark blue. This little boy tugs my hand and leads me around the corner and into a ramshackle house. I have to duck to get inside. The aromatic scent of sweet spices makes me instantly feel at home.
The woman who’d almost been possessed by the demon at the foot of the Roost greets me. She puts her finger to her lips. The swirls of ink lacing her wrists explain why she’s not inclined to speak. She stirs a pot of amber liquid warming on the hearth.
The little boy pulls me to the corner of the shack, lifts a curtain hanging on the wall, and then slides a plank over. “Through here and keep going straight,” he whispers.
The woman taps me on the shoulder before I crawl into the tunnel hewn into the earth and passes me a warm flask.
The little boy says, “Drink this. It’ll keep you strong.”
Unlike the cider, it’s soothing when it goes down, and tastes exactly like something my mother used to make when I wasn’t feeling well, had a big test, or needed a boost. “Thank you.”
She shakes her head and mouths No, thank you and ushers me into the tunnel.
Progress is slow as I move through the rough-cut escape tunnel. Dirt finds its way into my mouth, my eyes, and ears. I creep on all fours and then on my belly in some places. Jagged rock skins my knuckles, but the sip of the warm drink, still flavorful on my tongue, keeps me moving forward. I press on, forcing away the sense that the mountain could collapse on me as I move beneath the Roost.
The tunnel gets narrower the farther I go. Heights? No prob. Small spaces? Not so good. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. I couldn’t turn around if I wanted to. The walls press close against me.
The only thing that would be worse than there not being an opening at the other end would be if the patrol stood guard, waiting. I picture Soren standing there. Torsuld the giant king. The ravens greeting me with loud kraas. Anything other than a dead end.
The musty, dank air in the tunnel warms slightly as I continue. I open my eyes, blinking away the dirt to see a sliver of light ahead. Hope hastens my crawl.
A large rock blocks the end of the tunnel, but there’s enough room for me to turn around and push it out of my way with my feet, revealing a copse of thick brambles and bushes. I inhale the air, slow my racing heart, and listen. Stillness. Silence. I glance up to the sky, through the browning bushes, and spot the golden bird circling overhead.
Relief washes through me.
Still hunched, I brush off the dirt and exit the bushes. The side of a dumpy mountain rises behind me giving way to hill after hill after hill, bumping their way toward the faint outline of the Morgorthian Mountains. In the other direction, the corner of Fjallhold is barely visible where the Raven’s Landing peninsula curves away. Guards line the rim of the wall, and I cross to the other side of the bushes and start down.
The sun, with its black spot, is midway in the sky.
I have no food except for the
warm drink the mother and son gave me, but I do have the tapestry lining my coat. With or without Soren, I won’t rest until I’ve reached the dark and forbidding mountains, seeking answers and aid.
The next rise gives way to a steep slope of knotted grasses when what I thought was a boulder comes to life. I hasten my steps and find Soren, splayed in the grass, his ankles crossed, and his hands supporting his head—reclined as though he was just catching a nap under the noonday sun.
There’s no mistaking the smile that spreads on Soren’s lips when he realizes it’s me. We step quickly to each other through the thick grass. I anticipate the press of his broad chest against mine and his arms wrapping around me in a hug. But they don’t. Instead, we both stand there with our heads tilted, eyes questioning, arms and hands lifted awkwardly.
I brush off some more dirt.
“You made it,” he says at last. “Took the tunnel, I see.” He lifts a cautious hand to brush yet another clod of dirt from my shoulder. “I wasn’t sure they’d completed it.”
His calloused fingers graze my face. I don’t flinch as I let him remove the soil. “Dirty and you still dazzle,” he says softly, most likely noting the glitter beneath my eyes.
My mother always told me my eyes sparkled. I was born with eyes the color of ice, but the silver glitter trailing beneath my lids and down my cheeks appeared after that strange encounter that brought me here. I wipe away one salty tear at the memory.
The moment passes and Soren points toward the mountains. “Still want to do this?” he asks.
In answer, I start walking. “What happened after we were separated?” I ask when he catches up to me.
“I went back to the Roost, but the patrol was everywhere, looking for us. I searched the Basin and Flats and met Britta who received a message that you were escaping through the tunnel. I detoured to the wall, sneaking out along Battersea. It took me longer than I would have liked, but I knew the passage through the tunnel would be slow going too.”
I pass him the warm drink the woman from the Roost gave me. He inhales the aroma before taking a sip. “Bilberries, juniper, spices, moss, and magic.” His face brightens as the liquid fortifies him. “Fae tea,” he says, passing the container back to me.”
“My mother used to make it, I recognize the flavor.” My chest tightens. “I had no idea she was fae until I found her laying—” I can’t say it.
“Fae typically keep their wings concealed. They have to summon them.” Soren shoots an angry glare over his shoulder, before casting a wary glance at the expanse ahead of us. “Now, to get past the I’s.”
When we reach the base of the hills, Soren says, “These are the Innerlands.”
Wind sweeps across the plain of russet grass and green moss. Crags of dark rock bring the words bleak and breathtaking to mind in equal measure.
“This specifically is Inneveldt. We’ll stay off the Royal Road, but we must hasten to Inismoore and then another day to Inverness before nightfall,” Soren adds. “I don’t think the patrol is following us, but they’re sure to be looking for us and there’s no telling whether their allegiance lies with the king.”
“Whose allegiance?” I ask, knowing the guards are loyal if nothing else.
“The innerlanders.”
“I don’t see anyone.” Or houses, shacks, dwellings, or evidence of human life for that matter.
“Ah, but they see us,” he says, quickening his pace and hinging forward as he plows through the wind.
I trot to keep up and soon wheeze for breath. “Not everyone has long legs like you,” I call after him.
