Borderlands (6 page)

A sea of shining threads: water and earth, river and island . . . all entangled in an enormous knot. When I squint into the afternoon sun, it looks like someone has splattered tendrils of silver paint across a wall. Some islands sprout foliage so thick and sprawling that you can hardly see the water separating them.

But in the areas I can see clearly . . . well, it's a far cry from Rourton's alleyways. The water gleams and shifts like a thousand moving snakes beneath the sky. Higher chunks of land form plateaus; lower areas sink like sighs beyond my sight, and ribbons of waterfall tumble between them.

‘Wow,' Teddy says. ‘That's it.'

For a second I think he's talking about the borderlands, but then I follow his gaze. He stares towards the horizon, where enormous mountains line the sky. The Eastern Boundary Range. Those peaks are legendary for their height, impassable even by biplane. They mark our eastern border, cutting off Taladia from the land beyond.

A space between two mountains draws my gaze. I focus on the V-shaped chink of light.

The Magnetic Valley.

A prickle runs across my skin. This is it. After all this time struggling across Taladia, it's surreal to think I'm seeing the Valley with my own eyes. It's right there, just like any other landmark, and I don't know whether I'm stunned or thrilled or disappointed. It looks so ordinary from here; just a gap between mountains. But what did I expect it to do – jump up off the ground and start yodelling to welcome us?

‘I don't see an army,' Clementine says, shading her eyes.

Lukas shakes his head. ‘We're too far away to see from here. But trust me, they're real. Clustering around the Valley's entrance.' He gives a little snort of distaste. ‘Like bees on a hive.'

We stand in silence, gazing at the distant mountains. This is it. This is the gateway into our new home – whatever that may entail.

A breeze blusters across the cliff, churning dust around our ankles. Clementine shifts her weight uneasily. ‘What do you think it will be like?'

‘The Valley?'

She shakes her head. ‘No, the land beyond.'

‘Like the stories, I reckon,' Teddy says. ‘You know – food, freedom, paradise and all that.'

‘But they're just stories.'

Teddy shrugs. ‘Yeah, they're stories. And that smuggler's song is just a song. But it still got us here, didn't it? Just because it's a story doesn't mean there's no truth in it.'

An arch of crumbling stone curves down from the cliff, offering the gentlest route into the border­lands. We descend in single file, crab-walking with our hands behind our backs to keep a firm grip on the soil. It's a long process: slow and awkward. Pebbles spill beneath my fingers and occasionally I lose my footing, but there's always a chunk of clay or clump of weeds to swipe. I bet we could take this path in five minutes at a sprint – but since we don't fancy breaking our necks, it's an hour's climb at least.

By the time we hit the bottom, sweat plasters my shirt across my back and into my armpits. My hands burn raw from grasping at weeds, and my legs are stiff from the unusual angle.

We stand upon a narrow peninsula, which runs like ribbon between two lakes. I head for the nearest shoreline to wash my face. Then I pause, my hands hovering just above the water. I glance at Maisy, her warning about the borderlands still fresh in my mind. ‘Think it's safe?'

Maisy hesitates, uncertain.

‘Only one way to find out,' Teddy says. He splashes a fistful of water across his face. As droplets run down his skin, he gives a moan of relief. ‘Oh yeah, that's better.' Then his face twists into a hideous snarl. ‘Argh! I'm mutating into an alchemical frog monster!'

Clementine looks terrified for a moment, then cuffs him on the shoulder when she realises he's joking. ‘You are the most immature –'

‘Froggary?' Teddy suggests.

‘–
infant
I have ever met.'

‘Hey, if I'm an infant, aren't I supposed to be immature?' Teddy says. ‘Don't want me growing old before my time, do you?'

The water is cool and sweet upon my palms, and feels even better when I cup my hands and tip it down my shirt. I hesitate, then dunk my entire head under the surface. It's worth a little chill to feel like I'm on the right side of the human-to-mud-monster spectrum again.

We haven't eaten lunch today, and I'm tempted to request a meal break. But we're in a vulnerable position, and we can't afford complacency. Just because we haven't seen Sharr for a few days doesn't mean she's not out there. Our fake foxary trails will only fool her for so long. We have to be prepared for pursuit – and that means no rest stops until we find a better hiding place.

