by Sarah Driver
I search the fire spirits for more signs but sudden doubt rattles through me. What if Stag’s right, what if the spirits are just a clutter of lights in the sky? I remember the night I shot that terrodyl, when I searched the sky for signs of Da, and Sparrow said he weren’t up there. I still ent no closer to knowing when I’ll see him again. If he was here, he’d make me feel heart-glad with just a story and a belly-laugh.
He’d remind me about getting ready to gift my arrows to danger, too, so I push my thoughts away and reach into my pocket for a handful of the feathers shed by Thaw. When my hawk whizzes back to me, shaking the frost from her feathers, I ask her to gather some twigs from the forest. Then I dig out the arrowheads Egret gave me. When Thaw comes back, I use my dagger to whittle the wood into the right shape for an arrow-shaft, then set to fixing the arrowhead and the fletching using a thin length of sinew that I’ve sawn from the too-long ends of Bear’s amber amulet. I work until I’m clutching a fistful of roughly made arrows.
I lift my hand to return the dagger to my belt, and jar Kestrel, waking her. I’m about to say sorry when the draggles wheel back to us and Kestrel stands and stretches up onto the balls of her feet, yawning.
‘Ready?’ she asks me, all aglow with thoughts of flying again, so I lean across and nudge Crow. His eyes flick open straight away, but Sparrow’s his normal stubborn self and it takes all three of us and Thaw’s wing-tips on his face to get him to wake up.
We ride on, the draggles dodging hail showers and chasing moon-bows. We’re flying towards the sky-wolves that Kestrel’s Tribe spend their days running from or trying to blow apart.
Maybe that’s why I feel her joy at flying melt away, leaving tight, tense fear.
But inside me, there’s something else. There’s a hunger – a feeling of being pulled towards something wild, the memory of howling and the sky-wolves answering. I feel like I’m flying into a skyscape made of battle-howls and my blood zings with it.
We pass over a jagged shoreline of black sand and finally the Wildersea yawns below us. My heart aches all the way into my throat. Heart-sadness for our terrodyl wriggles through me again.
Sea-smoke rises from cracks in the ice far below. What if there are already whales getting trapped underneath? I sneak a hand into my pocket and grip the Opal. I swear I’ll get you back to your kin, and your rightful home, I think at it. Just please stop making the sea freeze solid ’til then! But I know the Opal can’t change a thing. It’s nature’s kin, and nature’s been split into three parts that can’t live without each other.
We fly deeper into the northern sea, past the sea-paths my ship once sailed. My heart jolts against my chest when through the shifting fog I glimpse a hulking fleet of ships far below. ‘Look!’ I call, pointing. ‘The Huntress could be down there!’
Sparrow cranes his neck, then sighs irritably. ‘Even with Thunderbolt I can’t see that far! Is our ship there?’
A pang of horror at his ruined sight stirs in my chest. ‘I don’t know.’
A low rumble ripples through the air. The sky darkens like a bruise and spits ice. Then lightning splits it apart, and the draggles startle. ‘We’re flying into a storm!’ yells Kes.
I make Sparrow lie as flat as he can along the draggle’s back and put his hood up. Then I hold tight onto him and chatter to the draggle. You can do this, brave thing. You’re strong and bold. Fly steady, follow cave-mate!
We’re whipped and whirled and the thunder’s like a drum beating hard enough to explode my chest. I flatten myself along Sparrow’s back and press my hands over his ears to protect his hearing.
When we break through the storm, we’ve reached the depths of the Iceberg Forest and a frozen hush settles around us. Wonder seeps into my bones. The skinny sea-paths we sailed weren’t even a hint of the wild tangle waiting deeper inside the Wildersea. The icebergs’ flanks are wind-licked, so they look like they’re wearing cloaks of blue-white fur. Old power rolls off them.
These icebergs clutch for the sky with sharp claws. One has a fringe of icicles like the baleen of a whale. Another has fins and gills and a jutting edge shaped like a whale’s tail, unless that’s just my home making me see pictures of the sea in the ice.
Close to the forest’s heart we pause in front of a crisscrossing web of glowing pathways. They’re round silver-grey tubes that spark between the icebergs, connecting them.
‘What are they?’ I gasp, spear-tip cold diving down my throat.
‘Did you hear something?’ says a woman’s voice. I startle and look around – one of the tubes to our right is quivering with the echo of the words.
