by S G Dunster
They ran down and gathered toward the southeast quarter and fell off the edge there in a series of white threads, coursing over the red and yellow rock. The waters gathered and became a spectacular stair step of spray, falling into a pool at the base, where the trees crowded around, thick and grasping. The other side of the plateau was bare. A bunch of small cliffs, sheer, flat jags all the way to the ground below. I stood on the edge and leaned over, looking.
“It would be smart to split up,” Lil said. “Cover more ground faster.”
“Splitting up’s never a good idea in anything we’ve ever read or watched, Lil.”
“We’re lost if the blyks find us, together or separate,” Eap pointed out. “Speed is our friend.”
“I’ll take this side,” I said.
She gave me a slight eyebrow lift. “How are we looking? On foot? I’ve never climbed cliffs.”
My glider. It was the obvious choice. I’d destroyed it in the whirlwind, but down here in calmer winds I could make it again; and fly it well.
I pictured it again: lightweight, hollow poles of aluminum, bamboo frame inserts to make the light fabric less easily torn.
The mess on the ground straightened and filled out like wind filling a kite. Gleaming stripes of blue, sky and deep sea. A tight, tidy harness with a bamboo handle set into a steel bar for me to shift the wings and turn.
“A proper idea,” Eap said. “I shall take the falls side. Lil, you fly over the top, looking for any mouse holes our grey friend may have scurried into.” Eap fixed his gaze on the ground beside him, and slowly another glider formed: angular, tipped with dangerous looking metal spikes. Black. Eap crawled into his harness and stood, the wings spreading on either side. With his square, hollow-eyed face—eyepatch and all—and his short, pudgy body, he very much resembled a bat.
“Abracapocus,” I muttered to myself and slid into my own harness.
Lil’s glider fissioned into being suddenly, like a gleam of sun striking the flat rock. They were golden yellow, with red and yellow stripes.
“A bad idea,” I told her. “You’ll stand out in the sky like a Nazi flag.”
“But Hans’ll know it’s me,” Lil replied. “He’ll come out to meet me.”
“Such faith,” Eap purred. “Let’s hope it doesn’t gut you before the day’s done. Come. We’ve no time. Pass back and forth across the plateau, Logan. Use the wind. Make some, too. You can tame these calmer currents easily enough to carry you where you will.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” I agreed.
“Don’t leave any strange shadow or odd rock formation unexplored. Our friend Hans may be good at hiding, but he can’t refrain from embellishing.”
The plateau was maybe a half-mile across. I was already at my edge. I turned and watched the two of them fan out, Eap splashing through the streams, great black wings shuddering as he kept them knifed into the wind so it wouldn’t lift him away just yet. Lil looked like some strange type of butterfly, wings glowing like butterscotch candy.
Eap flung himself over. The wind caught him and drew him soaring up. Lil leapt, too, her body taut and straight like a dragonfly. She turned a loop and swooped up into the air, gliding above us. I ran and leapt, enjoying the thrill as the ground fell away under me and I dropped off the deep end, swimming through air. The wind rattled through the light fabric, then ballooned and caught me, the bar digging under my arms.
Wind, I thought. This breeze will take me across the face of these cliffs. It will keep me lifted. It will gather into a great, rolling gust under these wings and keep me up.
And it came, lifting me high into the air above the plateau. I caught my breath, looked down at all the pinpricks of trees, and angled downward.
Chapter 16
I sailed out over the edge, the green-black of the Grimwoods crawling under me, bright blue flooding my vision as I turned toward the sky. Carefully, I dipped along the side of the cliff, and then I was streaming out past rust red, golden yellow, cherry pink, and pale salmon stone. There were runnels and pillars and caves, ledges and bulgy outcroppings that had this melted sort of quality, like I was sailing around the edge of a pile of sherbet. It smelled sweet, even. Not like raspberries or oranges, but maybe roses.
I kept close, but not too close. Even though the wind was mine—I could bring it up a little, and did, and turned it the direction I wanted down here—it was still strong, and I didn’t want to risk a sudden gust that would leave me a greasy mass of flesh on those cliff sides.