Soren doesn’t laugh, but stops and says, “I’m sorry. Shall I carry you?” That rare smile plays on his lips. “A ride on my back, perhaps?”
“How about don’t tease me.” But if that grin tells me anything, it’s not teasing, but flirting. And I don’t really mind.
Back home, I was so focused on becoming a Police Officer, guys were at the bottom of my list...and I probably scared a few of them off for being what our instructor called overenthusiastic. It was like I was made to fight evil. Too bad they wouldn’t let me.
“I’ll take small steps so you don’t have to trot like a pony to keep up.” A laugh gallops out of Soren.
I roll my eyes, but can’t help the grin teasing my lips, and breeze past him.
We walk for hours and then reach a thin stream.
“This is Inismoore and the Silver Strand. It swells in the spring and shines silver under the summer sun. This is as far as I’ve ever been.”
In the distance, a solitary, thatched-roofed house stands like a beacon in the scenery. Smoke rises from the chimney. Soren shakes his head, leading us in a wide arc away from it. “We must try to find shelter before nightfall. It’s too risky being out in the open.”
Not much farther on, we reach a small, rocky outcropping with space beneath it to spend the night. Soren and I share a piece of bread, but not many words. We’re both tired. After the sun sets, the wolves howl, and the space between us slims for warmth and comfort as we doze off.
We plod on for the first half of the next day, tracing the growing edge of the Silver Strand. The damp ground is squishy beneath my feet and my pace slows. With the lonely house that we saw yesterday, the place we overnighted, and any sign of humans long well behind us, the spring that feeds the river shines like an oasis in the distance.
My mouth is dry and crunches with dirt between my teeth, leftover from my crawl through the tunnel. I imagine I’ll be shaking off its grit for a while. I hasten forward and fall to my knees when we reach the pool. I take great gulps of the water, letting it run down my chin. I wash my hands and face when a large figure suddenly streaks by and then water splashes me.
Soren whoops from the center of the pool. “It’s cold,” he says, treading water.
“I know cold water,” I say. My bones haven’t quite thawed from being cast into the icy sea after I left New York City. “I think I can handle it.”
“Can you?” His lips quirk. “Then come on in,” he says, intentionally splashing me. “Wash all that dirt off.”
The sun slants toward the west, from where we came, and I strip off my outer coat, in desperate need of a bath. I shake out my inner layers, carefully setting the tapestry on the ground.
“Daylight isn’t going to wait for you,” Soren says, swimming with broad strokes around the pool. The ink doesn’t wash from his skin.
“Turn around,” I say, kicking off my boots and unfastening the top button on my pants.
He doesn’t. Mischief and desire light his eyes in equal measure.
I circle my hand in the air for him to turn and shoot a glare.
Reluctantly, he obeys.
When I slip into the spring, the water is a welcome caress. When I surface, Soren is close. His massive arms lined with ink, create eddies around us. Water ripples around his muscled chest. I glance away, my cheeks heating despite the cold water.
“Refreshing?” he asks.
“Invigorating, cleansing, and stronger than a shot of espresso…” I say.
I swim in circles and dive underwater several more times before we both scramble up the bank. I clutch my clothes to my chest, but notice Soren spares a long, curious glance. We hastily dress, back to back, hopping from foot to foot.
“I’ll race you to the woods,” I say with a shiver over my shoulder and then add, “To warm up.” Laughter splashes off, but when his thundering footfalls don’t match mine, I stop.
By the edge of the pool, Soren and a man with a short blade face off.
Chapter 14
Soren
The dip in the pool relaxed me, and I’d foolishly let down my guard. A man with a thick beard angles his blade toward my chest. Fortunately, I have both boots on, but my coat with its protection remains at my feet along with my blade and bow. My muscles tense as he glares at me.
“Hey,” I say, lifting my hands up in an attempt to demonstrate I don’t mean harm.
His dismissi
ve grunt heats my blood.
Can we handle this peaceably? Not likely.
I will Kiki to remain safely away, but she rushes back toward us.
He brandishes the blade as though daring her to come closer.
“We’re not here to cause problems—” she calls, but it’s too late, the blade slashes across my middle, almost slicing my shirt. I dodge out of the way and the battle rage that my father taught me to summon consumes me. I sprawl on the ground and grab my blade before bouncing back to my feet.
Kiki has her blade drawn and her lips peel back as she lunges at the man, all attempts at greeting him or negotiating gone. He’s big, but she’s fast. Fast enough for me to get into position to ram him with my shoulder. He crashes to the ground, but I lose my footing on the damp bank of the pool, giving him enough time to get up and take a stab at Kiki. She strikes back, driving him toward the water.
“You don’t belong here,” he hisses.
“We were just leaving,” she says as they parry.
A younger man, wearing a dark fur coat, appears. He comes at me, and I draw my bow, halting him. His eyes narrow, suggesting an arrow is merely an inconvenience.
With one swift motion, I take aim. Bullseye. My intent is to disarm with a perfectly aimed arrow. The older guy’s blade sails through the air and toward the pool. Instead of distracting him with a rueful plop into the water, he doesn’t miss a beat and pounces on Kiki.
Flames of fury lick through me. I’m light on my feet as I land heavy, pulling him off.
She falls back, disappearing into a cluster of rush grass surrounding the pool.
I draw my bow, take aim again, and land the arrow in the younger man’s fur coat before turning it on the older guy, who lunges at me. I dodge, and he drops to the ground.
His son, presumably, gets to his feet, rips the arrow from his coat, and charges in my direction. I meet him with a fist to his jaw. He receives a swift swipe from my leg, and I kick his feet out from under him and then spring forward, driving my fist into his gut. He reels back, shakes his head, and then comes at me again. I deflect a blow to the shoulder, but he gets me with the other fist in my stomach.