Chasing the Valley

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  Even the lack of pursuit is starting to worry me. There must be hunters looking for us, and maybe even the unknown person who killed the men in the forest, but all we see are boulders.

  When the sun goes down, we camp in a tiny cove on the edge of the river. The deeper we travel into the Marbles, the larger the rock formations seem to become. There are more hiding places now, more campsites to plant our nightly circle of magnets. Sleeping on the riverbank provides a constant sound­track: a gurgle of water that lulls me into sleep.

  Another day passes and another. Nothing changes. We follow the river. The wind gets colder, perhaps, and the nights come earlier, but these are just normal signs of winter. My physical wounds are healing well, but my thoughts grow more and more uneasy. By the fourth day, there is still no sign of our pursuers and somehow that scares me more than any actual fight I’ve seen.

  ‘We must have lost them,’ says Radnor, looking pleased. ‘Hackel was right after all. They’ll look for us on the trading road, not out here on the river.’

  The others agree and dig into their porridge with a relaxed sort of looseness in their grins. But I’m not so sure. I can’t stop thinking about those dead hunters in the forest, the ones whose food we are eating. Someone killed them. No, someone executed them. And that someone was on their way to the river.

  Every night, I volunteer to take a watch shift. At first, the others refuse to let me, so I make up a story about how I can sense my illusion weakening in the early hours of the morning. It’s a load of rubbish, of course – once the magnets have got hold of my illusion, I can’t feel the power link at all. But no one knows much about illusionists, so the others seem to buy it.

  ‘All right, Danika,’ says Radnor. ‘You’d better take the second watch.’

  And so I spend half of each night watching the sky, waiting for that mysterious kite to reappear. It’s stupid and I pay for it three times over when my limbs get jittery or I almost slip off my foxary the next day. Back in Rourton, I would never have risked such sleep deprivation. But this isn’t Rourton, and the rules are different now. I no longer know what I should be doing to survive.

  It’s the fifth night when I see it.

  The shape is distant – maybe a kilometre away – but it’s silhouetted against a full moon. A flap of fabric, the shape of a stretched diamond. I sit bolt upright, fists clenching. There’s no hope of seeing the flyer from here; there are too many boulders to see more than a couple of metres away. But I can see the string, the kite and the stars. And now I know for certain.

  Someone is following us. Is this the person who killed the hunters? Is the kite-flyer another hunter himself, trying to lure us out with this strange bait? Or is it another refugee crew? Surely we can’t be the only crew to engage a smuggler and find this secret river route. But if our pursuer is also a refugee, why would he – or she or they – risk everything by flying a kite? It’s a flashing beacon to the hunters.

  ‘Radnor,’ I whisper, and shake him awake.

  He moans a little, but pushes himself up onto his elbows. ‘What?’

  ‘It’s back.’

  Radnor doesn’t need to ask me what ‘it’ is. He rolls out of his sleeping sack and follows me to the edge of our campsite, where I point towards the shape upon the sky.

  ‘I want to go and check it out,’ I say.

  Radnor shakes his head. ‘Forget it, Danika. No one leaves this circle at night, got it?’

  ‘What if it’s another refugee? They might need our help.’

  ‘It’s not another refugee,’ says Radnor. ‘It’s a hunter trying to trick us. If you go out there, you’ll die.’ He pauses. ‘And even if it is another refugee, they’re suicidally stupid to be flying that thing around. I’m not going to burden my crew with another liability.’

  His words sting. Is that all I am to him – a liability, tossed into his hands at the last minute? He speaks as though I’ve ruined his plans by tagging along, ruined his perfect crew of five. But really, Hackel isn’t here at the moment and I’m the one providing the illusions. I’ve earned my place in this crew, haven’t I?

  ‘This is an order, Danika,’ says Radnor. He pauses, and doesn’t continue until I meet his gaze. ‘You are not to leave our campsite to follow that kite. Ever. If you try it, I will kick you off this crew.’

  ‘You need my illusions.’

  Radnor shakes his head. ‘Everyone on this crew is expendable. Your illusions are useful, but we can survive without them.’

