by Jake Halpern
There was an old stairwell, rising from the rocky island, up to the top of the Ramparts. They half walked, half crawled up it. From there, they managed to get their bearings. They were a mile or so from Needle Island, the very place they’d been before falling into the Drain.
They took the Ramparts westward, heading toward Needle Island, whose lighthouse twinkled in the distance. The route was deserted—no sentries, pilgrims, or priests—just the occasional seagull. This was a relief. As far as they knew, the authorities were still looking for Fat Freddy’s killer. By now, they might even have identified this person as Wren.
Along the way, they came upon a great clay urn filled with drinking water. Such urns were meant for the pilgrims, so they wouldn’t go thirsty while visiting the Ramparts. Inside the urn were two wooden dippers—one marked for Suns and one marked for Shadows. This was typical. The religions did everything they could to keep themselves apart. Given what awaited them down below, it now seemed like an absurd notion. Alec and Wren each took a few tentative sips. They knew if they guzzled it, they would vomit it right back up. The water tasted divine. After some time, they continued on their way.
When they finally reached Needle Island, the sky was markedly brighter. Dawn had arrived. As far as Alec and Wren could tell, they’d been gone for about seventy-two hours—just a single night.
It was almost impossible to fathom.
Their thoughts now centered on Crown, who’d promised to pick them up, at dawn, at this very spot. They sat on the shoreline, rubbing their hands together, trying to keep warm.
“Do you think he’ll come?” asked Alec.
“As long as we’re right about which dawn it is,” said Wren. “For a sunstone he’ll be here.” She patted the pocket of jewels and sunstones sewed into the lining of her robe. “I’ve got that and then some.” She paused. “You think I’m a thief?”
Alec shook his head. “Jewels, sunstones—it was all trash down there. Whatever you took, no one will miss it.” He smiled. “I guess you’re rich now.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said Wren. “I’d say we’re rich.”
Alec shrugged. “Where will you go now?” he asked. “Ankora?”
Wren nodded, scooped up a pebble, and rubbed it between the palms of her hands. Then something caught her attention. “Look,” she said, pointing at the water. The current had started flowing back toward the Drain. Gradually, over the next half-hour, they listened to a rumble building as the great waterfall roared back to life and dampened their faces with mist.
“It’s back to normal,” said Wren.
Alec nodded slowly. Wren was right. Everything was back to normal. Normal. That was a crazy notion, wasn’t it? Because, really, nothing was the same. Because he now knew what was down there—what awaited him—at the bottom of the Drain. What awaited every living person. For a moment, he tried to envision the island. Was it empty? Had the wall and the Meadow magically reappeared, like some puzzle that resets itself? Or had some new island sprung up in its place? He didn’t know. Couldn’t know. It was maddening. And then, Sebastian’s words came back to him: “I have no idea—and there’s no shame in that.” Yeah, great. A lot of help that is. He pictured Flower rolling her eyes. Then, despite himself, he chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” asked Wren.
“Nothing,” said Alec, still smiling. “Nothing at all.”
He turned his gaze back toward the island of Edgeland. The lanterns on its piers and warehouses twinkled against the muted light of dawn. On the Mount, the spires and belfries of the island’s temples sputtered with the flames of the night urns.
Alec quickly spotted House Aron.
He could pick it out easily among the other bone houses. He had been happiest there, not just because Sami Aron valued him, but because he fit there. He wasn’t just good at what he did. He was suited to it. Just like he was not suited for life in the north, with his own family. Now he didn’t fit in either place. He had nothing. Well, not nothing.
He glanced back at Wren.
She sat, hugging her knees to her chest, staring off at the island. She’d always liked this moment—just before dawn—when the Suns had not yet emerged and the Shadows traipsed tiredly and silently through the streets. If she ever felt at home on Edgeland, it was now, wrapped in the cool early-morning breeze.
It didn’t matter, though. She’d never go back. Well, perhaps she would—if only to deliver Oscar’s message and his coins to Joseph—but she wouldn’t stay. Not a chance. Of course, she wanted Alec to come with her to Ankora, but she felt guilty about this. After all, Alec had a life here and—if he left—he would have to give it all up.
But then Wren wondered whether Alec truly had a choice in the matter. After everything they’d been through—everything they’d seen—could he simply return to House Aron as if nothing had changed? It hardly seemed possible.
Wren reached out and took Alec’s cold hand, warming it in her own.
A short while later, a merchant’s ship—a schooner with peeling red paint—appeared over the horizon. The vessel moved toward them slowly, fighting the powerful currents of the Drain.
The schooner made its way toward them and dropped anchor. Several deckhands began hustling to lower the mainsail. A short man wearing a three-pointed captain’s hat stood at the bow.
Crown.