I meet Crow’s eyes. He’s sucked in his lower lip and we stare at each other, hardly daring to breathe.
‘Where did that voice come from?’ I whisper to Kes, but she presses a finger to her lips and guides the draggles lower.
Sparrow sings softly under his breath, and Thunderbolt flicks his shimmering strands of song with her wings. I pinch him quiet. But then I see it – the swirl of grey bodies beneath the icy sea far below. Rattlebones said the whales listened to my message and fled the far north – what if Sparrow’s whale-song brings them closer to danger again? My Tribe always pray for the sea-gods to swim close. But now I wish they’d swim far, far away.
I dig my fingers into thick draggle-fur. ‘Kes,’ I whisper. ‘Where do the Wilderwitches live? Ent we gonna fly on?’
‘Shhh,’ she murmurs, staring at the top of a nearby iceberg that looks like a stooped old man, hunched high over the sea. She’s sweating the stink of fear. How does she know her friend’s still alive? And why would she look for him in this icescape?
Then a flurry of blue feathers streaks past, making our draggles whimper and veer to the right. There’s a tiny parp of ink as Ettler, hidden in Kestrel’s bag, gets frighted by the movement. The berg owls whirr out of sight, before I can ask for help.
‘Sour dratted milk!’ Kestrel curses, startling me. Her voice is muffled by a crack and splinter as a streak of cloud freezes and shatters down over our heads. I raise my arm to shield my head. Thaw! I lift my hood and my hawk swoops in underneath the folds of cloth, shaking icicles from her wings and croaking her heart-worry into my ear.
Kestrel watches one of the silver-grey pulsing tubes. ‘That way, I think?’ She nudges her draggle closer and stares into it. Our draggle follows. Kes reaches out a finger and jerks it back again. ‘Ugh! It’s like – touching something that should be secret. A dream, or – a bone.’ She shivers.
When I touch the tube, it reminds me of a strand of whale-song – like cold, sticky silk. The tube twists away towards an opening in the top of the iceberg, carrying a bundle of blue feathers inside it. Kes puts her face near the tube. ‘Yapok?’ she asks. The silvery pathway throbs where her voice touches it and pulses along, like an eel swallowing a crab. She presses her hands over her mouth as YapokYapokYapok is carried through the sky, and into the top of the iceberg. She lifts her shocked eyes to us and then there’s a wrenching crunch.
I spin around in the saddle. In the very top of the iceberg, shrouded by wisps of cloud, a hidden window whines open, showering us with icicles.
A boy with a squashed-looking face and wooden goggles pokes his head out. ‘Shut up!’ he whispers anxiously.
Shock whips through me and a thousand questions thud in my throat. What’s a boy doing inside an iceberg? I remember sailing through the Iceberg Forest, the night I shot that polar dog, and my bones-deep feeling that the icebergs held secrets. But I’d thought the only things living here were berg owls.
The draggles swoosh closer to the berg, up into the cloud. The air’s even thinner than it was at Hackles, and my head whirls. ‘Yapok?’ hisses Kestrel. ‘It’s me!’
‘I don’t know any me. What do you want with Yapok?’
Kestrel peels back her raindrop armour.
The boy lifts his goggles, revealing red-rimmed blue eyes. He rests them in his shock of spiky brown hair. His nose is bent, his skin is blotched an
d his brows look like they’re brawling for space. He squints. ‘Kestrel ?’
The bright lantern-eyes of berg owls peer at us from cracks in the ice. ‘We coming in, or what?’ I call.
‘Keep your voices down,’ pleads Kestrel. ‘And hurry up, Yapok, let us in!’
The boy glances over his shoulder and back at us. ‘I can’t.’
‘But we’ve come so far.’ Kestrel sounds close to tears.
I fix my eyes on the boy. ‘You ent got a clue what she’s been through to get here! I could tell you the story, or let my dagger tell it. Your choice.’
Kes gives a startled laugh and Crow grins over at me. Yapok’s narrowed eyes flick to my face and away again. ‘Be quick! And get rid of those creatures.’ Then he ducks out of sight, his hair brushing snow off the top of the window. But he leaves it cracked open.
Kestrel grapples with our draggles, trying to get us close enough to climb inside. ‘You go ahead,’ she tells us. ‘I’ll send the draggles to roost and then join you.’
