Borderlands (4 page)

We stand in silence, staring after them. I try not to look at Teddy's face, because it flickers between determination and misery and I'm sure he'd prefer us not to notice. He wears his bravado proudly, that boy, and it seems cruel to point out this glitch in his facade.

It's Lukas who finally gets us moving. He slings one of the hunters' packs over his shoulder, alongside one of our own packs, and turns to face the rest of our crew. ‘Are we leaving, then? Before Sharr figures out we're not up on that ledge?'

I nod, and shoulder the other hunter's pack. The twins turn to follow me, faces tight in the shadows. Teddy is the last to turn away. He stares, silent, into the mass of foliage.

Then he lets out a deep sigh and turns around. ‘Let's get this show on the road.'

For the next four days, we walk.

Everything seems more vivid after the rain: bright green leaves, dripping and heavy, beneath a sliver of blue sky. We keep to the shadowed base of the Knife's walls and tread as quietly as possible, rarely speaking without rain to muffle our voices. We spend our nights huddled in a tangled knot of limbs in the undergrowth.

‘Cosy, huh?' Teddy says, when he finds himself squished between the twins. Clementine snorts and shoves him away, but they roll back together as the night wears on. It's too cold for grudges, or for personal space. We come to see each other's bodies as hot water bottles – and out here, that could save our toes from frostbite.

Even with sleeping sacks, it's cold. The ground bristles with pebbles and sticks, which jab my face whenever I roll over. Often I wake to an itch in the dark, only to find a spider or centipede crawling down my shirt. It's difficult to fish these intruders out without disturbing the others, so mostly I just leave them be and hope they're not venomous.

The only bright side is the food. After days of dwindling supplies, the hunters' packs are more tempting than the swankiest richie restaurant bin. We find the same supplies we've nicked in the past: oats, dried apples, fried banana chips, raisins, flour cakes, apricot syrup . . .

We have to ration carefully, of course – we've got five hungry teenagers to feed, and two hunters' provisions won't last forever. But I've spent half my life hungry, and my tastebuds aren't fussy. And we soon discover – contrary to all logic – that a squirt of syrup makes wild mushrooms taste like heaven. Even the richie twins are happy to feast upon this concoction.

‘We should take this recipe back to Rourton,' Teddy says, through a mouthful of half-chewed mushroom, ‘and sell it in the market as a regional delicacy. We'd make a fortune.'

‘Until our customers turn us in for the reward money?' I say.

‘Yeah, well, you win some, you lose some.' Teddy grins, and a dribble of syrup runs between his teeth. ‘Always wanted to be a famous chef.'

‘What? Since when?'

‘It'd be a good way to get into fancy restaurants. Have you seen how those richie ladies dangle handbags over their chairs? Like they're just daring someone to nick 'em.'

And so another day tramps by. We walk, we eat, we sleep. Our legs ache and our bodies itch. A stream runs through much of the canyon, so at least we can scrub ourselves when the itching gets too bad.

As we travel east, the Knife's walls begin to shrink. They angle down gradually, marking our slow progress out of the Central Mountains. Until now, we've focused on escaping the hunters. But as the point of the Knife approaches, I start to grow uneasy. What lies beyond these slopes – a wasteland, a forest, a realm of barren stone?

Or will we step straight into the Valley?

When I drill Maisy for answers, she shakes her head. ‘I don't know.'

‘But you've read about so many different places!'

Maisy flinches. After all the terrors we've survived, I sometimes forget how timid she can be. ‘Sorry,' I say. ‘It's just . . . I wish I knew what was coming.'

She nods, accepting my apology, then takes a deep breath. ‘I know about geology, and a little about the history of places. But I don't know
where
they are. Even richies aren't permitted any detailed maps of Taladia.'

I turn to Lukas. ‘Hang on, you're a biplane pilot! You would've studied maps. You must know –'

But Lukas is already shaking his head. ‘We never flew this far east, Danika. No cities out here. Nothing to . . .' He hesitates.

Nothing to bomb
, my brain fills in. A sudden bitterness fills my throat and I swallow it back, silent. I think of alchemy bombs falling on Rourton: a riot of flame and chaotic magic. My city burning. My family dying.

This is why we're here. Why we must struggle through the mountains, through the Knife, towards whatever danger lies ahead. Because no matter what awaits us in the Valley – or the fabled land beyond – it
must
be better than the life we left behind.

And so, we carry on.

There's no sign of hunters, so perhaps Teddy's foxary ruse has bought us a few days' grace. No one mentions it, as if we're all secretly afraid to jinx our good fortune. Sometimes I spot Lukas gazing up at the Knife's highest ledge, as though his cousin's silhouette might be imprinted against the sky.

We wade in the creek and clamber over logs. I relish the moment at noon when sunlight streams straight down into the Knife. For an hour or so, at least, there's some warmth among the trees.

Teddy even does a pirouette in the sunlight, grin­ning as it streams across his limbs. ‘Hey, I reckon I'm a natural at this.'

Clementine snorts. ‘Oh yes, clearly. You should have trained in ballet instead of burglary.'

Then the sun swings beyond the lip of the opposite cliff, and we're plunged into shadow once more. Shadow is safer, of course – our moment in the sun is likely our most dangerous part of the day.

