Chasing the Valley (13 page)

I hesitate. Our camp is protected by my illusion, isn't it? Even if something happens to me, the others will be safe. They'll be left alone to slumber until morning . . . 

I pilfer a knife from the nearest pack, and slide it down the side of my boot. Then I clench my fists, summon my courage and step outside the magnetic circle.

Nothing happens. I exhale slowly. I don't know what I was expecting – for a dozen hunters to swoop down and gut me? But there's no sign of movement, no sounds of encroaching attackers. There's only the chill of the night, the gurgle of the river and the fog of my own breath upon the cold.

The water lashes my ankles, stronger than I expected, and for a horrible second I think it might yank my body out from beneath me. It's cold, too, so cold that I almost shriek in pain. But I grit my teeth and clench my eyes shut. I allow myself this one moment of weakness, steadying my nerves. Then I press onward. This kite has haunted me for days. It could be a danger to our crew; a trap just waiting to be sprung. And tonight, the kite is closer than ever. What if its flyer means us harm? What if he's working some unknown magic, out there in the dark?

When the water is almost at my chest, I reach the first boulder. I can't swim – there's nowhere to learn in Rourton, unless you're a richie with access to the private bathing pools – and the current grows stronger as I approach the deeper waters. My only hope of getting across is to use these boulders. If I tell myself they're just enormous stepping stones and this river is just a downtown street on a stormy day . . . 

I haul myself up onto the rock, gasping at the smack of cold air. It's funny how cold water hurts when you first submerge yourself, but by the time your body adjusts, it's re-entering the outside air that really stings. My clothes are sopping and I wince a little at the noisy slosh of fabric as I hit the rock.

The next boulder is only a metre away. I balance on my knees and throw my upper body forward, extending my legs like a frog beneath me. With a huff – and a pang as my palms hit rock – I make it across. Then, before I have a chance to panic, I force myself to repeat the action.

Within a minute, I've lurched across three boulders and I'm halfway across the river. My legs get drenched, but I always manage to grab a handhold in time to save myself from the current. It's deep here – my flailing legs don't touch the riverbed – and the water is strong. It takes all my strength to haul my body upwards onto the next rock and the next . . .

I'm three-quarters of the way across when it happens. I miss my handhold and tumble into the river. There's a lash on my knuckles and sudden pain as I collide with the submerged bulk of the rock. Then froth and cold and my own shriek, gurgling beneath the water. The current drags me downstream. In this moment, I'm more terrified than I've been in years. This river isn't just some basher scum in an alleyway or a richie with a fire poker. The river doesn't want to fight me. It doesn't even want to kill me. It just doesn't
care.
I'm as worthless as a leaf or an animal carcass. A piece of debris to be churned against the rocks.

My head slams into another boulder. There's a flash of black, then flickering white beneath my eyelids. Is this what it means to ‘see stars'? But this pain doesn't feel like starlight. It feels like lightning. I struggle to get a grip on myself. I regain control of my hands, just for a minute, and lunge through the flurry. I don't know what I'm grabbing for – rock or empty water – but my fingers find the edge of the boulder.

I haul myself up: gasping, dripping, dizzy. And then I realise. This isn't just another pile of rocks. It's the bank of the river. I've made it to the other side. And thirty metres from my sodden body, a kite flutters across the stars.

 

 

 

I lie on the riverbank, fighting to regain my
breath. My lungs seem to have forgotten how to fill and empty; they just ache. I twist over a couple of times to cough up water. Luckily the river is loud against the rocks, or I'd reveal my position with every choke.

After a few minutes, my body starts returning to normal. There's a rhythm to my breathing now, like the quiet cycle of a nursery rhyme. In my head, the words churn over again.

Oh mighty yo,

How the star-shine must go

Chasing those distant deserts of green.

My breath eddies into the rhythm of the folk song. In, out. In, out. I force myself onto my knees, then my legs. I'm a little unsteady, but the boulders provide support as I grope my way downstream.