Crow’s the closest so he takes Sparrow from me and posts him through, then wriggles headfirst through the narrow opening, turning and twisting to get his shoulders in. Then his sun-bleached boots disappear inside, and there’s a thud and a yelp and a shout.
I push my longbow ahead of me and force my body over the thick edge of ice. The cold whispers against my lips.
Then I’m tumbling forwards into a huge ice-cave. I land on a squashy old chair with stuffing spilling out. I peel back my raindrop cowl and warm my eyelashes between my fingers, to melt the ice that’s trying to seal my eyes shut.
There are burrows tunnelled into the walls and owls huddle inside, watching.
Sleeppeepsnoozesnugglefeedwormswormsfishesiccccciclesss. They fluff their feathers and stretch their necks up and down.
Thaw pokes her head out of my cloak and watches them suspiciously. Istheysaidworms? Fishes?
I stroke her head. We’ll find some for you soon. I struggle to my feet, but then I’m flailing like a mad thing, cos the floor’s solid ice.
A blanket-filled hammock is strung between the walls. Cloaks and tunics are hung from hooks and a battered black kettle sits in a small hearth.
Kestrel lands behind me and puts her healer’s bag down on the floor. Ettler pokes his squidgy, feathered head out of the bag and then topples out of it onto the ice, screaming about the cold and farting ink everywhere. ‘So this is where you live!’ Kestrel’s eyes sweep the cave.
Yapok glides towards us on creaky leather boots with skating blades fixed to the soles. ‘You brought strangers.’ Behind his words lurks a question he don’t need to ask. How could you?
Kestrel stares at him, nibbling her lip. Then she seizes him in a hug. ‘I’ve dreamed of this since we were first separated!’ she says. Hisses seep from the folds of Yapok’s white cloak.
He stands back from Kes, red in the face, and opens his cloak to let out a bundle of berg owls that flap away, squeaking angrily. Then he hurries back to the window we crawled through and uses a long wooden pole to swing it closed. He spins to stare at us. ‘Who are you, and why are you here? Did anyone follow you?’
‘This is Mouse, and Crow, and Sparrow,’ says Kestrel, gesturing to each of us in turn. ‘My mother was going to execute them for nothing more than straying into her territory. I spoke up for them and lost my home. You’re our only friend beyond Hackles – we have nowhere else to go. No one has followed us.’ She ducks as a bolt of blue light shoots from the wall, skimming the top of her head – a berg owl. Another one pops its rumpled face out of a hole in the wall, takes off and swoops overhead, its frosty blue feathers showering us with slivers of ice. ‘Will you help us?’ asks Crow.
Yapok flares his nostrils, watching the window we came from. ‘I will hide you, because you’re Kestrel’s friends – hiding things is what I’m best at.’ He plunks pairs of worn leather skates at our feet. ‘Hopefully one or two might fit. Pull them on over your own boots, and then come with me.’
‘Thank you, Yapok!’ Kestrel’s shoulders sag. ‘Thank you so much!’
I reach down to pick up a skate – it’s shaped from age-softened walrus skin and a rusty blade is fixed to the sole. A memory trickles through me. ‘Da once took me to a midwinter Tribe-Meet,’ I tell them. ‘I remember folks rushing round and round on these things, but when I tried it I fell, scraped my head open and never wanted to try it again.’
Crow’s watching me with such bubbling mirth that I feel my cheeks grow warm. ‘So what you’re saying is, there’s something you ain’t too good at?’
‘Clam your pipes, land-lurker,’ I spit.
‘Well, you won’t get far around here without skates,’ says Yapok, rubbing at a patch of flaky skin on his hand.
Sparrow giggles. ‘She won’t get better – she’s the worst at skating!’
I scowl. ‘You weren’t even born when I tried!’
‘So what?’ he huffs. ‘Grandma told me all about it – just ask her!’
Hollow guilt rattles through me again. Heart hammering, I stoop to pull on the skates. Once I’ve laced the boots I stand, wobbling like mad. Kestrel does the same, and I help Sparrow with his. Then Yapok leads us towards the hearth. Kestrel tows Sparrow along on his skates.
Yapok gets us crowded in a circle around the kettle and makes us hold hands. Me and Crow pull faces at each other. Then Yapok slides his fingers behind the mantelpiece and there’s a loud click. ‘Hold tight!’
We’re whipped round in a circle and flung into the space behind the hearth.
