They reached the top level and its forest of damans. Dante ran back to the boxes he'd been searching previously.
"What's the plan, then?" Blays said. "Stay up here until we're completely surrounded?"
"I don't know! I don't even know if the seeds are here."
"If we stay here much longer, even if we find the seeds, we won't get out with our lives."
Dante moved to the next tree, parting its trunk down the middle. "Then quit griping at me and come up with an idea."
"First step is to assess what we've gotten ourselves into. Block the stairs to this level and open a window."
Dante turned from the boxes and did as he was told, sealing the stairs off with a crush of branches grown from the living floor, then pulling the wood away from a window.
Blays moved to it, gazing below. "Yup. Guards down there, too."
"Wonderful. Since they're already aware of our presence, we may as well keep up the search."
After another minute of window-gazing, Blays came to join him. Dante no longer had any regard for keeping the boxes orderly—when he lifted a lid and confirmed there were no Star Tree seeds inside, he cast the box away. Even though this archive was the work of the enemy, it hurt to wreck it. Dante consoled himself with the thought that the Harvesters could rebuild it from what they had in the Basket.
Anyway, not all knowledge was created equal. The Tauren had been sitting on the seeds for centuries, clueless as to the treasure they possessed. Surely the ability to free an entire people was worth destroying a storehouse of fruits and herbs.
He paused, box in hand. If the seeds were that old, then maybe the box that held them was, too. Some of the boxes differed in color and size, obviously created at different times. Dante moved from tree to tree, peeling each one open.
"Time to get smarter," he said. "Grab any box that looks faded or dusty."
Blays caught on, rifling through them. An axe thunked into the barrier at the top of the stairs, startling Dante. He moved to it, reinforcing the branches, lashing them at whoever was on the other side, producing a yelp of pain.
The northern edge of the grove held a number of boxes scuffed with age. Dante opened one after another, tossing them aside. The process became so routine that he was in the act of casting away an opened box when he registered the five-pointed star on the side of a round, flat pit.
He laughed, delirious. "I've got them. I've got them!"
Blays moved to his shoulder, looked down on the seeds, and thumped him on the back. "I was starting to worry Sando and Aladi sent us here just to stir up trouble between the Tauren and the Kandeans. Now let's get the hell out of here, shall we?"
Most of the boxes contained at least ten of each seed. The smaller seeds were piled up by the dozen. But there were a mere four of the Star Tree pits. As if the Tauren Harvesters had destroyed most of them in a futile effort to grow more trees, then set the remainder aside to wait for new information. And hundreds of years later, they were still waiting.
Dante put two of the seeds in separate pockets, then stuck the box in his pack. Blays moved to the open window on the tower's south face. Dante checked on Winden, who remained breathing but unconscious, and joined Blays. Lanterns glowed far below them, illuminating ten warriors covering the grounds between the tower and the seaside cliffs.
Axes chopped at the wood snarling the stairs. Closer now. Dante thrust his hand at the branches, pouring the nether from a shell into them. They burst downward. A man screamed. The chopping stopped abruptly.
Blays gestured at the other windows. "Open those up, too?"
Dante did so, tapping one of the shaden in order to preserve his strength. Even more soldiers stood watch outside the north, east, and west sides of the High Tower.
Blays grimaced. "Don't think we can fight through all of them."
"Especially not if we're carrying Winden."
"Don't tell me you're thinking about leaving her."
"If it's the difference between living and dying? Wouldn't she rather we get the Star Tree seeds back to her people?"
"I think," Blays said, "she would rather not be chucked aside like a worn-out sock."
They stared at each other for a long moment. Dante knew he could perform such an act with no great inner turmoil. It was what logic commanded: when you were given the choice between losing your arm or your head, then you chose your arm, no matter how painful you knew it would be. He liked Winden, but with her in tow, he saw no hope of escaping Deladi.