We shall meet with the tree-lands

Then bet with the stream's hands

As star-shine's fair pistol shall gleam . . .

The night is quiet, but the river makes enough background noise to hide my footsteps. From behind a stack of boulders, I risk a cautious glance towards the kite flyer. He sits on a rocky ledge, silhouetted against the sky. There's a shadowed space behind him – a cave in the rocks, I guess, which he'll shelter in tonight. But for now he's out in the moonlight, coaxing his kite string down as though to end its flight.

He's younger than I expected. Too young to be a hunter. Seventeen or eighteen at the most, although it's hard to tell in the dark. His hair is dark, falling around his face in tendrils. He stares up at the stars, mouth closed, eyes bright and open. I inch closer.

The boy whips around, alert as an alley cat. ‘Who's there?'

I shrink back behind my boulder. Then I swear at my own mistake; my shadow has been amplified by the angle of the rocks and moonlight. There's no way he could have missed its jerking retreat. Is he approaching? It's too risky to stick my neck out again. I can't hear anything, but maybe he's been trained to move silently. Maybe the palace is recruiting younger hunters to fool us somehow . . .

I slip the knife from my boot and point it outwards. If he approaches, I'll be ready. I'm not going to die like a mouse, cowering in the shadows without a fight.

Nothing.

A minute passes, maybe two. I force myself to keep as quiet as I can. Any second he might appear, armed with terrible weapons I've never dreamed of. Or worse, armed with spells and alchemy.

‘I'm not going to hurt you,' the boy says.

His voice echoes from across the clearing. He hasn't moved from his position on the ledge. Why hasn't he moved? Maybe he's toying with me; he knows he can take his time. If he knows his proclivity, he might be able to move through the air or the rocks or even the darkness. Maybe I'm no safer here than I would be if he stood inches from my neck.

I tighten my grip on the knife, just in case. ‘Why should I believe you?'

‘Because I'm a refugee,' says the boy. ‘Just like you.'

‘You know nothing about me!'

‘Yes I do. I've been following your crew. You're from Rourton.'

I peer around the edge of my boulder, trying to suss out his tone. He hasn't moved. ‘Who are
you
?'

‘My name is Lukas,' he says. ‘I've been travelling for weeks now, from Norville. I just turned eighteen and I didn't . . .' He trails off, gesturing at his lack of a neck-scarf. ‘I didn't want to join the army.'

‘If you're a refugee, where's your crew?'

‘Since when is it compulsory to join a crew?'

He has a point. If I hadn't joined Radnor's crew, I'd be a solo refugee too. Well, either solo or dead. ‘What's with the kite?'

Lukas hesitates. ‘It's hard to explain.'

‘Try me.'

‘Well . . . it helps me find my way.'

I venture from behind the boulder. I feel very exposed in the moonlight, but I want a better look at his face. It's too hard to tell whether he's lying, to know whether to trust him. ‘How?'

‘It helps me communicate with my proclivity. It helps me to see
.
' Lukas folds his kite gently and then winds its string around a reel. ‘My proclivity is Bird
.
There aren't many birds around here but the kite attracts them.'

He twists to show me the back of his neck. Proclivity markings run across the skin, creating a trail from his hairline to his jacket collar. From here, they just look like black splotches. They must be tiny birds, though, or maybe feathers. I step forward, angling for a closer look, but Lukas has already turned back around to face me.

‘Why are you following our crew?' I say.

‘I don't know. I guess . . .'

‘What?'

‘I guess it seemed safer to stick close by. That smuggler that was leading you, back in the forest, he looked like he could handle a pack of hunters.'

‘Well, we haven't seen him for days, so I wouldn't get your hopes up.' I pause. ‘Anyway, we've already got an oversized crew. Our leader isn't going to let you join as well.'

‘I don't want to join,' says Lukas. ‘But we're travelling the same way, aren't we? We're all heading for the Magnetic Valley.'

‘So?'

