Hostage

by Rachel Manija Brown

  Ross counted his steps from the crevice. Fifty-seven . . . fifty-eight . . .

  “Let’s camp here,” came Greta’s voice.

  Ross had to stay by the wall, or he’d never find his hiding place again. He collapsed with an exhausted groan.

  Someone prodded him with a foot. “Hey. Desert nights are cold. Move closer to the campfire.”

  “I don’t care,” Ross mumbled. “My legs hurt. I can’t move.”

  “Have it your way.” Someone dumped a heavy blanket over Ross.

  Sticks clattered together, and a match was struck. Pans rattled and water sloshed. The horses clopped away in a string farther down the canyon. Wood smoke tickled Ross’s nose, followed by the delicious smells of frying bacon and corn cakes. His stomach growled. He hoped his kidnappers wouldn’t force him to choose between staying where he was and eating dinner.

  “Wake up,” Charles said. “Here’s your dinner.”

  Ross slowly pushed himself up. A plate was placed in his lap, and a cup nudged up against his thigh. He fumbled in case someone was watching, but decided not to go so far as to drop anything. He quickly ate and drank, then flopped down and pulled the blanket over his head. It smelled of horse.

  “The others have the animals, so it’s us for camp guard duty,” Greta said. “Let’s divvy it up. Santiago, I’ll take your watch.”

  Santiago replied, “I’ll take the whole night. I won’t be able to sleep anyway.”

  Bankar‘s voice came from farther away. “Santiago, I’ve been meaning to ask, how exactly did that pathetic kid get the drop on you? Asleep on your feet?”

  “You wouldn’t have done any better,” Santiago said.

  Bankar laughed. “I did do better! I defeated the tall guy, and I didn’t break a sweat, let alone a bone.”

  “You didn’t see him fight. He was fast.”

  “You mean, you were slow,” Bankar retorted.

  “Shut up, Shanti.”

  “Don’t call me that,” snapped Bankar. “I hate that name!”

  “You want to go by your surname, you act like an adult.”

  “That’s enough, children,” Greta said. “Santiago, take first watch. Bankar, second. I’ll take third.” She paused. “On second thought, Bankar, I’ll take you out of the rotation. You used your power a lot today.”

  Bankar’s voice rose. “I’m not tired. I can pull my own weight. I could take your shift, too!”

  Greta sighed. “Just take your own.”

  Then came the noises of people settling down for the night. Ross’s heart lifted when he heard the unmistakable sounds of horses snorting and shifting weight some paces away, further down into the canyon. He would not have to try passing them when he tried his escape.

  If he got a chance to escape. Waves of exhaustion tugged at Ross, coaxing him to close his eyes and rest. Under the blanket, he pushed the blindfold up and lay with his eyes wide open, listening to the others breathe. One by one, they changed rhythm from uneven to long and deep. All except Santiago, whose shallow breaths hissed in pain. Gravel crunched as he shifted around, probably trying and failing to find a comfortable position. It crunched more as he began pacing.

  Ross waited, hoping his guard would settle down and fall asleep. He didn’t. Now Ross was afraid that the pain of his broken collarbone would keep Santiago awake all night. Ross hoped he’d at least rest with his eyes closed once the watch switched.

  By the time it did, Ross was digging his fingernails into his arm to keep himself awake. A crackling hiss startled him. “My turn,” whispered Bankar.

  Santiago’s footsteps retreated. Gravel rattled, followed by a few harsh exhalations and a muffled groan, and then his breathing slowed.

  Footsteps paced around, accompanied by the occasional crackle of Bankar’s lightning, and a faint smell of singed air. Then the footsteps stopped, though the crackles didn’t. Ross hoped she’d sat down. He wondered if she was creating the lightning to keep herself awake. That might not be too smart. Greta had implied that using it tired Bankar out.

  Sure enough, the crackling stopped, and Bankar’s breathing began to deepen and slow. When it fell into an even pattern, Ross eased the blanket from his body. With a snort and a gasp, Bankar’s uneven breathing resumed. Ross went limp. Then her breathing slowed again. This time, the rhythm stayed unchanged.