The smell was getting stronger as I descended, pass by pass, over the striped cliff. It hit me so hard I choked. It was like inhaling a too-strong breath of my Grandma Sully, who really liked to dot herself with old-fashioned perfume. It was making me a little ill, actually.
Luckily, as I got down lower, the smell grew fainter.
I looked up, moving a little further from the riots of sunset stone as I did. Eap said to look for anything unusual. A rose-smelling cliff? That was definitely unusual. Should I go back up and see what it was about?
I touched my pocket briefly. The pen still rested there in my pocket. Yes, he had said that. Yes, I did need to go see what was up there. We were looking for clues, for things out of the ordinary.
I needed a powerful, lifting gust that would take me soaring up into the air. I imagined a rope of air, invisible, a collection of displacement lifting me under the wings.
When suddenly it blew up under me and the world spun, sending me askew toward the cliffs, I nearly lost control. I was surprised it worked. Why was I still surprised by things here? I asked myself, keeping a close eye on the shadows and hollows in the rock, drawing myself dangerously close.
I caught a heady, choking gust of roses. And there, I saw something unusual, too. I arced and streamed past the stretch again, squinting.
Yes, regular shadows in the face. A spot of regularity in the random. But the wind was too much. I wasn’t going to be able to keep from crashing, this close to the cliff.
I let it carry me out, away from the plateau, spinning through the sky, as I marked the place on the cliff with my eyes. Once I got high enough to feel good about the angle, I shifted my wings and dove, aiming for what looked like a little bit of a lip there, ten feet or so below those shadows.
As I got closer, something moved suddenly. It looked sort of like an ant from where I was—a tiny, wiry shape, dark against the sunrise of cliffs.
“Hans?” I tried, and swooped carefully in closer. “Grey Man?”
It was definitely a human.
With long ragged dark hair, a twisted body strung over with rags.
And as it turned its head, a feral snarl.
“Jenny,” I gasped.
It was her. Only . . . not her. The look in her eyes wasn’t human. She didn’t speak any words to me, but she reared up, braced herself, and howled—a shrill, screamy sound that send shivers chasing down my ribs.
Feeling sick, I scrambled and wheeled wildly away. “Shoot,” I gasped. I was falling, not flying—falling toward the cliff, because the breeze I’d made was still pressing me toward it, and I’d lost the angle of my wings. I knew I needed to think fast—change it, call up something, but the shock of seeing her . . . the fear that was crawling in my stomach.
They’re here.
The rock rose up to embrace me.
The blyks. They’re here. They’re here. They sent her. They’re looking for him, too.
I managed to catch myself, to wise up before impact, but it was too late to try to sail away. I landed clumsily, barely managing to lip the broad platform I was aiming for, jarring both my legs, twisting my ankle, and going wing-over-tail in a long tumble. I threw myself out of the harness and watched my glider spin off the edge, tail over tip, down to the dusty ground below. My heart was thrumming like a caught sparrow’s. I craned my neck up to look above me.
I couldn’t see Jenny. But I could see, above me, the source of those regular shadows: cavities in the rock. Arches, gracefully carved
into the cliffs. The stone in between them had been smoothed and carved as well—round, supple pillars, topped by faces of animals, people. A half-orb of sun with rays waving up from it decorated the arch over the largest of the doorways. That was what they were. Doorways.
This was it. If someone was living on the plateau, this was it, wasn’t it? I had to go up. Jenny . . . Jenny couldn’t hurt me. She wasn’t a blyk, yet. Maybe just a harbinger. Maybe just looking.
I’d done rock climbing before, at indoor gyms. I told myself this wasn’t so different. Just a ten-foot stretch of wall. Or maybe twenty feet.
I was shivering. I took off my steel-toed boots and stretched my toes. Don’t look down, I told myself, grasping a handful of bulged-out rock, and brought my feet up to grip the edge of a crack.
The climbing wasn’t hard with the obliging, sinuous, gritty curves of sandstone. It was just nerve-wracking. My arms shook badly. I had to take some calming breaths halfway up, and the scent of roses was so powerful it was like I was drinking them.
