SOE’S.
He nods. “Yes. Let’s get to Soe’s. Maybe some of this will make more sense there.”
I doubt it, but at least we may have a place to sit where prying eyes aren’t hunting for us. We bundle up his purchases, shake the rain off our hoods, and mount the horses—Iano helping me struggle into the saddle. Again I’m struck, not with gratitude, but with gloom. As he takes his own seat and nudges his horse through the brush, I shake myself, guilty. Maybe it’s just the fatigue of the journey. Maybe it’s the weeks of poor food. Maybe it’s leftover insanity from the cell in Utzibor.
Whatever it is, I hope I can push past it—sooner rather than later.
Because we have work to do.
Veran
We reach the northward slope of the mesa in the late afternoon.
We’ve been lucky, I guess. The four soldiers pursuing us from Three Lines split up, with two disappearing into the second canyon and the other two picking their way over the rim. But they stuck to the southern side, probably assuming we were trying to find another way down to the river. Instead, Lark led us slowly northward, climbing the rise of the mesa and then following its slope downhill, until we lost sight of the river and canyons completely.
There’s been plenty of water so far. Last night’s thunderstorm left a patchwork of puddles in the dips and divots in the rocks, so many that we don’t stop to drink from them all. And while clouds gather on the north horizon later in the afternoon, they don’t blow our way. I mention this once to Lark, suggesting the shade might be nice, but she shakes her head and gives a one-word reply.
“Lightning.”
I’ll concede that point. Mama never cuts any corners where lightning is concerned. And there’s plenty of evidence that this ridge sees its share of ground strikes—several times we’ve passed through stands of trees that have been scorched by brushfires over the years, the blackened husks thrust up wearily against the sky. This would have been a terrible place to be last night, but now there’s only heat and sun, snakes and beetles, rock and scrub.
We barely speak again until we reach the dramatic mesa drop-off.
“The water scrape,” Lark says without emotion.
I lean on the metal staff, staring out at the land spreading away in front of us. Where the land to the south and east of Three Lines is rocky and gray-green with sage, the flats before us are an almost uniform sepia, the short grasses punctured by spiky yucca and the occasional dark smudge of juniper. They roll away to the horizon, broken by nothing but the final line of sky. It’s a barren, inhospitable sight, so utterly different from the rich forests I grew up in. At home, the land is life—it’s food, and medicine, and shelter. It provides everything.
Here, it’s nothing.
Lark sighs. I sneak a glance out of the corner of my eye—she’s looking at the water scrape with something close to misery, the expression plainer without her hat and eyeblack. She’s tied her bandanna over her forehead to keep some of the sun off, so I can see her lips purse in unhappiness. Her fingers trail absently through Rat’s fur as he sits on her foot, panting.
I try not to acknowledge the twinge of guilt in my gut. Not everything was my fault, I reason to myself. It wasn’t my fault she ran from Pasul. Not my fault she had to leave Jema on the bank. Not my fault one of her campmates died while we were away.
But it is my fault the soldiers followed us, which is precisely what’s put us right here at the edge of this wasteland.
She surveys the slope in front of us. “Fifty miles to the North Burr,” she says, taking a few steps. “We can probably make another seven or eight before midnight.”
My mind wheels to a halt. Seven or eight miles? Midnight? I’m lucky to still be upright and sucking in air, and she wants to keep going?
“Lark,” I say. “I’m . . . I’m going to need to rest.”
“Rest, then,” she says shortly. “I’m going to keep walking.”
I straighten off the staff. “We can’t split up.”
“Then keep up. Come, Rat.”
I stare at her, and then back out at the endless sea of brown grass, and at the sun hanging low in the sky. A flood of memories stolen from the Woodwalker handbooks and Mama’s lectures to her scouts comes pouring back to me.
Prioritize, Mama would say, repeating the words of a string of Woodwalkers before her. Know the difference between what’s important, and what’s urgent. Prioritize. Start with what you have.