But with no signs of pursuit, I find myself cursing the Knife's perpetual darkness. As I stumble along, cold air stagnant on my skin, I dream of running wild through a sunlit field. It wouldn't even have to be a cliched field of flowers. I'd settle for a field of mud and cow dung, if only its air felt warm upon my skin.

On the third day, it rains. I venture away from our camp at breakfast to hunt for extra supplies. After a few soggy minutes of foraging, I find a grove of mushrooms in the shadow of a boulder.

‘Danika?'

I turn. Lukas stands behind me. ‘What's wrong?' I ask.

He shakes his head. ‘Nothing. I thought I could help . . . and I guess I wanted to make sure you're all right.'

‘I'm fine, thanks,' I say, a little uncomfortable. This is the first time we've spoken alone, really, since fleeing the airbase. ‘How about you?'

‘Fine.'

There's a pause. A fold in my scarf collapses, slopping cold water down my back. ‘It's a bit wet today.'

‘Yes,' says Lukas. ‘It is.'

I meet his gaze – a flash of green in the rain – then look back into the trees. Everything about this feels awkward. For days I've wanted to talk to him in private, but now that I've finally got him to myself, all I can manage is stilted commentary on the weather.

‘Danika,' Lukas says, ‘I wanted to say . . .'

Another pause.

‘What?'

Lukas just stares at me. This conversation is putting me on edge. I'm mostly annoyed with myself, I think, and my tongue's refusal to ask what I'm burning to know.
Was it real?
I want to shout.
That kiss in the tower, and what we felt? Or was I just some girl to kiss before you died?

But I don't say a word. My hair drips water across my cheeks.

‘Nothing,' Lukas says.

I sigh, bend over a particularly large mushroom and rip it up by the stalk.

On the fourth afternoon, we reach the end of the Knife. It opens onto a broad expanse of land, as thick with forest as Teddy's head is thick with hair. A bath of sunlight dapples the trees. No more canyon walls, no narrow crack to navigate. We could turn north or south, east or west, no longer trapped by cliffs and shadow. And that simple fact – that simple rush of
choice
– is enough to make my intestines flip.

Lukas smiles at me, and I have a sudden urge to squeeze his hand. I shove my palms into my pockets.

‘This doesn't look like a valley,' Clementine says. ‘Which way do we go?'

She sounds more doubtful than joyous, and my own excitement fades a little. She's right. The Magnetic Valley is our only safe route out of Taladia. If we head in the wrong direction, we could end up at King Morrigan's home city in the south – or even swing back towards the north. With hunters on our heels, a delay like that could prove deadly.

Maisy shifts her weight from foot to foot. ‘The Valley lies in the Eastern Boundary Range,' she says hesitantly, ‘so we're looking for a line of mountains. Maybe Lukas could borrow a bird's eyes to look over the forest?'

Lukas nods. ‘Later, though. I don't like hanging around here in the open – not when Sharr could be just behind us.'

We make decent progress as the day wears on, trekking towards our best estimate of ‘east'. The undergrowth here isn't as dense as it was in the Knife, which means fewer tangles to ensnare our ankles. And more importantly, there are no cliff walls. No endless shadow. Every so often we pass through a clearing, or stumble across a stream, and the flush of sudden sunlight feels like some glorious novelty.

To be safe, we wade along a stream for a few hours before we stop for the night. We're left with soggy trousers, but it's better than leaving a trail to our camp site.

Our chosen site isn't far from a clearing. The air smells sweet and fresh, with a faint hint of rose­berries. I've always liked roseberries. Traders sold them in the Rourton market sometimes, and whenever I caught a whiff of that sweetness, I knew summer was on the way.

I lay out the sleeping sacks and fill our waterskins from the stream, while Teddy and Maisy get to work on our dinner. Maisy's officially in charge of the rationing, since she's the best at maths, but Teddy has a flair for combining flavours. I doubt anyone else would dream up as strange a combination as syrup mushrooms.

Once I've finished my chores, I follow Lukas into the clearing. He sits right in its centre, legs crossed. Late-afternoon sunlight spills across his face.

I hesitate, then sit beside him. ‘Any luck yet?'

Lukas stares into the trees, clearly concentrating. For a few seconds I think he's chosen to ignore me, and I make a move to rise again.

‘No,' he says suddenly. ‘Stay.' He meets my eyes, then gives a rueful shake of his head. ‘Sorry, didn't mean to be rude. I was just listening for birds.'

‘Would it be easier if I left you alone?'

He shakes his head again. ‘No, not really. Just . . . sorry if I'm not a great conversationalist right now.'

‘I'll shut up,' I promise.

We sit in silence, letting the sounds of the forest ebb around us. Now that there's no pressure to talk, I feel my body relax. We are quiet and comfortable: two weary figures beneath a fading sun. Around us, leaves rustle in the breeze.

I wonder what Lukas is thinking. Not about the birds, but more generally. A few weeks ago he was a prince and pilot, with all the trappings of royal life.
Prince Lukas Morrigan.
I try silently mouthing the name, but it feels unnatural on my tongue. ‘Prince Lukas Morrigan' should sleep in a four-poster bed. He should feast in a dining hall, dance at royal balls, and listen to songs on an alchemy radio.

Yet here he is: a boy in the wilderness, running for his life. Not the prince, but another Lukas.
My
Lukas. Starving, filthy, desperate. The only family member he is likely to encounter again is Sharr Morrigan – and if so, she will likely be the last thing he ever sees.