  Ross replaced the blindfold around his eyes so he wouldn’t lose it. His heart pounding, he cautiously stood up. There was no outcry. He ran his fingers along the rough stone wall, found cracks that would bear his weight, and inched upward, taking care not to make a sound.

  Staying a foot or so above the canyon floor, he climbed sideways, counting each time he shifted his right foot across. He kept his left hand at his side. A single clank of metal against stone might wake someone up, but he was afraid he’d lose his gauntlet if he took it off.

  When he reached thirty-five, a loud snort nearly scared him off the wall. He froze, waiting for hands to seize him. Nothing happened. Blood hammered at his temples. Then he identified the sound: the thud of a horse shifting its weight, the sound amplified by the stone walls in the absolute quiet. No other sounds.

  He let out his breath in a trickle of air—and for a horrified moment, he couldn’t remember where his count had left off. But when he moved his foot again, the number came back: Thirty-six.

  When he reached fifty-seven, he slowed down. Could he possibly have gone in the wrong direction? Fifty-nine . . . sixty-two . . . Sick with worry that he had managed to turn himself completely around, he gave himself to seventy-five before he’d have to decide.

  He almost fell when his reaching foot encountered air. There it was. He’d climbed upward an extra couple of feet without noticing.

  With excruciating care, though every muscle trembled, he eased himself down. Ross felt his way into the crevice, squeezing his shoulders together and wriggling under the overhang until he had wedged himself into the scooped-out bottom. If anyone shone a lantern into it, so long as they didn’t stick their head in and look down, they’d see nothing but the bare rock of the back wall.

  Ross lay still, trying to breathe quietly. The stone was pleasantly cool, the air scented with earth and lichen. He could sense the weight of the cliff above him, but at least he didn’t have to see it looming over him. Caves bothered him less than man-made structures, anyway. He’d never had a cave fall in on him.

  A feathery tickle brushed at his ankle, and then a scratchier one skittered along his neck. It was almost impossible not to kick out and brush himself off, but he forced himself to stay still, even when something like a centipede eeled its way into his shirt and marched all the way up the length of his spine. He held his breath when it reached his collar; it crawled up through his hair, then fell off. He heard its little claws ticking over the stone as it scuttled away.

  A noise startled him. He almost jumped up—he’d fallen into a doze.

  “Where is he?” The voice echoed up the wall. “Bankar, how long were you asleep?”

  “I wasn’t asleep! I just rested my eyes for a second!”

  “So the prisoner—“ Santiago began.

  “The guest,” Greta corrected.

  “The guest teleported out of the canyon?” Santiago asked sarcastically, as voices exclaimed and cursed.

  Greta’s voice rose over the commotion. “Everyone, be quiet. Bankar, you have to answer this honestly. How long were you asleep?”

  Bankar answered, almost tearfully, “I don’t know. It really felt like seconds.”

  “All right,” Greta said. “It can’t have been that long, because it’s not time for my watch yet. And he can’t see. I don’t think he can have gotten out of the canyon yet. Any footprints at the far end?”

  A chorus of “no” echoed back.

  “There’s so many around the campfire, it’s impossible to tell if any of these are his.” Greta sounded brisk and competent. They were all definitely awake and alert now. “You three, go search the far end. The rest of you,
come with me.”

  Footsteps started approaching. Ross breathed as shallowly as he could, pressing himself down into the floor. A crackle sounded almost in his ear, but he held himself still.

  “No one could fit in there,” Santiago said, not too far away.

  “Just checking,” Bankar replied.

  Someone yelped, followed by a clatter and hiss—probably a dropped torch.

  “What was that?” someone exclaimed.

  “It scuttled so fast, I couldn’t get a good look at it,” someone else replied.

  Bankar asked nervously, “Where is it now?”

  “Um . . .” someone said. “I’m not sure. It went that way.”

  The footsteps and voices hastily receded.

  Ross wondered how long Bankar had been asleep. His entire plan depended on his kidnappers leaving the canyon to search the wrong area while it was still dark. If he didn’t get a chance to leave the crevice before dawn, they would easily spot him.

  Footsteps converged from both ends of the canyon. That’s when the arguing started.