“Lark,” I say, more firmly. “Listen. We need to be smart about this. I know you’re upset and angry at me, but those aren’t good reasons to just tear off across the water scrape.”
She doesn’t stop or turn around. “I’m tearing off across the scrape because we have no other choices, and because I want to get somewhere that I can steal a horse and a sword and a canteen and go back to being left alone.”
“That’s not going to happen, Lark,” I say. “You know that, right? Not now that Rou and Eloise know who you are. They’ll comb the Ferinno to find you—they’ll send out the Alcoran and Cypri armies, they’ll send out the Silvern scouts and Winderan hunting dogs. And if you don’t want them to find a damned skeleton and break their hearts all over again, let’s just wait a hot second and think about this.”
She whirls on me. I impulsively brandish the staff even though she’s too far away to strike.
“Don’t you dare try to make me feel guilty,” she snarls. “I don’t owe anyone anything.”
I take a breath. Somehow I have to find our common ground.
“No,” I agree. “But you owe it to yourself not to die in a heap in the water scrape, and I owe you payment, like I promised.”
She gives me a consternated look. “How stupid do you think I am? You’re not going to pay me. You’re being chased by Moquoian soldiers—we can’t just walk into the bank in Pasul and take out a load of keys.”
“No, we can’t. And we’re not going to make it to Callais without transport, either. But I will pay you, Lark—you said that’s what you wanted.” I gesture out at the water scrape, to the northwestern horizon. “But I think our only chance right now is to meet back up with Tamsin and Iano. They’re the only ones we know we can trust between here and the coast.”
Lark huffs. “They could be anywhere.”
“They’re at Giantess Township,” I say, remembering Tamsin’s hasty note just before we parted in Pasul. “At the house of Soe Urkett. It’s not that far from the Moquoian border. And if we can make it there, we can get help—maybe hide for a little while, maybe help figure out some things.” I eye her. “Make travel plans. Then I can pay you.”
“I’m not going to Callais with you,” she snaps.
“Not to meet back up with your campmates?”
“I’m not going with you,” she repeats with emphasis.
I shrug, trying to feign indifference. “I won’t make you, then. You do whatever you want. But you can’t deny we’re going to need a place to hide while the Moquoian soldiers are searching for us. We can figure out our next steps later. But look, I’m not going to lie to you—if we try to go farther tonight, I’m going to collapse.”
She frowns, and I’m not sure if it’s in concern or irritation. But I’ve got a hook now—I need to follow it up. The handbook chapters on crisis survival are trickling back to me—I used to devour those pages, imagining myself stranded on Thunder Ridge or carrying a wounded comrade up from the Echoes. A little flare of that rookie excitement flutters in my chest. “Why don’t we take stock of what we’ve got, maybe gather a few things to bring with us, and get as much rest as we can? Both you and I have been running for almost three days now.”
Without her bandanna, I can see her grinding her teeth. She looks out at the dull brown of the water scrape again. My heart jumps in my chest, and I wonder if she really would leave me here, if I’m about to watch her and Rat disappear.
“Fine,” she says shortly. “We’ll spend the night.”
“Oh good.” There’s no maski
ng the relief in my voice. The excitement kicks back up. “That’s good. This is what all the handbooks recommend.”
“What—the what?”
“The Woodwalker handbooks, for the scouts.” I unbuckle my belt. “They have all kinds of scenarios, all kinds of emergencies, and they all start with being slow, being smart—prioritizing, knowing the use of what you’ve got. Start with what you have.”
She goggles at me. “Do you think this is some kind of game? Like you’ll earn a badge at the end?”
“No!”
“This is real life, Veran—this is survival.”
“Active survival,” I say. “Not just reacting. Not just hoping. That’s worlds different. It’s something we can prepare for. Look.”