Finally, I pulled myself into one of the hollows and leaned my back against a carved pillar.
I followed the sharp point of a beak with my forefinger. Storks.
Where was Jenny? Somewhere watching me, no doubt.
Summoning some wolves, maybe.
Without realizing I was doing it, I reached into my pocket and clutched the pen. The cool, solid wood was reassuring. Eap, I knew, was out there somewhere. And Lil.
And I was here. This—the rock, the cliff—it was solid.
Real.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from blinding sunlight glaring off sandstone to the shadows of the cave. There were little cracks and crevices in the rocks to let in broad, powerful rays of light, and the glowing colors of sandstone, contrasted with the deep shadows, were like magic. I started to make out details, my eyes adjusting to the intense contrast of beams and shadow. As the room formed around me I froze, too full of wonder to even breathe.
There were long, curved couches—several of them—with arched legs carved in lacy filigree. They were grouped in the center of the room around a low oval-shaped table that held a fat vase overflowing with roses. The flowers were white, red, pink, yellow, dark purple, peach-orange, and also parrot-green with contrasting yellow and orange and red petals. There were roses that had petals every color of the rainbow, shading from light to dark in the center, and some with clear petals edged in gold, white, and soft pink.
Hanging over them was a chandelier with branches on branches on branches, lit all over with small candles. The smoke gathered along the ceiling, curling slowly in those blinding rays of light, curling up to the openings that let the light in. Smoke out, Light in. It had all been carved from the stone of the plateau—couches, table, even the chandelier—except for cushions, a collection of velvet blankets, a lace tablecloth. The dripping wax candles that were settled in it. And, of course, the roses.
The smell of the room was a perfect, round taste in my mouth like caramel; salt, sweet, smoke, and the rose smell blooming and bursting through all of it, settling in my throat, making me want to drink something . . . drink petals. Chew them. Eat them.
I took one step, then another, toward that round table with its huge, overflowing vase, and the room swam with me. Swam, then dimmed. I couldn’t exactly feel my legs. I reached out to touch one, and a dart of pain ripped through me. Like a dozen pinpricks, like someone or something had clawed me. I looked down. Monty’s sour, speculative face glared up at me.
“Ouch,” I told the cat. “What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”
The cat promptly turned his back on me and walked away. I stared after him, my mind still floating and fuzzy. Monty stopped at another archway—the inside wall was lined with them. He sat on his haunches, like he was waiting.
I frowned at Monty. The roses—soft, velvety petals the size of my hand. I wanted to touch one. Feel it slide against my skin. Just a small brush.
The cat yowled, drawing my attention again. He bore his fangs—sharp, white little points in all that black fur. The bite on my ankle flared with pain.
“Gah,” I groaned. “Fine. Fine, cat. Fine, I’ll follow you. Eap’s going to be glad to see you.” We walked through the archway and came into an empty room. No furniture, just walls—walls with shelves dug out of them. It was a steep, slope-walled room, and the top was open to the outside—a slash of light, spilling down onto the bare floor.
There were carvings on the shelves, too. There was a shelf carved with a line of swans flying—necks long, wings spread. There were scenes of sleigh-rides, castles, forests with animals and people, animals talking to people.
I ran my finger over a brush-tailed fox with its little paw raised, and a man stooped slightly as if listening to it expound.
“Is he here?”
Monty licked his lips and sat on his haunches.
“He’s here, isn’t he?”
Monty blinked.
“Okay, so how do I find him? Why don’t you just speak?”
“Edgar always found the notion of animals with language to be absurd,” a soft voice answered.
I flinched and turned, and there he was—Lil’s Grey Man. Tall, thin body, hunched over slightly at the shoulders, hands curled at the chest as if he were a little embarrassed by them. Long, sloped face, the forehead receding back from clear, watery eyes, a beak of a nose, firm mouth and chin. His hair was ragged silver and fell in waves down his back. He wore a hooded coat that matched his hair and shimmered with embroidery, roses and birds woven in a bluey-silver. The hood was pushed back, and he was watching me calmly.
