I turn to Azrial. Her face is completely grey. She is staring into the depths of the Great Chasm and her expression is frozen. She has seen into the future too and she looks as if she wishes she hadn’t.
Even Zivan is paler than usual. Only a little, but enough to notice. That cheers me up. Is there something I can do that she can’t? That would make me feel rather more useful.
It takes about three hours before they are ready. I sit at the edge of the gathering. I know it will have to be me; they don’t. Yet. I spend the time breathing slowly, getting used to the height, to the winds that play around the deep crevice in the land. I track the argents high above us, thinking how lucky they are to be able to render this immense drop totally insignificant. It matters nothing to them whether there is land beneath their wings or a drop like this.
They are so majestic, so free, wheeling around above our heads. I wonder how it must be to feel weightless, to be able to navigate small currents of air and soar without effort so high above us.
A commotion brings my attention back to the scene playing out in front of me. Furian is now ready. He has a length of rope in one hand, spliced at one end with a length of thinner cordage. At the end of this is a small shiny rock which has a hole right through it. The cord is fastened around this rock. Really it is little more than a pebble.
We all watch as Furian carefully collects the string and rope into loops. He steadies himself, waits a few seconds, then hurls the looped lengths high, up and over the top notch in the circle of stone.
It falls short.
He sighs, reels everything back in. Tries again.
And again. And again.
He tries many times, but although he manages to get the heavier rope over the arch, the smaller rope resists his wishes. It does not want to wrap around the arch. Time after time, it hangs slackly down and he must pull everything back.
When his muscles protest, he hands the whole apparatus to Jethran. Karith’s husband is an ox of a man. Solid, strong. Yet even he has little success at this. There must be an exact point at which the smaller cord will whip around the rock, an exact speed to be attained, perhaps.
Doven is the next to try. He has even less success.
Vannis grabs at the rope, convinced he will find it easy. He almost succeeds on one occasion, but he can’t repeat those conditions. His other attempts fall short or go too far over, leaving the thinner cord to dangle.
Then Rannyl pushes through. “Let me.”
Vannis stares at him rudely. “You?”
“Yes, me.” Rannyl’s expressionless long face examines the young timeworn in front of him.
I giggle.
Vannis’s dark eyes search me out and stare at me dispassionately. My laughter dries up.
Vannis stands aside. “Indeed. Why not?” He puts his scathing doubt in the tone, rather than in the words. There can be no doubting the insult implied.
Rannyl ignores the younger man and moves up to the edge, rather gingerly. He can’t like heights. He doesn’t collect the thinner cord separately, like the others have done. Rather, he runs it back along the length of the thicker rope before looping both together, using less of the main rope than the others have. Then he speaks quietly to Furian, who nods in his serious sort of way.
Rannyl marks a position on the ground with a small line of stones. Then he paces back. Ten long steps, which he marks again. Furian wraps another length of rope around Rannyl’s waist and then moves behind a rock, using the rock as an anchor.
Rannyl walks back to the stones furthest away from the edge.
He makes a small gesture with his head. Furian tightens the safety rope, wrapping it around both hands several times.
Rannyl runs straight at the edge of the canyon. He makes no attempt to brake when he gets close to the edge. He is moving as fast as he can when his arm rockets forward and the rope snakes out away from us.
And, as if it is something he does every day of his life, the rope races right at the notch in the ring of black rock. It stops short with an audible snap as it pulls Rannyl’s arms tightly out toward the Karstik Needle. The stone at the end of the thinner cord shoots away from the main rope, continuing its momentum up and over the rock. Then it tenses, and the stone wraps round and round the top of the circle of rock which makes up the eye of the needle.
Rannyl’s impetus takes him right to the edge of the canyon. It would have taken him over, but he is brought up short by the extra rope Furian is anchored to. His lanky body bends back around the rope and what breath he has left is expelled in a whoosh. His hands fly up before him and he lets go of his end of the rope.