Teddy wipes a hand down his chin, splattering the rest of us with second-hand water. ‘Wish I could see Sharr's face when she rocks up to this place. So long as we walk in the streams, there won't be any tracks for her to follow.'

My lips twist into a smile. He's right, of course. When Sharr realises we've headed into the borderlands, she'll pitch a fit. I wouldn't want to be one of her companions when the Morrigan anger bomb goes off.

‘Well then,' I say, ‘let's give her something to get angry about.'

We wade along the lake's edge, following the curve of the shore. Water laps up my shins, occasionally sloshing to waist-height when I trip into an underwater cleft. We can't see the mountains from down here, but Maisy does a quick calculation of the sun's angle and assures us we're heading in the right direction.

‘And if we get lost,' I say, ‘Lukas can hijack a bird to find our way.'

As we trek onwards, I melt into the rhythm of the borderlands. There is constant sound here, working to mask our footsteps. The swish of wind in the trees, the gurgle of water, the occasional croak of a frog. The afternoon sun is warm upon my face, and I find myself in something close to good spirits. I feel like we've earned this break – this moment of things going right. Teddy's still in a mischievous mood, and every so often he flicks a palm of water at the back of ­Clementine's head. She whirls to face him with a scowl.

‘Sorry, sorry!' he says, trying and failing to look innocent. ‘Must've slipped.'

Clementine shakes her hair like a dog, spraying water from her blonde curls into Teddy's face. He looks surprised, then gives a laugh. ‘Nice one, Clemmy.'

‘If you start calling me
Clemmy
,' she retorts, ‘I'll drop a spider into your mouth while you're sleeping.'

‘Yum,' Teddy says. ‘Extra protein.'

After a few hours of wading, we traipse back onto shore for a while. As nice as it would be to make this whole journey in the water, the encroaching dusk brings a chill to the air. If the choice is between ‘small risk of Sharr finding our trail' and ‘serious risk of pneumonia', we're savvy enough to opt for the lesser of two evils.

Even so, our luck holds out. The shore is marshy, and our footsteps dissolve within minutes of forming. Our only permanent trail is composed of a few broken twigs.

As evening falls, we search for a spot to make camp. This will be our first night in the borderlands, and I'm not keen on sleeping in the middle of a bog. The land here is low and soggy, barely above water level, and dozens of tiny streams knot in and out of any dry patches. So we wade onwards, from stream to land to mud and back again. My toes feel like cold prunes inside my boots. Even when we cross the land bars, my socks are so wet that every step is a squelch.

We finally spot a higher patch of land, bristling with trees. Maisy points. ‘What about there?'

‘Worth a shot,' I say.

Five minutes of mud-shuffling later, we find ourselves wading towards the island. Two rivers fold around it, deep and flowing. This isn't the shallow sludge that I've become used to; the water reaches my waist, then my torso, and I have to hoist my pack above my head. The last thing we need is soggy food. The current drags me sideways, but I grunt and grit my teeth to fight it.

The island isn't bordered by a sloping shoreline, but a rocky barrier as high as my chest. Teddy's the first to make it out; he flings his pack onto the shore, presses his palms onto the dry rocks and then springs up and over the edge. A moment later he reaches back to help Maisy, but she manages on her own.

I toss my own pack ashore, biceps strained by the effort of keeping it dry. Then I mimic Teddy's actions – albeit with a bit less grace and a lot more grunting – and hoist my legs up onto the island.

Once we've all scrambled up onto the rocks, we retrieve our packs and struggle to our feet. My shoulders ache. My calves throb. It's funny how exhaustion can strike sometimes. Back in the water, energy and willpower seemed to spool out of my pores . . . but up here, on the safety of the shore, I want to collapse in a heap.

The others look as weary as I feel, and no one speaks. I'm tempted to suggest a nap, but this isn't a safe place for dozing.

‘Come on,' I say, hating myself a little as I say it. ‘We've got to find a better hiding spot.'

Clementine groans, but no one argues. We traipse deeper into the trees, tripping occasionally when an upraised root goes ankle-fishing.

