Chasing the Valley (23 page)

‘Our father runs a finance business,' she says. ‘He has friends in government, people who worked for King Morrigan. When the king's planes killed our mother, I thought he would quit – that he'd stop doing business with those murderers.

‘But he didn't. He just got more and more wrapped up in his business, started bringing home his “colleagues” for dinner. They were middle-aged men, and most of them didn't pay much attention to us. We were just children. We couldn't earn them any money, so we weren't worth their time.'

Clementine hurls her stick back into the fire. On impact, its charred end disintegrates completely. ‘But there was one man, one of our father's closest colleagues, who came around more often. He . . .'

There is a pause. Clementine is clenching her fists so hard that her knuckles look white.

‘He what?'

‘He took a shine to Maisy. He was always watching her, following her. Leering at her. Slobbering at her for kisses. Maisy has always been shy, but this man . . . he just
scared
her. Maisy started jumping at shadows, looking over her shoulder. Every moment, she thought he might be lurking nearby. Stalking her.

‘He asked our father if he could marry her, even though Maisy was terrified. He wanted to
buy
her hand in marriage, Danika, like buying a pig from the market. And our father . . .' Clementine releases an angry breath. ‘Our father was going to say “yes”.'

My stomach twists. I have misjudged these girls so badly – misjudged them with my scorn and my jealousy of their privileged lives. ‘And that's why you ran away?'

Clementine nods. ‘I've tried so hard to protect her. I tried for years. Our father didn't care – he just wanted the money.' She pauses. ‘One of our servants knew what was happening. She told me she had a friend called Radnor, a scruffer boy who was going to put a crew together.

‘I didn't want to consort with scruffers – I didn't want
Maisy
to consort with scruffers – but it seemed like our only chance of escape. So I raided our bank accounts, I hired Hackel to guide us, and I bought those foxaries. I thought it would all go to plan! We had so much more money than normal refugees. I never thought . . .'

She gestures at the snowy darkness, at the trembling form of Maisy beneath her sleeping sack. ‘I never thought
this
would happen.'

I wait a moment, then place a hand on Clementine's shoulder. She doesn't pull away. ‘We're going to get through this, you know. We're going to cross into the Magnetic Valley, and go to the lands beyond, where the king can't touch us. We'll be safe then. All of us.'

Clementine nods. ‘I know.'

I fish some extra biscuits from my pockets. ‘Here.'

‘We already ate.'

‘I know. But it will help.'

And it does. We sit in the glow of the fire, warming our hands and nibbling biscuits long into the night. We talk about little things: the noise of the market in Rourton, the feel of the cobblestones, the sight of a full moon above guard towers.

I tell Clementine the story of a drunkard who mistook a rubbish bin for a donkey and tried to ride it home, and she actually laughs. And when she tells me about her mother – and about the terrible nights that followed the bombing – I think perhaps we're not so different after all.

 

In the morning, the fire is still smouldering.
Maisy ties up a bundle of the glowing sticks. ‘I can keep these burning,' she says. ‘It will be good tonight, when we set up another camp. That way, we can save our last match for emergencies.'

Breakfast is porridge, made hot and steaming from the stolen oats. We mix candied nuts and dried fruit into the pot, and I decide this is the most delicious meal I can remember. In the cold, nothing can rival the heat of oats upon my tongue.

The mountainside is thick with fog, so it's hard to see where we're going.

‘Let's just head uphill,' I suggest. ‘If we reach that peak over there, we can get a better look at the rest of our route.'

We haul on our packs, disguise our campsite with broken twigs, and start our day of trekking through the snow. It's a quiet morning, and the only sound is our boots in the undergrowth. My legs are aching from yesterday's hike. One foot, then another. One foot, then another . . .

The first break in the monotony comes when Teddy spots a deer through the trees. I stop to stare, awed by the arch of its antlers. It resembles a tree come to life, branches sprouting above long-lashed eyes. I've never seen a wild deer before; just pictures in storybooks, in the oldest of my memories. My chest feels tight. I think suddenly of lantern light, and my father's voice murmuring. The crackle of pages, and blankets tight around my shoulders.