While she watches, I crouch down and lay my belt on the ground. I pull Iano’s bintu knife out of my boot. I reach into my pocket and produce the dirty polishing rag she gave me to use as a bandanna. I lay them all out on the ground in front of me, Mama’s voice prickling in my head. It’s just like one of the crisis exercises she puts her trainees through.
You’re on the Kit Ravine Shelf, she says. You have a fire hatchet and three strips of jerky. The north slope’s burning and the sun is down. What do you do?
I consider my gear silently.
More, Mama demands. You have more.
I reach up and untie the laces on my tunic collar, pulling them out of the eyelets. I finger the fringe and the silver laurel medallions on my boots—I can’t think of what use they’d be, but at least they’re there. I look up at Lark, who’s simply staring.
“What do you have?” I ask.
“A half-blunt pocketknife and the staff,” she says.
More! Mama says.
I study her up and down. “And your bandanna, and the tie in your hair, and the quarrel you picked up from the soldier, and your belt and bootlaces, and . . . and your buttons. Your earrings.”
“My earrings,” she repeats flatly.
I press on. Start with what you have. “And . . . we both have our boots, and your vest and my tunic.” I look around. “And Rat’s fur. And sage, and juniper. Yucca. There’s a cottonwood. What’s that fleshy plant—is that purslane?”
“Yeah.”
“Edible, right?”
“In a pinch, I guess.”
“So yes. And grass,” I say, gazing out again at the scrape.
We’re both silent. My mind flicks over our list of objects. The metal blades mean we can clean game, if we can catch it. The string and fringe mean we can lash things together, maybe create a bow drill to start a fire—if I can remember how it’s done. The double layers of clothing mean we can stanch bleeding. The purslane means we won’t starve right away.
But the main thing . . .
“Priority one has to be fixing something we can carry water in,” I say, squinting at my line of gear, racking my brain for some use I’ve missed. What could serve to transport water? A boot? Surely boot water would be better than no water. But my boots won’t hold water for long. Lark’s might, but then she’d be barefoot. Could we waterproof an article of clothing? What makes a thing waterproof? “If only there were pitch pines around . . .”
Lark huffs. “Even if we had pitch, we don’t have a way to boil it.”
Think, think, think. Half-remembered diagrams of esoteric survival techniques flicker in and out. “I think there’s a way to melt it on a rock, maybe with coals . . .”
“But it doesn’t matter, because we don’t have pitch,” she says impatiently. She picks up the metal staff. “Listen, I’m going to set a few deadfall traps and look for some flint.”
Flint! Of course—with the right kind of rock, our knives can produce sparks. I chide myself for forgetting.
She whistles to Rat and then gestures back to me. “Why don’t you shred some of that yucca there to make a tinder nest?”
“Hm,” I say in vague agreement, turning my gaze on the yucca.
As Lark disappears through the rocks, I reach for the nearest frond on the spiky plant. It’s tough and waxy, with a razored edge. I pick up Iano’s bintu knife and hack away at the base of one withered spike. It comes away in a bundle of stiff fibers.
Something to weave.
When Lark comes back a half hour later, her bandanna bulging with purslane and clusters of some red berry, she stops short.
“What are you doing?” she asks, staring at the piles of disemboweled yucca leaves piled around me, and then at the tangled mess in my lap. “That’s not how you make a tinder nest.”
“I made one,” I say, gesturing with my elbow to a ring of rocks I set aside for a fire pit, along with a small stack of brittle wood.
She sets her bandanna down and pokes the nest, apparently unable to find anything wrong with it. She looks again at the fibers in my hands. “What’s that?”
“A coil,” I say, holding it up. “At least—I’m working on it. I’ve never done it before, but I’ve read you can weave baskets to be watertight.”
“Lila did that once,” she says, settling down by the fire ring and taking a handful of rocks out of her pocket. “It leaked.”
“I still want to try—if we can’t carry water . . .”
“We’re going to have to rely on seeps and puddles,” she says, examining one of her rocks. “With luck there will still be some left from last night. Come on, put that down. Eat some of this stuff while I get a fire going.”