Wren stood up and waved her arms. Crown saw her and waved back. Soon, a skiff was lowered, with six rowers pulling it deftly toward the lighthouse. A rope tethered the little boat to the schooner to ensure that it was not sucked into the Drain
Wren looked at Alec and tilted her head slightly. “What do you want to do?”
Slowly, he rose to his feet.
“The Desert Lands don’t sound too bad,” he said. “Besides, I don’t think Sami Aron is ready for me to return from the dead.”
They stayed in Crown’s cabin. For a few gold pieces, Crown was all too happy to move out. His room was spacious—with a large bed and a hefty wooden table and chairs.
The sun was strong on the open seas, and initially they spent a great deal of time belowdecks, resting, eating, and listening to the groan and creak of the ship’s old timber frame. To pass the time, Alec sang the lullabies and love ballads that the old washerwomen crooned back on the docks of Edgeland. But no prayers or hymns. Nothing from the bone houses.
The more time he spent on the boat, the more he decided that his former life was over.
What he remembered from that life, more than anything, was how certain he’d been. Certain that House Aron was the greatest bone house. Certain that Suns were keepers of the one true faith. Certain that he was sending the dead to a peaceful resting place. How certain he was. And how wrong. Alec knew every detail of the Sun funeral rites, down to the most obscure furrier hymns, and yet he knew nothing.
At one point, midway through their journey, Crown paid them a visit. When he appeared in their doorway, his face was grave.
“We have a bit of bad news, I’m afraid,” said Crown.
“What is it?” asked Wren.
“An old deckhand passed away,” said Crown. “Died peacefully enough, in bed, but the men want a funeral—want to send him off to sea on a raft—back toward the Drain.”
Wren and Alec looked at each other, but said nothing.
“The man’s son is aboard as well—he’s the ship’s second mate,” continued Crown. “He’s asking for a proper funeral. Some of the men overheard that you were on the ship,” he said to Alec. “They were wondering, well, if you wouldn’t mind presiding.”
Alec said nothing.
“It would mean a lot to the men,” said Crown.
Still, Alec said nothing.
“Alec?” said Wren.
“All right,” said Alec, struggling to his feet. “I’ll see what I can do.”
By the time Alec and Wren emerged onto the deck, most of the crew had assembled. They were gathered around the body of an elderly man, who lay on a raft, which sat on the quarte
rdeck. Kneeling next to the dead man was his son, the ship’s second mate, Able.
“He would’ve wanted to die at sea,” said Able, still staring at his father. “Thing is, I don’t even know the words to chant.”
“You’re a Sun?” asked Alec.
For the first time, Able looked up. “Yeah,” he said. “Though we never made it to temple much—neither of us was much for goin’ ashore. Don’t suppose you could call us believers. Even so, now that he’s gone, I’d like to say them words. My father knew them. Didn’t know much else, but he knew them words. I remember he said ’em when my uncle passed.”
The skin around Able’s jaw quivered, the only sign of the grief he was holding in.
“I can help you,” said Alec.
“I ain’t devout,” said Able. His voice cracked for a second. “I ain’t been good. Been sailin’ and smugglin’ my whole life. Never talked to the gods.” He looked pleadingly up at Alec. “And they ain’t never talked to me.”
“That’s all right,” said Alec. His voice was soft and kind. He paused. “Would you like me to say the prayer?”
“I would,” said Able. “I know who you are—know what you do—and I really would appreciate it.”
Alec cleared his throat and began to sing, his exquisite and perfectly true voice rising from his lungs and across the decks of the old schooner …
The sun is setting and darkness now comes,
Feel the dying light,
Bidding the wanderers home from the storm,
Warming the faces of friends and strangers,
This last day,
This last time.
“Yes,” said Able. He looked up at Alec gratefully. Slowly, with great effort, he rose to his feet. “Those are the words I needed to hear.”
Alec nodded solemnly and returned to his cabin belowdecks.
Several days later, when the sea journey was nearly over, Wren woke from her sleep with a start. She looked around the cabin groggily. Alec’s hammock was empty.
Wren stood, dressed quickly, and made her way to the deck. The seas were calm, with only a slight wind pushing the boat toward the Desert Lands. Even though day had not yet broken, the air felt dry—already arid and desert-like. Far up above, the last stars flickered weakly, and the eastern sky had begun to lighten with the promise of dawn.
She found Alec in the stern, pacing back and forth, hands clasped together.
“Up early?” she asked.
He nodded, an uncertain expression on his face.
“I was just thinking about my parents,” he said. “They were—they are—so proud to be Suns. By now, they probably heard that I fell into the Drain and they think I’m in purgatory, preparing for the Sunlit Grove.” A sudden gust of wind made Alec take a step back. “But instead I’m near the Desert Lands, going to Ankora with you.”
“Do you want to see them?” Wren asked. “After Ankora, maybe I’ll go with you. I’ve never been up north.”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I mean, what would I say?” He exhaled and rubbed his face. “I keep thinking we should tell someone the truth.”