As if in slow motion, the rope snakes out toward the cliff face.
Then Fimbrian’s large foot clamps down on it, stopping it from escaping over the edge.
Rannyl collapses in an ungainly heap, just short of the drop. He slithers back in our direction as fast as he can.
Fimbrian picks up the remains of the rope and hands it to Furian, who anchors it firmly to another of the huge black boulders which litter our position.
We whoop.
I wonder how long it will be before they realize who will have to go.
Someone must.
The curling cord is certainly not strong enough to hold a grown man. No, it will need one of us to climb out along the rope, drag the main rope over the notch in the eye of the needle and fasten the thicker rope securely.
Torch has shuffled closer. He sits down, next to me. He and Kalyka are the only ones lighter than me, but neither of them has the experience I have in the dome. He knows. He is looking away from us, away from the group, but just his presence beside me is a big statement.
It is some time before Furian looks in my direction.
I nod and point to myself.
He frowns. He, Jethran, and Azrial go into a tight huddle. Zivan walks up and I hear hasty words. In the end I get up and walk up to them.
“It has to be me.”
Zivan huffs. “You are the one person I was told to protect. You are the reason for this whole journey. You cannot be risked. They are mad to even consider it!”
“No. You were never in the domes, Zivan, were you?”
She shakes her angry head, eyes glittering.
“Then you don’t know. I grew up climbing. Grew up at heights almost as high as this.” I jerk my head in the direction of the cavernous drop beside us. “I am the only one of us who can go along that rope. The only one of us who can survive.”
She opens her mouth, but Azrial puts a hand on her shoulder. “The young one is right. She is our only chance of success. We must let her go.”
Zivan is still furious. “After your blackmail. After all your scheming, you risk her?”
Azrial bends her head. “It is so. The time is different. Circumstances change.”
Now it is Fimbrian’s voice that chimes in. “I agree with Zivan. Remeny should not be asked to do this. If she is the one who is to save the rest of our people, she should not be risked so blithely.”
Azrial’s face freezes. “And just who would you send, my good man? If we may benefit from your immense experience? Furian here? Or perhaps your own granddaughter, who, after all, is the lightest of us.”
Fimbrian’s own face twitches. He tries to dissimulate his sudden panic, but we all know he won’t let Kalyka climb her way up that rope.
Rannyl clears his throat. For the first time, everybody listens to him. He has earned it. “Let the girl go. She has the experience, you say.” His glance flickers over Vannis, finding him wanting. “Enough of privilege. Let the ones who have the abilities, do. If it must be her, let it be her.”
I am tired of all this talk. I push my way through them until I am standing with one hand on the rope. “Of course it must be me. Who else will go? There is nobody else who can.”
I sit on the absolute edge of the cliff and ask Furian for a small piece of rope. I pass this around my waist twice and loop it over the rope. It is in case my hands cannot hold
my weight. It will give me the chance to rest for a short time. The rope is thick, and my hands more used to the smoothness of the struts in the dome than the roughness of such material.
Zivan is still fuming, but the others have accepted that it will be me. I nod at Torch’s mother. “I can do this.”
Her own voice is harsh. “Just make sure you don’t fall off.”
She can’t fool me. I smile back. Her face gets even more thundery and she turns away.
I grasp the rope with both hands and let myself slide down, over the edge.
Straight away I realize that the rope may not hold me. It dips down alarmingly. This is not going to be easy. I check the top of the ring. The smaller cord is stretching as my weight is transferred along the rope. It is only wrapped around the ring about five times. Will that be enough? Should I go faster or slower? Will it make any difference?
Actually, the whole thing is extremely scary. Even my years in the dome didn’t prepare me for this. The rope is coarse yet slippery; my hands struggle to get a good enough grip on it. I start to swing as well, which makes any progress difficult.