‘So what does it matter if I stick close by?' Lukas slips off his rock and steps towards me. ‘No one else knows about me, right? It's just you.'

I hesitate, then nod.

‘Well, doesn't that show I've got some skills? I know how to keep quiet, how to hide myself. I won't endanger your crew.'

‘You're in more danger yourself if you stick near us,' I say. ‘You were nearby in the forest – you must know that I brought down a biplane.'

His eyes widen. ‘That was you?'

I nod. ‘The king's hunters want us dead. If you've got any sense, you'll get as far away from our crew as possible.'

‘And go where?'

‘I don't know. Find another way to the Valley or something.'

Lukas shakes his head. ‘I got lost days ago, and my original plan is wrecked. My only hope of finding a safe route is to follow the river . . . just like the rest of you.'

‘What about your kite?'

‘It's not enough.' Lukas sounds frustrated. ‘There were plenty of birds back in the forest, but not so many out here in the rocks. Why do you think I keep risking it, night after night? I need to borrow their eyes and see the world from above. I
like
seeing the world from the sky.'

‘I would've thought they'd be sleeping,' I say, thinking of the pigeons back in Rourton. They always disappeared at night, roosting in the nooks and crannies of the city. ‘Or it'd be too dark for them to see your kite.'

Lukas shakes his head. ‘Owls and nightjars can see in the dark. Anyway, the birds don't need to physically see it. This isn't . . .' He weighs the folded kite in his hands. ‘It isn't a normal kite.'

I stiffen. If Lukas is rich enough to afford enchanted objects, he's not a normal refugee. I don't know what mysteries the kite holds – maybe it's been dipped in alchemy potions or weighted with an unknown spell – but I
do
know what it means for me. It means this boy is suddenly a lot less trustworthy.

Lukas seems to sense the shift in my mood, because he takes another step forward. ‘It's just a family heirloom,' he says. ‘My grandfather's proclivity was Bird
as well. He passed it down to me when he died.'

I don't respond.

Lukas puts his kite down on the rocks, and holds up his hands to show he's unarmed. ‘All the kite does is call birds, I swear. It doesn't have any other powers.'

‘Why should I believe you?'

‘If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have told you the truth. And if I was working for the palace, why wouldn't I have attacked your camp days ago?'

‘Because you're waiting for backup,' I say.

‘If I need backup to attack a bunch of teen­agers,' says Lukas, ‘my kite obviously doesn't have any hidden evil powers, does it? You can't have it both ways.'

A breeze filters between the rocks. It chills the damp fabric against my skin.

‘Did you kill those hunters?' I say eventually.

‘What?'

‘We found two dead hunters in the woods. Someone executed them – shot them through the base of their skulls. Was it you?'

Lukas looks rattled. ‘I don't even have a gun. You can check my supplies if you want.'

For some reason, I believe him. There's something about his eyes and the open spread of his hands that makes me trust him. Or maybe it's the way he looks genuinely shocked by the idea of plugging someone's neck with bullets.

‘If you didn't kill them,' I say, ‘then who did?'

‘I don't know.'

Silence again. My throat feels a little dry now, husked out by confusion. Part of me wants to flee, to run back to my crew's camp and pretend I've never met him. The rest of me buzzes with curiosity. I want to know more about this boy called Lukas, this boy who is not afraid to risk his life by tossing a kite into the stars.

‘I've got to get back to my camp,' I say. ‘I won't tell them about you, not yet. But if you try anything dodgy –'

‘I won't.'

Lukas steps towards me. When he enters a patch of moonlight, I get a better look at his body. He is hard and lean, built with the sort of rangy muscles that you never see on spoiled richie kids. But his face is strained, as though he's lost a bit of weight, and quickly. I wonder how long it's been since his food supplies ran low.

‘What's your name?' he says.

‘Danika Glynn.'

He nods. There is a pause. ‘Well, Danika, I'm glad I met you. It's not every day you meet a girl who can bring palace biplanes down from the sky.'

Then he stands, gives a little smile and slips away into the night.