  “I’m telling you, there were no footprints leading out of the canyon. None!”

  Someone else retorted, “Well, you must have missed them, because there were no new ones coming down toward camp, besides the ones we made last night. I counted.”

  Another person broke in. “Didn’t Santiago say he teleported?”

  “I was joking,” said Santiago.

  Fingers snapped. Bankar exclaimed, “But maybe you were right. He disappeared in a second. I bet he did teleport!”

  “We already know what his power is,” said Charles. “Nobody has more than one power. He walked out.”

  Bankar exclaimed, “Or maybe he does have a second power, but it’s not teleporting. What if he walked out without us seeing him? Like Prince Sean—”

  A chorus of voices rose up.

  “Bankar!”

  “Shut up!”

  “Don’t talk about him!”

  Bankar scoffed. “The king can’t hear us all the way out—” Her words were lost in a mumble, like someone had put a hand over her mouth.

  Greta said ominously, “Do you really want to test that?”

  There was another muffled sound, then Bankar said clearly, “No.”

  “I think he climbed out,” said Santiago. “I think he’s a lot stronger than he looks. I told you, when he fought me, he was much faster than I expected. He could have killed me. I don’t know why he didn’t.”

  One of the older people said, “Charles, are you sure you blinded him?”

  “I’ve had this power since I was thirteen.” Charles sounded annoyed. “I promise you, he can’t see.”

  That same voice snapped, “Then you were an idiot to tell him that it would wear off by itself. If you’d said you had to take the blindness away, he’d never have tried to run.”

  Someone clapped their hands, then Greta spoke. “Enough second-guessing. We’re wasting time. I agree with Santiago. If the king’s guest climbed straight up from where he was lying, he’s on the plateau. Let’s get the horses and go find him.”

  The words ‘the king’s guest’ silenced them all. Soon the thud of hooves died out into the distance. Ross gave them enough time to be sure they were out of the canyon before he squeezed out of the crevice.

  Out of habit, he closed his eyes. The bright lights of the singing forest around the ruined city shone in his mind like stars in a night sky. That way.

  Ross set out back the way he’d come. If he stuck to the interconnected maze of canyons and arroyos, he couldn’t fall off a cliff. More importantly, no one would be able to see him unless they happened to look down from directly above. And the floors of those canyons tended to be rock or gravel, so it would be easier to avoid leaving footprints.

  Every few steps he bent down and felt the rocks around him, hoping to find something he could use as a knife. His back was beginning to twinge from all that bending when he found a sharp wedge of quartz. He stuck it in his pocket.

  Grateful that he could move a bit faster, he picked up his pace, his right hand trailing the canyon wall. He needed to find food and water.

  Between one step and the next, his fingers met only empty space. The canyon had branched. He groped until he encountered the new wall, paused to listen for the singing trees, then started off again.

  Three canyons later, the ground began to soften underfoot. He felt around for a plant to use as a broom, but found nothing. So he took off his shirt and tied it around his left ankle to rub out any prints he might leave. Despite the awkward newness of the gauntlet, it was a lot easier to tie a knot with it than without it.

  Weeds crunched underfoot, releasing brief, sharp scents. His forehead felt warm; the sun had topped the eastern mountains. It would get hot soon. He had to find something to drink.

  His ankle collided with something heavy that flipped over. Blunt claws scraped along the edge of his jeans. Ross bent down and felt the frantic scrabblings of an overturned desert tortoise. He picked it up. He’d eaten them occasionally, when he could find nothing else, but he liked watching them amble across the desert, and preferred to leave them alone. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to cook it.

  He righted the tortoise and listened to it creep away, then straightened up. Since he’d given up one meal, it was time to find another. If there were little weeds, there were probably big weeds. Ross zigzagged across the canyon, feeling in front of him, until his fingers touched a stem as thick as his wrist, covered in small, stiff hairs. The plant trembled, and high above, he heard a rattle. It was a sunflower. A ripe one!

  He used his quartz to saw through the stem until the flower toppled. If anyone came across it, it should look like it had fallen naturally. He sawed off a length of the stem to use as a stick, making ragged cuts as if an animal had gnawed it, then stuffed the seeds in his pockets. He’d wait to eat them until he found water.