But leaving her wouldn't only cost Winden. Once, years ago, Dante had let someone close to Blays die. Her death had saved not just Narashtovik, but also the norren. Without question, it had been the right move. Even so, it caused Blays to leave the city. It had taken years (and a new threat to Narashtovik's existence) to mend the friendship.
Dante knew Winden didn't mean as much to Blays. Leaving her behind wouldn't necessarily smash their friendship anew. But he thought it would crack it. Were friendships like bones, where cracks mended over time, and could even make those bones stronger than ever? Or were they more like rock—once they began to shear, there was nothing you could do to stop them from falling apart?
"We'll take her with us," Dante said. "But please, please have an idea with any chance of success."
Blays jogged back to the southern window overlooking the coast. "There aren't as many of them down there."
"Any of them is too many. If a single one spots us climbing down with Winden, they'll have a hundred people on us before we reach the bottom."
"Think you could run a vine down there without it being seen?"
"That's a tall order. People tend to notice things flapping around at eye level."
"Then don't grow it all the way down. You can stop about twenty feet from the ground."
"Could work. The rock's black. But they'd spot us coming down."
Blays grinned. "Not if I'm not there."
"Finally decide to run out on me?"
"Thought I'd drop down and cause a little havoc. They'll have no reason to guard the tower if they think we've escaped it."
"That might actually work," Dante said. "And it beats trying to jump."
He brought the lanterns to the north side of the room and left them there, then returned to the southern windows, which were now in almost total darkness. There were only a few vines draped across the squat daman trees. He coaxed out two, twining them around each other, then slithered them out the window.
He waited for any reaction from the soldiers below. When none came, he grew the vine onward, letting it wind into the folds and crags of the tower. A minute later, it was forty feet long, snaking past two levels of enclosed windows. The axe-men still hadn't resumed their attack on the barrier across the stairs. Either they'd given up, or they'd gone in search of another Harvester.
"Twenty feet from the ground." Dante moved back from the window. "You're sure you can handle the drop?"
"I'll be fine. Weight's weird in the shadows. Meet me at the canoe, all right?"
"Here." He handed the seed in his right pocket to Blays. "In case I don't make it out."
Blays weighed the pit in his palm. "I'd like to assure you this is an unnecessary gesture. But there is half an army down there."
"Take it to Kandak. If they can't grow it, find some way to get it to Spearpoint."
Blays pocketed it, glanced out the window, then hugged him. Blays stepped back and vanished.
Dante stuck his head in the corner of the window. From what he could see of the vine rope, it was barely wiggling. He waited there until Blays had likely gotten to ground level. With the warriors showing no signs they'd seen a thing, Dante went back to Winden.
Her condition was unchanged. His supply of nether was getting thin, but he still had some left in the shells. He harvested forth another length of vines, winding them around Winden's arms and legs. He carried her to the window, set her beside it, and waited.
Something heavy slammed into the branches enclosing the stairs
, startling him. A man yelled orders from behind the barricade. An axe went to work for a while, replaced in time by the squeak and crack of metal bars leveraged against the growth.
A shout rang out from outside the tower. Down in the yard, men moved about in confusion. The voice went on: "They've escaped! To the west! For Kaval's sake, they're killing—"
Blays' Taurish was accented, but the soldiers were listening to the words, not the person delivering them. A sergeant dashed in, gestured broadly, and ran west toward the woods. Soldiers streamed after him. A bell clanged from the west, though Dante had no way to tell whether that was Blays, or the reaction to him.
The attack on the staircase barricade redoubled. With no desire to tip them off to the fact that some of the interlopers were still in the tower, Dante made no effort to stop them. He scanned the grounds below. Only two soldiers remained on sentry. Concluding these were the best odds he was likely to see, Dante lifted Winden to the window, wrapped a vine around his left arm, and swung his legs over the side.
Shadows arced from his hands. Below, both guards crumpled. Hanging tight to Winden, Dante poured nether from the dwindling shaden into the vines, extending them as fast as he could. He reeled down the side of the tower. Palms sweating like mad, he tightened the plants around his arm, dangling like a spider nearly two hundred feet in the air.