“Edgar,” I said, stuttering. “Eap . . . he’s pretty mad at you.”
“I imagine.” Hans gestured and a cup appeared in his hand—small, china, with a rim of silver.
“You need to— “
“He’s always faulted me for keeping out of the conflict. He fought demons all his life, and now his afterlife is filled with them as well.” He gestured, and two chairs and a small table smoked into being. “Care for a tart?” He went to sit in the smaller of the chairs, still clutching the teacup.
“Um, no,” I said. “We have to go. We have to get back to the airship. The Grimms are coming. Probably already here.” I thought of Jenny on the cliff and shifted my weight. “Please.”
Hans waved away my words and picked up a small decanter—crystal, it looked like. He poured something pink into another small glass and sipped it. “We don’t have to get anywhere. Sit, son.” He gestured and the chair slid out further, inviting me.
Reluctantly, I sat, my behind perched on the very edge. “If we don’t, the Grimms—”
“This is not my fight. The Rook and Wolf know I’m no threat to them. They leave me in peace. Edgar and Mary, Jane and Charlotte; all the fighters—they would choose a calm life, too, if they knew what was good for them. I do not mind being surrounded by Grimwoods, living my life in the small space I require.”
“But you . . . but . . .” I didn’t know what to say. It seemed logical. Right. Why were we fighting? “Who’s Mary, Jane, and Charlotte?” I chose the most innocuous question.
He frowned. “They stay a bunch, those four. Don’t tell me you haven’t met Edgar’s fawning women yet?”
“I haven’t seen any of them.” I shrugged. “And I’ve spent the last few . . .” What? Weeks? Days? “I’ve spent a while with him. Maybe they’re gone already.”
He was startled, disturbed—enough to lower his cup and give me a good glare. “Gone? Gone where? Off the edge of the world?”
“Gone,” I said. “Grandeur. The city. It’s all gone.”
He went so far as to set the cup down. “Gone,” he muttered. There was a long beat of silence. The slim tapered fingers tapped on the ornate lace tablecloth. “It had to happen sometime. So we’re alone in the world now, are we? Just the two of us left. The black cat and the nightingale.” He fingered the rim of the crystal cup. “I thought it’d come to that.�
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“There’s me, too.” Anger stirred. “And Lil.”
His eyes rose to meet mine, and his mouth tightened. “I did not ask her to come. In fact, I told her—”
“You knew Lil. You knew she’d come.”
“I did not expect her to be so foolish.” He brought a triangle of toast to his mouth and nibbled the edge. “She seemed to me a level-headed sort. That is why I chose to confide in her, to seek her company. Appears I was very wrong about her. So sad.”
The stirring fire flared into sparking flame. “So sad?” I repeated. “So sad?”
“You can tell any story you wish, but there is no way to tell a person what to do, and to expect they’ll do it is the highest folly indeed,” Hans said severely. “I am not responsible.”
“But you are.” I stood, shoving the chair back. “She thought you were . . . she thought of you as . . .” I clenched my fist. “Lil is not someone who’s touched. Emotionally. But you touched her. You brought her here.”
Hans stared at me, his eyes narrowing. “And she brought you.”
“Yes.”
“You blame her, and down the chain, me.”
I frowned, started to shake my head, and then nodded. “Yes, I do. But that’s not what— “
“You’ve come here to get your revenge. Well,” He gave me a bland, hard smile. “Go ahead.” His little finger twitched slightly, and something strange . . . a smell filled the room. Roses.
“No,” I said, raising my voice. “I’m not here for revenge. I’m here to . . . Lil came to help you.”
“Oh? Help, how?” The smell receded, and he leaned back in his chair, his eyes glittering, the corners of his mouth tucked up in a sardonic smile. “Help me? Two little bobbins, help me?”
“Help . . . all of us. Help fight off the Grimms. You need to come with us because we need you. To fight them. You can’t just choose to die. That means you’re choosing for all of us to become blyks.”