  I imagine being kicked off the crew, out here in the middle of the Marbles. I have no idea how Radnor is navigating, apart from following the river. But the river will run out eventually, and then I’ll be left alone. No food, no companions, no plan for survival.

  ‘Don’t wake me again, Danika,’ says Radnor. ‘Not because of the stupid kite, anyway. If you want to weaken your own reflexes by staying up night after night, be my guest. But you’re not dragging me down with you.’

  He stalks back to his sleeping sack, slides into the fabric and shuts his eyes. But I doubt he’ll sleep again tonight. He’ll pretend, of course, but I’m sure he’s secretly watching me. He doesn’t trust me, not entirely.

  I run a hand through my hair, take a shaky breath, and return to my guard post. The kite is still there, taunting me. I just want to know who’s flying it. Is that too much to ask?

  The next day, we travel on. Radnor doesn’t mention the kite or our late-night conversation. He just shovels down a flour cake, helps load up the foxaries and waves us on our way.

  I’m sharing a foxary with Maisy today. Teddy has informed us that the beasts are tired of carrying the same people, so he wants us to ‘mix it up a bit’ to keep them happy. He rides with Clementine. Radnor, of course, has a foxary to himself. I guess there are some perks to being leader, apart from having the power to chuck people off the crew.

  For the first few hours, no one really talks. It’s a little awkward; Maisy is so timid and I’m half-afraid to make any sudden movements. What if I startle her into falling off and into the river?

  When I was riding with Teddy, we used to talk quite a bit. He’d keep me entertained with stories of his assorted burglaries: how he stole a six-foot wedding cake for his gang-member’s birthday, or fleeced a richie socialite of her diamond ring. In turn, I told him anecdotes from working in Rourton’s bars: the dodgy customers, the drunken proposals, the embarrassing secrets that people admitted when they were off their faces. Neither of us mentioned the bad things – the bombs, the deaths, the days of starvation. When you’re a scruffer, those things go without saying.

  But I’m not so sure about talking to Maisy. All I’ve gleaned about the twins is that their surname is Pembroke, their family is wealthy and Clementine blew all their savings to fund this trip. Our lives have been so different up until now. I imagine Maisy sitting in a mansion on High Street, nibbling on custard pastries and syrup cakes while music plays from a top-notch radio. What did she do all day? Then I remember what she’s said about reading.

  ‘So,’ I say, ‘you like reading, right?’

  Maisy nods. The movement sends her blonde ponytail bobbing up and down in my face.

  ‘What sort of stuff did you read?’ I say.

  She gives a little shrug. Then, after a few awkward seconds of silence, she says, ‘Lots of things. I like to learn about the world.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought I’d never get to see it,’ says Maisy. ‘It was nice to explore outside for a bit, even if it was only with words.’

  I frown. Maisy sounds as though she’s been trapped or something. But most richie girls have plenty of money they can use to explore Rourton; they like to wander up and down High Street and buy perfume from the boutiques, or sit around giggling in high-class restaurants. They must still accept the curfew, of course, and the city wall’s limits – but within those boundaries, money is freedom
. Maisy could have bought herself a chance to explore, if she’d wanted.

  Then I realise. That’s what she’s done.

  Instead of buying perfume and coffee, Maisy and Clementine have used their riches to fund this trip across Taladia. Is that why they ran away? To see the world? But it doesn’t make sense. No one would risk death or starvation or dehydration, or any other number of perils that arise on refugee journeys, just to go sightseeing.

  Perhaps they’re escaping from army conscription. But richies get all the plum jobs in the army; they’d never have been shunted onto the frontline with the scruffers. And besides, the twins can’t be older than sixteen – it’s not as though conscription is an urgent issue. Who in their right mind would flee a life of luxury two years early?

  Maybe they’re not in their right minds. Maybe having so much money does something funny to your brain. I want to ask more directly: ‘Why the hell did you run away?’ But the last time I tried interrogating Maisy, she broke a water jar and ran off like a startled mouse.

  I struggle for a gentler way to phrase my question. ‘Well, now you’ve seen the world. What do you think of it?’