The deer slips away into shadow. We continue up the slope.

Despite my confident demeanour, I'm not really sure that we're going in the right direction. In the exhaustion of last night, I didn't think to check for the direction of the Pistol constellation. I don't even know if that line of the song is still valid, or whether we've travelled too far south for it to apply.

To distract myself from the cold, I run through the second verse in my mind.

Oh frozen night,

How the dark swallows light

When the glasses of hours hold on

I shan't waste my good life

I must follow my knife

To those deserts of green and beyond.

‘I think we're still following the folk song,' I say aloud, as we stumble through a patch of snowy bracken. ‘You know, that bit about a frozen night.'

‘You think that means to cross the mountains?'

‘I don't know. Maybe.'

‘It could mean Midnight Crest,' Clementine says. ‘A frozen peak, named after the night? That can't be a coincidence.'

‘Bit of a useless instruction, really,' says Teddy. ‘I mean, everyone knows you've got to cross the mountains to get out of the north.'

I shake my head. ‘Yeah, but most people cross further to the west, don't they? Along the traditional trading route? If the song's about the smugglers' secret route, I bet it's telling us to cross further east: near Midnight Crest.'

‘But why?' Clementine says. ‘I know the Valley's to the east, but . . .' She trails off.

‘Maybe the other lines are more helpful,' I say. ‘
When the glasses of hours hold on
– what's that about?'

Teddy shrugs. ‘Hourglasses? I reckon it's just warning us not to slow down. You know, don't waste time or the hunters will catch you. And that's what the next line's about too: if you waste time, you waste your life.'

‘Maybe,' I say, but I'm not entirely convinced. The rest of the song has concerned physical landmarks. Its clues involve things you can see: the forest, the river, the Marbles, the Pistol constellation . . . 

‘Do you think the hunters know where we are?' says Clementine. ‘That we're in the mountains already, I mean? Maybe Sharr Morrigan is still searching those fields outside Gunning.'

‘She must know we were in Gunning.' I pause, then add, ‘Lukas probably told her. I bet that's why he ran off during the fire, so he could tell his precious cousin where we were.'

‘Sharr probably figured it out on her own,' says Maisy. ‘We were heading for Gunning, and suddenly there was a huge fire and evacuation there. Surely a professional hunter could put two and two together.'

‘Yeah, she must know we got on that train,' says Teddy. ‘But does she know we got
off
it again?'

I bite my lip. ‘She'll know. The guards will send word to the hunters that we've vanished from the train. I bet that creepy man could give a good description of Maisy and Clementine, and Sharr will put two and two together . . .'

‘Great,' says Clementine. ‘So Sharr Morrigan's hunting crew will be en route to the mountains now, if she's not here already.'

‘Wish Radnor was here,' Teddy says, a strange tightness in his voice. ‘He'd know what to do, I reckon.'

We all fall silent, staring at our feet.

The morning passes slowly, in a haze of snow and exhaustion. Despite our growing concerns about hunters, there's no sign of pursuit. There is occasionally a flash of wings overhead, and I almost turn to tell Lukas there's a bird nearby. Then I remember and silently berate myself for being so stupid.

Now that we're free of immediate dangers – apart from the cold, of course – I find myself free to worry about other concerns. The most pressing issue is the itch down the back of my neck. My proclivity is developing, but there's no way to check whether a tattoo has started to form. The itch runs right down the top of my spine; I can tell from the speed of its spread that mine will be a speedy maturation.

I'm tempted to yank down my scarf and ask the others to check for me, to tell me if an emblem has printed itself across my skin. But even out here, the shame of the taboo hangs over me. Part of me feels stupid for worrying about it. After all we've been through, and all the laws we've already broken . . .