Faster has got to be better. Slower is going to take longer than my heart can stand. I scuttle along the rope as rapidly as I can, my body swaying from side to side over the chasm.
Looking down, the small creek wends its way lazily along the bottom of the canyon. It is uncaring of whether I succeed or lose. Nature is like that. My tiny struggles make no dents. This magnificent gap will be here aeons after I am dead. Even if I do fall to my death here, I will only impact on the ecosystem for a few months. After that all signs of my passing will be obliterated. A sobering thought.
One of the loops of the cordage unwinds in a flash, yielding to the pull on the main rope. I scurry faster.
Another of the loops flashes through three hundred and sixty degrees, and the main rope starts to sag. I pull myself desperately closer to the dent at the top of the eye of the needle.
I get there just in time to grab the small stone tied to the cord as the third loop begins to unravel. I pull hard toward me. There is nowhere now for the cord to slip. I begin to breathe again. There are shouts from the others. They cheer.
It is not easy, even now. I have to drag the main rope up to the top of the ring and fasten it securely. It is tough, difficult to knot. My fingers bleed as I struggle. But my heart is singing. Both Rannyl and I have proved ourselves today. We have made ourselves truly part of the group. I am proud of that. My mother would be proud of me too, I know.
Finally the rope is tied. I wave back. Furian signals me to stay where I am. There is some movement on the bank of the chasm. They are dividing the last part of the rope and weaving a crossbar into both sides. We are to swing across. Swing from one bank to another, passing right through the eye of the needle, directly under where I now sit, perched as I am on top. I nod my understanding.
Then it is Furian’s turn. He argues for a few moments with Doven and Jethran, who both think themselves better qualified for the first, riskier, jump. Furian is a Pallidan. There can be no argument. Not to my mind.
Nor in the others’ apparently, for Furian finally steps forward. He must swing on the trapeze from one side to the other, hoping that the length is right both for his legs to clear the bottom of the needle and to allow him to release the makeshift trapeze and drop safely to the protruding shelf of rock on the other side. I see that he has tied a small cord from his wrist to the trapeze. We cannot afford to let it drop into the center of the needle. If it does, we will complicate things greatly. I would be marooned.
It is exhilarating, sitting perched on top of the world as I am. I cross my legs around the arch and let my face turn up for a moment to the sun. It is warming. It takes the chill off my heart. I feel that all will be well. We will accomplish our mission. Nothing will be able to stop us now. Surely?
A small flurry of activity rouses me from the respite. Furian is about to jump. I bite my lip. This is really dangerous.
The dark figure to my left takes a few paces back and then runs directly at the cliff edge. His figure seems to be moving in slow motion for a moment before it drops down. As he flashes beneath where I am settled, his full weight suddenly pulls the rope to its full extent and he drops sharply. He pulls up his legs in a hurry, just missing the bottom of the gap in the needle’s eye. I nearly fall off my perch as I realize how close he has come.
But he sails on past me, now rising again from the lowest part of the trajectory. I can’t blink as I try to gauge just what would be the right time to let go of the trapeze.
Then he opens his hands and flies off the small thin crossbar. For a moment he hangs in midair. It seems as though he is bound to drop into the gorge before the forward momentum takes him to the safety of the other side.
He has judged it perfectly. He flies across to the far side of the chasm and lands nimbly on the platform, needing only a few steps to steady himself. Then he turns and raises his wrist to control the trapeze. I see that there are in fact two cords loosely attached to the bottom of the trapeze, one leading over to each cliff top. They can return the crossbar to either side by tugging at one or other of the cords.
At the moment Furian is pulling the trapeze higher up onto his side of the canyon. He is using the cordage to secure the main rope, winding it round and round a large spike in one of the rocks there. He has also brought the end of a wire across from the other side, I see. He tethers this well, too.
When he is satisfied, he makes signs to me, motioning me to make my way over to him.
I clamber down the rope and let myself drop onto the ledge of black rock next to him. He gives me a brief hug. He is pleased with me. I feel suddenly older. I have grown in stature.