  ‘It’s better than . . .’

  ‘Better than what?’ I prompt.

  But Maisy just shakes her head and looks down at our foxary’s neck. A few minutes later we stop for lunch and that’s the end of the conversation.

  As we ride on into the afternoon, I start to notice a strange itching on the back of my neck. If we were back in Rourton, I might assume I’d been bitten by a rodent or something, but there’s nothing here to bite me – not unless one of my companions has developed some very strange sleepwalking habits, anyway. I’ve spotted a few moths and dragonflies, and once a tiny lizard on a rock, but our foxaries’ scent seems to frighten other animals away.

  I raise a hand to touch the itchy spot and I’m surprised to feel a series of bumps growing on my neck. They feel like welts, sensitive to the touch.

  My proclivity mark is starting to develop.

  This is not a good time to develop my powers. The process can take days, weeks or even months – but those itchy bumps are always the first sign. I know that I’ll soon feel tired and cranky, which isn’t going to help me survive the journey to the Valley. It’s lucky Radnor doesn’t know what’s happening, because I’m about to become an even greater liability.

  Although, if my maturation is a fast one, maybe I’ll become a liability to our enemies too.

  In the late afternoon, when we’re sagging upon our foxaries and dreaming up a new syrup-porridge-cake combination for dinner, Teddy jerks upright as though someone’s thrown him into a frying pan.

  ‘What is it?’ says Radnor.

  At the same time, our foxaries freeze. Momentum sends me hurtling forward into Maisy, who falls across our animal’s neck with a cry. Fur and muscles bristle beneath me. We all fall silent. The foxaries whip their heads around to our right, staring up at a skyline blocked by rock formations.

  ‘They can smell something,’ whispers Teddy. ‘I reckon we’d better hide.’

  We dismount and lead our foxaries towards a nearby overhang. It’s a pretty pathetic hiding place, but at least it’s safer than the riverbank. I fumble for the magnets, toss them into the neatest circle I can manage, and cast my illusion of empty air. The illusion quavers a bit – my circle isn’t precise enough, so the power isn’t bouncing between magnets properly – but it holds. For now, at least.

  ‘Shhh,’ whispers Teddy, as one of the foxaries begins to growl. He rubs it behind the ears and the noise fades.

  There is a crunch to our left. I whip my head around to see a group of people approaching. They wear the emerald garb of palace employees, with knives and pistols dangling from their belts. Hunters. Their leader is a woman in her late twenties, with hair that curves in a sleek brunette bob around her cheekbones. She wears a dark stain on her lips and her fingernails look as long as claws.

  The hunters travel along the riverbank, obviously on the lookout for prey. Are they looking for us specifically or just doing a random sweep for refugees and smugglers? Either way, they are only metres from our hiding place. My illusion quavers a little – I can see a ripple in the air between the magnets – but it still holds. I’m suddenly grateful for the lifeless rocks we’ve been travelling through, and their inability to hold our footprints.

  Some of the hunters walk normally, but a couple travel through their proclivities. One man drifts above the rocks, floating. He keeps fading, then flickering back into visibility: a tumbling leaf on the breeze. His proclivity must be Wind. Another man floats on his back down the river, watching the sky. He almost collides with a boulder in the middle of the stream, but quickly dissolves into torrents that gush around the sides of the rock. Water.

  It’s lucky that none of their proclivities is Beast, because I doubt my illusion could stop them sensing a trio of foxaries at this close range.

  ‘Anything?’ says the woman coldly.

  The Water hunter thrusts his head up from the river and gives it a shake. ‘Nothing, Your Highness.’

  ‘Your Highness?’ mouths Teddy.

  I shake my head, stunned. Is this woman a member of the royal family? It’s illegal to print images of the royals, since King Morrigan’s paranoid about secrecy and assassination attempts, so I wouldn’t recognise one of his relatives if I saw one. But the king famously expects his younger kinsmen to serve their country for several years: military command, perhaps, or alchemy. It’s supposed to set an example to the rest of us, proving the ultimate might of the king. If even our noblest aristocrats serve his causes, then what right do the rest of us have to complain?