But the taboo is more than law. It's like wearing clothes, or refusing to go to the toilet in public. I wouldn't dance naked in front of my crewmates, would I? That's what it would feel like to reveal my bare neck.

‘Stop scratching your neck,' says Teddy.

I lower my hand, embarrassed. I hadn't even realised I was doing it.

‘I know it's itchy,' says Teddy, ‘but trust me – scratching doesn't help.' He gives a cheeky grin. ‘Know what it is yet?'

I open my mouth, slightly outraged. What gives him the right to ask?

Of course, the taboo has been broken in our crew already. I know that Teddy is Beast
and Maisy is Flame. But that's different – I haven't actually seen their neck markings. And besides, it doesn't stop my squeamishness about revealing my own proclivity. What if it's something useless, like Butterfly? Or something shameful, like Darkness?

I knew a few people in Rourton whose proclivity was Darkness, and they always lived on the outskirts of society. Proclivities like Darkness
or Night
don't seem trustworthy. They make you seem sneaky, like a thief or a liar. Someone who can skulk in the shadows, or prowl through the dark.

‘No idea,' I say. ‘Hard to see my own spine without any mirrors.'

For a second I think Teddy might offer to check, but he closes his mouth and shrugs. Good.

‘I think your proclivity will be Flame,' says Clementine. ‘It's the most common proclivity, isn't it? You took down that biplane pretty spectacularly with the flare. And it would look sort of . . . right.' She gestures at my auburn hair.

I shrug. ‘Well, it's not finished developing yet, so it doesn't matter. Whatever it is, I can't use it.'

‘It'll be ready soon, Danika,' says Maisy quietly. ‘When it's really itchy, that's when you know you're close.'

‘Oh.'

For the next few kilometres, I can't think about anything except my proclivity. I wonder when Maisy found out her talent was Flame
.
Did she check her spine in a bathroom mirror, locked away in her father's mansion on High Street? Did she tell Clementine right away, in a bubble of excited whispers? It must be nice to grow up with a constant companion. Someone to protect you, someone to share your secrets . . .

‘Get down!'

Someone pushes me to the ground. I swallow a mouthful of snow and dead leaves. There is barely a second to register what's happening – the rattle of engines, the shriek of falling metal – before the first bomb explodes.

 

 

 

 

Three biplanes scar the sky high above the
wintry trees. The first bomb blasts a crater about forty metres from us; snow and broken foliage spin out like shrapnel. A flock of birds explodes from the undergrowth, squawking and flapping in panic.

‘What –?' starts Clementine.

‘They know we're around here somewhere!' Teddy says, pulling her upright. ‘They're going to blast this mountainside to bits.'

‘Move!'

Maisy plunges her burning twigs into a nearby pile of snow, extinguishing the flames. We can't carry a smoking beacon through this attack or they'll spot us in seconds.

There's another explosion, further down the slope. This time, the effects of the alchemy bomb are obvious: a sea of crimson flowers explodes from the impact point. The sight is utterly perverse. In a deadened world, in the middle of winter, their petals spatter like blood. But the pilots haven't spotted us yet – they're simply blasting the slope at random. If they knew where we were, we would have been hit already. This means we have a tiny chance, if we can find cover before they spot us . . .

‘Come on!'

Every inch of me wants to run, to sprint. To escape this horror as fast as my muscles can manage. But that would draw the attention of the pilots overhead. The branches of the canopy are too thin, too bare, to give us adequate protection. So we throw ourselves into the undergrowth and crawl.

I take the lead, scanning the wilderness for signs of shelter. The leafless twigs are sharp; every movement scrapes my face, and I have to close my eyes to protect them. I'm crawling blindly now. If we pass by any handy caves or ditches, I won't even see them.

Crash!

Another bomb hits, too far away for us to spot its effects. Within seconds there is another explosion up ahead, only twenty metres from our position. The aftershock crumples my body. I'm flung backwards, a rag doll in the snow.