He dropped past one set of windows, then another. A lot of yelling was going on to the west, but the southern yards remained clear. Halfway down, he started paying more attention to the top of the tower than the bottom. If the soldiers hacked through the barricade and found the vines out the window, they could dash him to the ground with a single hack of their axes.
He was still looking up when his feet touched the bottom.
He untangled himself, then withdrew the vines from Winden and heaved her over his shoulder. He circled toward the east, away from the hubbub. The only people who'd seen them inside the tower were now dead. If he could get back to the inn, he could rest there until Winden woke up, then rendezvous with Blays where they'd stashed the canoe.
A warrior trotted around the east side of the tower. Dante pierced the man's skull with a bolt of nether, dropping him like a sack of onions. Winden was slipping down his back. He bounced her higher up and got a better grip.
Feet scuffed on stone. A squadron of soldiers rounded the tower, halting in surprise.
"Intruders," Dante said in Taurish. "To the west!"
He pointed that way. One of the men took a half step, but a second trooper was gazing down at the warriors Dante had just killed. Dante gathered the nether.
"All hands!" the trooper bellowed. "All hands to—"
Dante silenced him with a spear of nether that entered his mouth and exited the back of his neck. But the others were already calling out, drawing swords. Dante sprinted west. If he could get into the woods, he might be able to slip away. He hadn't taken two steps before another squad appeared from that side.
Men charged him, swords drawn. He drew the last of the nether from his shell and lashed out. The nearest six men flew backwards, their heads rolling away like coconuts. This was a needlessly horrific gesture, but Dante hoped it might dissuade the others from following.
He was growing weak. He couldn't kill them all. Even more would be upon him in moments. There was only one option left. He turned south and ran as fast as Winden's weight allowed.
"The cliffs!" he yelled in Mallish, his voice echoing across the heights of the tower. "I'll be at the cliffs!"
An arrow whisked over his head. Uselessly, he ducked. Winden's weight shifted forward and he nearly toppled over. Another arrow clacked off the stones ahead of him. Most of the soldiers were content to hang back and let the archers do the work, but a few swordsmen sprinted after him. The cliffs were forty feet away now. He threw daggers of nether over his shoulder with his free hand, slaying two more pursuers. He reached the edge of the land before the others could catch up.
It was a twenty-foot drop to the sea. Dante bowed his legs and leaped.
24
He plummeted toward the surf. Waves smashed into the rocks below, sending spray dozens of feet into the air. If he landed in the water, he'd be pulverized, flushed out to sea to feed the fish and the crabs.
Dante sent his mind into the base of the cliffs. A stone ledge flew outward like a dresser drawer. He landed hard, ribs creaking. His left arm went numb at the shoulder. Pain flashed up his spine. Winden rolled toward the edge of the shelf. He grabbed her and hauled her back toward the cliff. At his insistence, the rock receded, forming a hollow. Dante crawled inside, Winden in tow, and withdrew the shelf back into the cliff.
His left arm throbbed with pain. Every breath was a stab in the ribs. He couldn't spare any nether to heal himself. If something else happened, or Winden's condition worsened, he might not have enough strength to go on.
Light shined on the waters. Voices yammered back and forth, words lost in the boom of the waves. Spray spattered inside the hollow. The air was warm enough, but he was getting soaked. The wind wasn't helping. He strained his ears, fighting to hear as many words as he could. He couldn't make out much, but they didn't sound orderly or directed. They sounded confused. He didn't think anyone had seen him land on the shelf.
Lights continued to flash across the waves. After a few disorganized minutes, a beam cut down from above, illuminating a precise section of ocean. The beam lingered before slowly moving on, enacting a methodical outward sweep from the base of the cliffs. Now and then a man called for it to stop and it held position for several seconds before continuing.