  If this woman is a Morrigan, she must have decided that her royal skill is hunting. That means she chose to serve as a hunter – not a commander, or a strategist on the council. That means she’s good at this.

  And that isn’t good news for us.

  ‘I’ve got nothing either, Your Highness,’ says the Wind hunter, and I’m suddenly glad that we hid beneath this overhang. The boulders shield us from the breeze, enough to interrupt this man’s ability to sense us.

  ‘Perhaps I was mistaken and they took the main road after all,’ says the woman.

  None of the other hunters reply. They throw each other nervous glances, as though afraid to speak out of turn.

  The woman turns to a short hunter with a huge scar across his cheek. ‘What do you think, Argus?’

  The hunter hesitates, then nods. ‘Yeah, maybe they did.’

  There’s an intake of breath from a few of the other hunters and I know that Argus has made a terrible mistake. The woman pulls a matchbox from her pocket and strikes a stick into life. I barely have time to realise her proclivity must be Flame, before she sends a massive gush of fire towards Argus. He twists aside just in time to save his face, but howls as the fireball scorches his shoulder.

  ‘Do not question my plans again,’ spits the woman. ‘I told you that the brats would follow the river, not the road. I don’t make mistakes, Argus!’

  Argus is still screaming. The sound echoes across the Marbles, slapping against rocks and bouncing back to my eardrums. I want to clench my eyes shut, to look away, but even then I can smell the stink of burnt flesh.

  ‘S . . . s . . . sorry,’ he gasps, collapsed upon the rocks. ‘I’m s . . . sorry, Your High . . . Your Highness.’

  The woman stands over him, frowns, then waves a hand. ‘I’ll forgive you this time, Argus, because you are a valuable hunter. But you’d better repay me for my mercy.’

  Argus manages a shaky nod. ‘I’ll kill ’em . . . I’ll find . . . I’ll find those br-brats and –’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’ll kill them. Very good,’ says the woman. Then she gestures at the river. ‘You may wash your shoulder if you wish, but do not take too long. We shall not be waiting for you.’

  The hunt
ing group continues up the river, beyond our hiding place and out of sight. As they pass, I notice one man wearing a chain of snakes around his neck. He croons at them as he walks, as if he’s whispering poems into a lover’s ear. I guess his proclivity is Reptile. It’s a fairly rare proclivity and would be useless for most people, since it’s much harder to find affordable reptiles than air or fire or birds. But if you’re a richie – or even better, a palace hunter – it’s probably a brilliant ability to have on your side. Snakes, lizards, poisonous crocodiles from the south . . . I wonder what other toxic creatures are concealed beneath his clothes.

  When his companions are gone, Argus staggers into the water. He moans and whimpers as he soaks his shoulder, rolling and splashing around like a half-slaughtered sheep in the market. I’m worried that my illusion might fail or the foxaries might growl. But Argus seems too tangled in his own pain to pay much attention to nearby rock formations. When he finally leaves, face streaked with snot and tears, we all exhale.

  ‘I can’t believe she just –’ says Clementine.

  ‘Believe it,’ says Radnor. ‘That’s what the palace people do. They kill without a second thought.’

  I think of Hackel, on our own side, burning that hunter’s face off. The king’s hunters are brutal, yes, but maybe we are too.

  ‘Who was that woman, anyway?’ I say. ‘And why would she want to become a hunter, of all things? I can’t imagine the king’s relatives traipsing around the Marbles for fun.’

  ‘The royals are usually given safe roles,’ says Maisy, nodding, ‘far away from the firing lines. It’s just a way to occupy their time and give them some experience at –’

  ‘Ordering people’s murders,’ finishes Radnor.

  ‘Have you read much about the current royal family?’ I ask. I haven’t kept up with politics in the years since my own family died. When you’re scrimping and starving on the streets, the royal bloodline isn’t exactly an urgent area of study.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Maisy. ‘I think King Morrigan has a niece, about that woman’s age. A duchess of some sort. Maybe that’s her?’