I blink the dizziness from my eyes, and my breath catches in my chest as I tip my head back and stare. We’re standing in a cavern deep inside the iceberg, with round glass lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Wisps of whale-song swim inside them, sparking blue light over icicles longer than daggers. All around the walls tower shelves packed with books, their spines a mix of colours, some gleaming with gold lettering. Tables and shelves are stocked with scrolls in bottles. Dark pathways are cut deeper into the iceberg, and when I crane my neck I see that they’re filled with even more bookshelves.
‘There are so many books!’ I exclaim. Then I hold my breath, listening hard. When I said the word books, it’s like faint voices started to mutter and growl.
‘Are there?’ whispers Sparrow. ‘With stories and everything? Can you read them to me?’
Yapok plucks at his hair. ‘No one touches the books!’ He shakes stray owls from his cloak. They wheel away towards another of the silver-grey tubes we saw outside the iceberg, flickering on the ceiling. When the owls draw close they’re sucked inside and pulsed through a hole in the ice.
Slowly, we peel ourselves away from each other and move into the cave. I hold onto the wall to stay upright on my skates, and Kes keeps hold of Sparrow’s good hand, whispering things to him that make him giggle.
Hung between the lanterns is a hammock, and nested in the hammock is a husk of an old man. His long silver hair spills over the edges of the hammock and trails over the floor. His chest flutters and his lungs crackle as he rasps long, irregular breaths. His eye sockets are ancient hollows and his clothes are scattered with owl pellets.
‘He’s a human cobweb,’ whispers Crow.
‘He’s a wisp,’ I murmur.
Yapok blows out his cheeks. ‘He is the Skybrarian, and will be treated with due respect!’ he scolds.
The old Skybrarian mutters and turns over in his sleep, and Yapok freezes. He presses a finger to his lips. ‘The Skybrarian is sleeping,’ he whispers. ‘You have to be quiet.’
Kes stares around her, eyes brightening. Somewhere close by, drums beat and a book inches towards the edge of its shelf. Yapok rushes to catch it and push it back.
‘So the books were saved!’ marvels Kestrel, turning in circles.
‘What is this place?’ asks Crow.
‘A hidden Skybrary – the only one in Wildersea,’ Yapok whispers. ‘No one knows about it, except the Skybrarian and me. It’s every Sky-Tri
be manuscript he saved before the burning. He brought them to this iceberg and hid them, then dug deeper into the cave to make a home to live in and protect the books. I am his apprentice. I hide in plain sight, among the other Wilderwitches. But I try not to draw even a speck of attention to myself !’
‘Yapok, I am so sorry,’ says Kestrel. ‘But I didn’t know. You stopped answering my letters.’
He nods slowly, then sighs. ‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Can you help me learn to skate?’ I ask Crow.
Crow grins, eyes flooding with golden light. ‘Aye!’ Then he’s off, gliding fast with an ease that makes my jaw grow slack. ‘Race yer!’ he cries. ‘C’mon, it’s easy. One foot in front of the other, build up a rhythm.’
‘Please, be careful!’ calls Yapok. ‘And keep quiet, even in here. We don’t want to make any sky-wolves’ ears twitch. They may be nearby!’
Crow turns to skate backwards, sticking his hands in his pockets and winking at me as he passes.
My feet move forwards and my body flails backwards and my arms start to paddle frantically. ‘This ent possible!’
Crow almost cracks a rib laughing. ‘Use your belly muscles and your arms for balance,’ he tells me. ‘Stick near the walls—’
‘Not my shelves!’ interrupts Yapok.
Crow ignores him. ‘And that way you can grab on if you start to wobble.’
‘Don’t worry, I flaming will!’ In spite of everything, skating is – fun, and even thinking that word shocks me.
We skate round and round the edges of the cave. I can’t stop laughing, even when I fall onto my hands and have to scramble up again, but every time we loop back and pass Kestrel and Yapok their voices have grown more strained.
Kes’s voice is scratched by heart-sadness. ‘How can we stop the war when no one’s known the Sky-Tribes exist for a hundred years? We need to forge connections with other Tribes.’
Yapok lifts his eyebrows but before he can talk Kestrel keeps going. ‘The hearth-fires have lain cold too long. The Sky-Tribes must unite with each other, and then with the world.’ There’s a pureness to her unite, like she’s struck a small bell.