I lie, stunned, unknowing and uncaring. My ears are ringing with the agony of the sound. There's nothing but the clamour of more falling bombs: crashes and thumps and the howls of dying animals in the distance. Are some of those howls my friends? I don't know. We are all going to die anyway. Maybe I'm already dead.

A face swims into focus above me. ‘Danika!' it mouths. The sound comes from a great distance, as though the speaker is shouting across an abyss. I blink and try to focus. It's Clementine. Her curls fall above my face like a golden scarf, tickling my skin. I want to brush them aside. I want her to leave me alone.

‘Danika, move!' she tries again.

This time her words register. My ears still throb, but I'm starting to get a grip upon myself. I force my body up onto its knees. I tell myself that this is not real, this is just a dream. None of this is real. The pain is not real, nor the fear nor the shock. And so, if it isn't real, I can force myself to keep going. It will be just like my father is reading a storybook to me. This is happening to someone else, because it cannot be happening to me.

Clementine offers me her hand. I accept it. The others are clustered around, waiting for me to come to my senses. Later I might feel ashamed, embarrassed that I wasted precious seconds like this, but for now I'm only grateful that they stayed.

We push upwards. Maisy takes the lead now, and she takes us slightly to the side. At first I wonder why she would make our trek harder. Then I remember the explosion ahead of us. We have to avoid the sites of previous explosions; if we crawl across a smoking crater, we will be easily visible from the air. Besides, the alchemy bombs could have left any number of perils behind – a pit of spiders, perhaps, or poison that burns like acid through our skin.

‘Over there!' Clementine points through the snow.

My eyes and ears are still slightly distorted by the explosion, so it takes a second to figure out what I'm seeing. It's a ledge of rock, like a mini­ature cliff face on the side of the mountain. There are dark shadows around its base. Caves. If we can reach them . . .

There is something sticky running down my face – probably blood, although it's hard to tell. I might just be imagining it. But it doesn't matter because now I've got
hope
, and that's a lot more effective than a bandage would be. I refuse to die of blood loss when we're so close to safety.

Another bomb explodes to our left. It's not close enough to throw us aside, but I still feel the whoosh smack my face.

‘Watch out!'

The bomb shoots fireworks into the sky. A few sparks collide with overhanging tree branches, and suddenly there is fire in the canopy. I don't understand how it's happened, since everything is so wet and cold. Surely these trees can't burn in the middle of winter. But alchemy wins out over nature, and burn they do. Flames leap from tree to tree, sparking odd colours. Branches shrivel and fall. They hiss as they hit the ground, extinguished by snow . . . but some fall into thicker patches of undergrowth, and fire is everywhere.

The fog of the morning is gone. Instead there is smoke. Thick, grey smoke that fills my lungs and pushes me away from my goal. I struggle to keep up with the feet in front of me. I don't even know who I'm following now – I just trust that they're heading in the right direction. Branches thwack into my face. I cough and splutter. I fall. I push myself up again and keep going, because the others have already waited for me once and I don't think they'll do it again.

Suddenly, we're below the shadows of the rocks. There's a clatter of shoes and palms upon stone. I'm vaguely aware of my knees hurting, so I pull into a crouch and scuttle forward. There's another explosion behind us; it spews something wonderful into the air. The scent of baked apples, I think. Apples and cinnamon. Or maybe I'm just imagining it and I've been blasted into insanity.

The cave is cool. The cave is dark. And so I drag my body over the threshold, cough out a lungful of smoke, and slip into unconsciousness.

 

When I wake, it's dark. everything seems a blur
of light and shadow. I think I'm in my parents' old apartment, spinning around beneath the lanterns as my father's radio plays. Or perhaps that sound is my mother singing.
‘Oh mighty yo, how the star-shine must go . . .'

I blink and suck down a deep breath. The world crawls back into focus. I'm lying on stone, inside a cave. There is cold rock all around me. I can see white and shadow outside – snow in the night, perhaps. Someone has draped a blanket across me. No, it's a sleeping sack. I can smell the dirt and sweat.