  The sun now baked the top of his head. Without plastic to make a solar still, he’d need to find edible cacti or else chance upon a stone tank where rain had collected. In this heat, he’d be lucky to survive two days without water. Already his mouth was dry. Feeling ahead with the stick, he encountered several cacti whose spine patterns told him that they weren’t edible varieties.

  Then his stick splashed into water. Amazed, Ross crouched down and touched the edge of a pool. Though he should be thrilled, he hesitated. He didn’t hear any insects. Drinkable water should be swarming with life: flies, dragonflies, frogs, water skaters, beetles. Ross ran his fingers through the vegetation growing around the edges, trying to recognize the plants by touch. They were all weeds that could survive growing near an alkaline lake. Just to be sure, he dipped his fingers into the pool, then rubbed them together. The liquid was slightly slippery, more like oil than water.

  Poison.

  With a sigh, he continued on. But his luck turned when his stick snagged on the curved spines of a fishhook cactus. Ross carefully untangled the stick. If the cactus was jarred or shaken or uprooted, its roots would release acid into its reservoir of water. He knelt down and positioned his quartz at the base of the cactus. With a quick slash, he sliced through the thin roots that anchored it to the earth. Now it was safe. He flipped it over, cut through the membrane at the bottom, and drank half the tart liquid within.

  He set out again, walking faster until the stick bumped into a cactus with tear-shaped lobes. Prickly pear! He used his gauntlet to harvest the succulent fruit, then peeled and ate them as he walked, stuffing the spiny peels into his pockets.

  He’d found two more prickly pears when the sun’s heat on one side of his body indicated it was late afternoon. He was so tired that his bones ached, but he couldn’t stop to rest. He should be about a day’s walk from the ruined city.

  Ross hoped that Voske’s gang was still wandering around in circles. With any luck, something would attack them. Predators started coming out right about now, as the sun went down. Only humans and reptiles walked the dese
rt in the heat of the day.

  He was on his second handful of sunflower seeds when the yodeling cry of a coyote echoed along the canyon. Ross hastily stuffed the seeds and shells in his pocket and held still, listening for the unique call of the leader of the pack. He hefted one of the rocks he’d put in his pocket.

  The coyote followers yipped excitedly, signaling that they’d found prey. Then the deeper tone of the pack leader rang out. Ross forced himself to wait until the pack leader was close enough for him to hit, though his heart thumped as he heard the soft patters of the coyotes encircling him.

  The animals yipped again, and there was the leader, barking the call to close in. Ross threw the rock as hard as he could. The call broke off in a shrill yelp of pain. He followed up by slinging a handful of cactus spines in a circle around him. With a chorus of yips and moans, the pack scattered. The sounds of their calls faded into the distance as they sought less dangerous prey.

  Ross continued walking. He had a pattern by now: bare right hand up against canyon wall, hand with gauntlet holding the stick. One wave sweeping the air in front of him, then a couple of taps—not enough to leave distinctive prints—on the ground.

  Maybe tomorrow night he’d be back in Las Anclas. He might walk to the Ranger training grounds, where Jennie would be drilling the candidates. Mia would be in her cottage, drawing up the blueprints for some new weapon. Her windows would be open, so she could smell the dinner her father was cooking. Maybe Dr. Lee was making a hot pot, with three kinds of fish, mussels, clams, and a kimchi-based broth. And for dessert . . .

  The stick caught in something. Ross tugged, thinking it was entangled in a cactus. It gave a bit, then was slowly sucked back in, deeper and deeper, pulling him toward it. An odd smell arose, like sour beer.

  Ross came as wide awake as if he’d had a bucket of ice water dumped over his head. He leaped backward, letting go of the stick. That smell, that suction—he’d nearly stepped into a jelly trap!

  The fungus grew in translucent sheets, easy to spot in the day but nearly invisible at night. Anything that stepped into it was caught fast, then engulfed and suffocated in a surge of gelatin. They dissolved and digested flesh and bone, but Ross had occasionally seen metal belt buckles and weapons embedded in them.