Wren snorted. “Would anyone believe us?”
“No,” replied Alec. “But it might make me feel better. The truth is, I’m even more scared of dying now than I had been before.” The early-morning air was cold, and he felt goose bumps form along his skin. His face was pale against the dim light. “I think a lot about everyone going down those stairs—into the water. They seemed so calm. I wouldn’t be that way. I’d be …” He shook his head and looked away.
“It wasn’t time for us yet,” said Wren, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We have more living to do.”
“And what if you die first—and you have to go without me?” asked Alec. “What then?”
“Then you’ll just do what you always do,” said Wren with a smile. “You’ll follow me.”
“Give me a break,” said Alec, pushing her away playfully.
She stared at him intently.
“I believe in you,” said Wren. “I believe that you are a good person—and there’s lots that you can do for people—just like you did for that second mate, Able. You helped him. And you can help others. That’s what I believe in.”
He took her hand and held it tightly. “That’s something, I suppose,” he said, looking directly at her. “Isn’t it?”
Wren nodded.
The sun peeked above the cloudless horizon: sunrise. Just then, in the distance they could see the contours of land—a series of sloping mounds—the great rolling dunes of the Desert Lands, stretching along the horizon as far as the eye could see.
“Come on,” said Wren. “We better get our things. We’ll be there soon. Are you ready?”
Alec breathed in slowly. A deep, long breath that curled into the bottom of his lungs. “Yes,” he said. “I think so.”
THE END
This was the hardest book we ever wrote. When our heroes, Wren and Alec, were lost in the underworld—so too were we. We made it through thanks to the following people.
There were times when we lost faith, but we never doubted our editor, Ari Lewin. When we needed a fresh set of eyes, Amalia Frick answered the call. To Lindsay Boggs, you make the book publishing world spin. To the powerhouse leadership of Jen Besser, Felicia Frazier, and Jen Loja—you’re what makes Putnam/Penguin the best! We would also like to thank a host of others in the greater Penguin family, including Eileen Kreit, Julia McCarthy, Emily Romero, Erin Berger, Kara Brammer, Carmela Iaria, Marikka Tamura, Kristin Smith, David Briggs, Emily Rodriguez, Liz Lunn, Cindy Howle, Rachel Cone-Gorham, Anna Jarzab, Madison Killen, Shanta Newlin, Todd Jones, Wendy Pitts, and Helen Boomer.
To Svetlana Katz at WM—your words of advice and encouragement were indispensable. Tina Bennett, as always, was a steady hand. If ever our ship should fall off the edge of the earth and—we’d want Tina at the helm. Thanks also to Alicia Gordon and Erin Conroy for your vision and tenacity in the realm of TV and film.
JAKE: Thanks first to my mother, Tamar Halpern, for always believing in me with your whole heart; and also to my father, Stephen Halpern, for your love and support. To my wife, Kasia Lipska. 10-26-96. I remember that day like yesterday. And many more to come. To my sons, Sebastian and Lucian, every story I tell is really for you. You remain the lights of my life. To Paul Zuydhoek and Mirek Gorski, our conversations about history gave me much inspiration. Betty Stanton, thank you for your magic—Pustefix Bubbles and otherwise. Best wishes to my fellow author: Barbara Lipska! Thanks also to Greg Halpern, Ahndraya Parlato, Witek Lipski, Coach Cheyenne Noble, Susan Clinard, Micah Nathan, Brian Groh, and Emily Bazelon. And, of course, fist-bump to my CF crew, Aaron Poach, Carla O’Brien, Jared Keith, Mike Pozika, Gil Simmons, and Benny Brunson.
PETER: To my wife, Nancy—you are wonderful and supportive and amazing in all ways—that moment you shot me in paintball is the moment that everything changed for the better. To my children—Blaze, Alina, and Sylvie—you make my days sweet. To my mom, Jo Kujawinski, il arrive parfois que la route soit belle. Thanks as well to Liza Kujawinski-Behn, Mark Behn, Alex Behn, Clare Behn, Dan Kujawinski, Maureen Finneran, Arlene, Dave, Charla, Brock, Lauren T., Steve, Lauren, Ryan, and Gil Weinsier. And to my old buddies: Joe Napoli, Alastar McGrath, Dan Reichart, Brian Zittel, Marcus Pearl, and Steve Mesler—I’m proud to call you my friends.
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by
Hot Key Books
80–81 Wimpole St, London W1G 9RE
www.hotkeybooks.com
Copyright © Jake Halpern and Peter Kujawinski, 2017
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
The right of Jake Halpern and Peter Kujawinski to be identified as Authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-4714-0614-0
Hot Key Books is an imprint of Bonnier Zaffre Ltd,
a Bonnier Publishing company
www.bonnierpublishing.com
Table of Contents
Title Page
Contents
Also by Jake Halpern & Peter Kujawinski
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Copyright