‘Danika?' says a voice.

I crane my neck around. The others are already awake. They're sitting by a campfire near the back of the cave, sipping some kind of liquid that smells of spices.

Clementine puts down her drink. ‘Are you all right?'

I suddenly remember collapsing after the explosion, staggering around like a drunkard in the snow. Shame flushes into my system. I almost got the entire crew killed. ‘What happened?'

Maisy frowns. ‘Do you remember the bombing?'

I nod. The movement hurts my head, but I try not to show it. I've already revealed my weaknesses to my crew today; I'm not about to make it worse. ‘Is it over?'

‘Yeah, it's over,' says Teddy. ‘They used up all their bombs, then they just flew off like nothing had happened. Left half the mountain burning, mind you, but Maisy put out all the fires near our cave.' He pauses. ‘Well, she nicked a few sparks for our campfire first, so at least we've managed to save our last match.'

‘Are you sure you're all right, Danika?' says Clementine.

I force myself up onto my elbows, ignoring a wave of nausea. ‘Yeah, why wouldn't I be?'

‘You were in front when that explosion hit – you got it worse than us,' she says.

I feel a ripple of gratitude. It would be so easy to blame me, to tell me off for risking all their lives. I had no right to have a breakdown out there on the slopes, not when all our survival was at stake. But Clementine is blaming it on my proximity to the blast rather than my stupidity.

‘Do you want something to eat?' she adds.

I move to shake my head, but it hurts too much. I stop abruptly and say, ‘No, thanks. I think I just need to rest.'

‘All right,' says Teddy. ‘Sounds like a good idea – I might turn in soon, too.'

I nestle back down beneath the sleeping sack. On my side, I have a clear view of the world outside the cave. The sky is black, and wind blusters against the rocks. Before I close my eyes, I just make out a swirl of white dust falling from the night. I don't know whether it's snow or cinders.

 

For almost a day, I slip in and out of conscious
ness. I know that we have to keep moving. It isn't safe to stay in this cave, so close to the scene of the bombing. The hunters will be here soon. They will scour the landscape for survivors – or for our corpses. But I feel as though I've been drugged.

‘It's all right,' says Teddy, when I try to apologise. It's the third time I've woken – or is it the fourth? – and he's keeping guard while the others doze. ‘You got whacked pretty hard by that blast, I reckon. Anyway, we could all use a rest.'

The only positive is that I'm starting to feel better. Each time I wake, I feel stronger. The world is clearer and my head throbs a little less. Around midday, I feel well enough to sit up against the cave wall and eat an orange. The juice is sweet and refreshing on my tongue.

By the time we hit late afternoon, the others are restless. The twins keep offering me food: leftover porridge, mostly, and mugs of spicy cocoa. They're obviously anxious to get moving, but no one has the heart to force me.

It's up to me now. I have to make up for the weakness I showed during the bombing. I have to force myself to move.

‘What's the plan from here?' I say.

The others exchange glances.

‘Well,' says Teddy, ‘if you're feeling up to it, there's a smallish peak not far from here. More of a crag, really, but it'll give us a better view of our options.'

I frown. ‘Options? Don't we just want to get out of the mountains?'

Teddy hesitates. ‘Well, maybe. But Maisy reckons there's a passageway somewhere in the mountains – a sort of shortcut east, that'll take us towards the Valley.'

‘A passageway?'

Maisy nods. ‘A narrow gorge, heading west to east. The smugglers use it a lot, apparently. And it must be nearby, because it starts just below Midnight Crest.'

‘How do you know about it?' I say.

‘It's mentioned in a lot of geology books, as an example of fissures in sedimentary rock. They call it the Knife, actually, since it slices into –'

I sit up straighter. ‘The Knife?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

For the first time in over a day, I let my mouth stretch into a smile. ‘Well, then, we're going the right way. It's just like the song:
I shan't waste my good life, I must follow my knife . . .
'