But his eyes are worried. “Some of them will have to stay on that side,” he mutters, more to himself than to me. “Azrial will never get across, and neither will Kalyka nor her grandfather.”
I stare over at the others, clustered together on the far side of the chasm. He is right. Fimbrian and Azrial are too old; their warped hands and fingers can’t hold them. And Kalyka is too young. What if she misjudges the moment to let go of the trapeze? She would never be able to hang on long enough to be dragged to safety. He is right. Our group is doomed to split up.
Furian shouts across the canyon. It is so deep that his voice reverberates around, causing an echo.
There is discussion over there. I see one or two hands becoming agitated as the intensity deepens. Then there is silence. Who will be staying? Who will continue on with us?
The next to cross the chasm is Linnith. She arrives shaking, white-faced and with tears running down her cheeks. It takes her several minutes before she can tell us what has been decided.
“Rannyl will not come; he says he cannot care for his argents if he is dead. Torch is staying on the other side as well. The skulks cannot be brought across and he will not leave them.”
Furian pulls her away from the cliff edge, handing her over to me, making sure that she is safe.
She grabs at my hand. “Torch said you should have this.” She hands over the amulet I had given him for safe-keeping. I curl my fingers around it as the soft gold seems to flow into my hand and my senses. Then I slip it around my neck. I am sorry that Torch will not be coming to Kelfor with us. I feel a little bit lonelier without him. I search him out on the other side. He is standing a little to the right of the others, a little further from the edge. I raise my hand, and I see his move slightly in response. Then he turns and lopes away, surrounded by his skulks. They will still need food.
And so will we. The next things over are our carricks, loaded with as much food and water as Rannyl and Torch have been able to provide for us. The thin wire has been set up for them. They are lowered over the higher edge, allowed to glide across on rings, then hoisted up at the other side. On arrival, they crash against the hard rock, bouncing off it. Luckily, little damage is done, though it certainly rules out sending any of us over that way.
When the carricks are across, Doven is the next to make the journey. He is taller than Furian, and as he crosses below the eye in the middle of the needle outcrop, his toes catch on the rock. You can see the jarring movement in the rope; it stutters in its smooth arc.
It is not enough to stop his trajectory, but it is enough to put the whole process out of kilter. My heart leaps into my throat as a jolt of adrenaline invades my whole body. The contact has slowed him down. Will the trapeze reach as far as our side of the canyon, or will he be obliged to cling on until Furian and I can drag the trapeze over to us?
Furian has seen the danger too. He is already pulling on the cordage, just trying to get enough extra momentum on the trapeze to let Doven drop onto the promontory we are standing on. The trapeze comes on, but the force applied by Furian has caused it to twist slightly; now Doven is facing backward. He cannot see when to make the drop, when to open his hands.
Furian and I realize this at the same time. We both shout for him to let go. He does, first one hand and then the other. He drops awkwardly but safely onto the middle of the overhanging platform, landing skewed on the ledge. I hustle him to the dark part of the shelf where he will be safe. His toes are bleeding where they caught on the bottom of the eye of the needle. His face is almost green, but he tries to smile at Linnith and myself.
“Nearly didn’t make it there.”
Linnith is furious. “Why don’t you watch where you are going, you big oaf?” she demands, far too angry to measure her words. “Furian told you to mind your feet!”
Doven looks hurt. He is only used to adoration from Linnith. Her anger comes as a surprise. He doesn’t understand it. I do. I heard her gasp of pure terror when he nearly didn’t make it. He shuffles clumsily across the smooth surface of the rock, rubbing his toes with his fingers, causing them to bleed more.
She slaps his hands away. “Stop that!”
He looks hurt.
She is already searching through her carrick, pulling out some crushed everberry leaf and a clean bandage. “You are making it worse!”
Kelfor- the Orthomancers Page 14