“I can’t—I’ll lose the coil.” She rolls her eyes, and I point out, “You’ll thank me later if it holds water.”
“If,” she says, selecting one of her rocks and holding it over the yucca nest. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s to stay away from ifs. A waterproof basket is an if. Purslane and buffalo berries are here and now.”
“To think you once scolded me for having no foresight,” I say.
“I have lots of foresight. I foresee you fighting with yucca when you could be fueling and resting.”
“I’ll eat,” I say. “And rest. Just give me a few minutes.”
She makes a disgruntled sound and pulls out her pocketknife. She turns the blade to the blunt edge, and with a short, sharp flick, strikes the metal against the flint. A small burst of sparks rains into the tinder.
I watch her surreptitiously over my work. Mama still makes her scouts learn all the main firelighting techniques—Cypri-made matches are a new convenience, after all—but I’ve never had the opportunity to try it myself. Lark does three more hits before she gets a spark to catch, holding the tinder up to her lips and puffing gently. A tendril of smoke curls into the air. When the spark blooms into little petals of flame, she lays the nest in the fire ring and feeds it a few twigs.
I tug on the ragged bundle of yucca fibers in my lap, trying not to feel jealous of how effortlessly she did something I’ve secretly practiced on my balcony, with only variable results. She begins to stack a few larger sticks in a cabin formation around the nest—Mama teaches the tent formation at home, but then, there’s no lack of available fuel in the Silverwood. Here, in Three Lines especially, it must be important to conserve wood. Another detail I hadn’t thought of.
“My ma would love you,” I say before I can stop myself.
She looks up at me and then back down at her healthy fire. “Why?”
“You know everything. You’ve done everything.”
“But not to earn a badge or anything,” she says. “To survive. I’ve made plenty of mistakes that almost cost me my life. That almost cost my campmates their lives. That did . . .”
She breaks off, her gaze on the fire, her hands still.
“But how many more times did you save their lives?” I ask. “How many more times did you protect them, provide for them?”
“It went on too long,” she says distantly. “I should have made more of an effort to get them out before things got so bad.”
“You did all you could with what you had.”
She looks up at me, and I’m surprised to see anger in her
eyes. “You don’t know that—you can’t say that. You still have this . . . this delusion of who I am, this image of some wild, tragic hero. But all you know are the tall tales—you weren’t there for the scrapping from day to day, the splitting firewood and hauling water and spoonfeeding little Whit when she was too sleepy to eat.”
“By the Light, Lark, that’s why you’re a hero. I don’t know about wild or tragic, but all that other stuff—folk depended on you to survive, and you did what it took. And I’m telling you, everyone at home is going to love you.”
“Shut up, Veran.”
“You don’t care at all?” I press. “You’re not curious at all? You’d just turn away—knowing who you are now—and just come back out here?”
“After I figure out what you’ve done to the rest of my campmates—yes.”
“You don’t want to know—”
“No. I knew everything before I met you.”
Her voice is so firm and her gaze is so steady that I almost believe her—almost, except . . .
“What about Port Iskon?” I ask. “What about the man’s name on your sale papers? Sold by someone with an Alcoran name in a Moquoian port—someone we know now wasn’t your father. How did you get around the cape only to wind up back out in the Ferinno? You’re not still curious about that?”
“What does it matter now?” she asks.
“It could fit some of the pieces back together,” I say. “How you were abducted, where you were brought—”
“I don’t care!” she says forcefully. “Will it help me live through tomorrow? Will it help me keep my campmates safe? My past is the same as that stupid basket—it’s an if, it’s a maybe, it’s a question, not an answer. It’s not going to help, and I don’t care.”
She holds my gaze, her eyes sharp and her silence profound. Queen Mona. I was never good like Eloise at using or enduring silence and stares. I look down to the fire ring.
“Oh,” I blurt out. “Watch it!”
Floodpath Page 5