When it was closer, Dante used its illumination to investigate Winden. She hadn't suffered any visible injuries in the fall. He moved into the nether within her organs, confirmed nothing was fatally wrong, and withdrew.
In time, so did the light. The voices above him persisted. The ache in his shoulder and arm dulled somewhat, but the hitch in his side was still as bad as the moment after he'd landed. It was hard to focus.
He frowned. His hold on the nether was slipping, but he hadn't so much as touched the ether. Supposedly, it was even better for healing. He was able to summon the tiniest bit, but try as he might, he couldn't figure out how to make it patch the crack in his ribs.
He used his surplus of time to sort through his options. There was no chance of swimming away. Even without Winden weighing him down, and his ribs hampering his every stroke, the ocean's surges were far too powerful. He couldn't climb up; the grounds were still patrolled and surely would be until morning. After a good rest, he might be able to tunnel away to the forest west of the tower or the city to the east of it.
That would require hours of sleep. Between his physical aches, the cramped location, and the crash of the waves—which was irregular but ceaseless—he wasn't sure sleep would be possible.
Then again, what else could he do?
He arranged himself in the least uncomfortable position he could attain, wrapping his islanders' cloak around himself. If he died now, would he find himself in the Pastlands? If so, he suspected it would be a new incarnation of that realm—he suspected that death would alter the state of his mind enough to conjure up a fresh set of dreams and worries. Likely, he'd find himself in an unfamiliar place, with no recollection of how he'd come there, or even that he was dead.
He didn't like the idea of that. The Pastlands were a lie. A trap that preyed on the weaknesses of the human mind. Sooner or later, though, he'd riddle his way out into the Mists. Would he emerge into the Mists of his people, the dead of Narashtovik? Or would he find himself among the Dresh and the islanders? If so, was what they called the Worldsea the place where all souls mingled? It seemed as if you lost your memory there too, however. Possibly your entire personality. If he died, then, one way or another, he would be lost forever.
Death wasn't an option. As he combed through the possibilities for survival, he drifted off.
His feet. They were wet. He sat up, momentarily afraid he'd pissed himse
lf in his sleep. But the water was cold. As he processed this piece of information, a wave splashed against the entrance, flooding the cubby with a thin layer of sea water.
His heart jolted. The tide was rising. Another few minutes, and they'd be swept out of the shallow cavern altogether. Seeing no lights searching the darkness, he risked poking his head out of the cave. No silhouettes watched from above. He reached for the nether, but he hadn't slept nearly long enough to tunnel away.
He could only see two options. First, carve a few handholds into the rock, climb west of the tower, and try to slip away through the woods. Doing this, there was no chance he could carry Winden. He was so tired and banged up he wasn't sure he'd make it himself.
Second, he could use his remaining strength to elevate the cavern. And give Blays that much more time to find them.
He moved back into the hollow and gazed down at Winden. "It would be a great help if you chose to wake up." She did no such thing. He sighed, squeezing his eyes shut. "You're flinty-eyed. A realist. You'd want me to go, wouldn't you? There's no sense in both of us dying, is there?"
She continued to breathe in and out.
"Really, it's your own fault we're in this mess. If you hadn't participated in Niles' lie, things would never have come this far." He rubbed his sore shoulder. "Besides, there are a lot more lives at stake than ours. We have to get the seeds out of here. And I have to help grow them."
He bowed his head and moved toward the entrance. Another wave sloshed inside, seeping over the stone toward Winden's sandaled feet. Another ten or twenty minutes, and the tides would take her away.
Dante stepped back from the entrance. Swearing steadily, he raised a layer of stone over the lower two feet of the opening, blocking out even the unruliest waves. With nothing else to do, he gazed out to sea.
Ten minutes later, a pebble sailed through the cave and plunked him in the forehead.
He leaned outside. Below, a man on a canoe did battle with the waves. Seeing him, Blays flashed a grin, put a finger to his lips, and gestured up at the cliffs.
The Red Sea Page 33