Lukas points ahead. ‘See that?'

I can just make out a strange gleam: pale and winking. We tramp forward cautiously to peer around a cluster of trunks.

It's a tiny stream, thin and bedraggled. But it's not exactly water. It looks thick and white, almost like clouds, with winking beads of light that pop like bubbles on its surface.

‘Alchemical residue,' Maisy whispers.

The clouds billow along the stream bed, flowing like water. But their colour and consistency are as thick as storm-stained sky.

‘Better get a wriggle on, I reckon,' Teddy says. ‘Don't fancy kipping near that thing.'

We turn away from the stream, our worst suspicions about the borderlands confirmed. Oddly, I'm more irritated with myself than anything. So much for a peaceful breeze and sunshine. I'd started to think that the rumours were unfounded – that the only sign of magic here was the strange geography.

Back in Rourton, I'd never have been so quick to trust.

We settle on a patch of knotty wildflowers in the middle of the island. It's dotted with rocks and doesn't look comfortable, but at this point I could sleep on a torture rack and be grateful for the rest.

The air buzzes with mosquitos, but they seem to avoid the strongly scented flowers. I make a mental note to harvest some in the morning for bug repellent. If we're to travel through waterways from now on, I'd rather not do it as a walking insect buffet.

Lukas volunteers for first watch, and we're all too tired to argue. Normally we'd all make half-hearted offers to take his place, but I'm too drained to make my tongue form the syllables. I nestle into the flowers, pull the edge of our sleeping sack over my body, and close my eyes.

A few hours later, I wake to the sound of rustling. It's proper night now, with only a hint of moonlight coming through the canopy. Dew beads glisten in the undergrowth near my face. When my eyes adjust, my breath catches in my throat.

It's Lukas. He no longer sits in position at his watch post. He's rummaging through our pile of packs, sliding nuts and oats into his pocket.
Stealing
. Stealing from his own crew.

Maisy was right.

I want to throw off the sleeping sack, leap to my feet and scream. I'm the one who vouched for Lukas Morrigan. I told my crewmates he was more than just the king's son; that he was a refugee like us and he could be trusted. I broke my own survival rules and put my trust in a stranger's hands.

And he used that trust to betray us.

I force myself to lie still, muscles clenched. My heart beats so loud in fury that I'm sure it will wake the others, but they slumber on beside me, unaware. Lukas carefully refastens the pack, then buttons up his pocket. He glances back at the rest of us. I hurriedly close my eyes, hoping he won't notice I'm awake. For several long moments I hold my breath. Has he looked away yet? There's no sound of movement, so I guess he must be lingering – staring across our sleeping forms.

The undergrowth rustles. I crack open my eyelids to watch Lukas. He turns, takes a deep breath, and vanishes into the trees.

I follow. I'm not too good at sneaking in the wilderness – a month ago I'd never even seen beyond Rourton's city walls – so I have to tiptoe.
Left foot goes here, right foot goes there . . .

Lukas ducks through a thicket of vines, heading towards the far side of the island. We haven't explored this area yet. He can't really mean to abandon us, can he? The idea makes my skin tingle with its sheer
wrongness
. There must be something I'm missing. I think of his lips upon mine in the tower – the soft warmth of his breath – and my fingernails slice like knives into my palms.

The island is larger than I thought. By the time Lukas slows, I swear we've traipsed at least a kilometre through the trees. He pauses in a grove of wildflowers not unlike our camp site. A fallen tree sprawls across its centre, half-collapsed with rot, and Lukas climbs atop its corpse to survey his ­surroundings.

I can't hold it in any longer. ‘Lukas?'

He jumps like someone's sent an alchemical jolt through his veins. His head whips around to face me, scanning the dark, and those green eyes glint like glass in the moonlight.

I step forward to reveal myself. Lukas relaxes a tiny bit – who was he expecting, Sharr Morrigan? – before his face falls. I hope his reaction is guilt, and not disgust, because I don't know if I could handle the latter. Mind you, I'm pretty disgusted with
him
at the moment, so maybe it would even out.

‘Danika,' he says, ‘I can explain.'

‘What are you doing?'