Borderlands

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  The island isn’t bordered by a sloping shoreline, but a rocky barrier as high as my chest. Teddy’s the first to make it out; he flings his pack onto the shore, presses his palms onto the dry rocks and then springs up and over the edge. A moment later he reaches back to help Maisy, but she manages on her own.

  I toss my own pack ashore, biceps strained by the effort of keeping it dry. Then I mimic Teddy’s actions – albeit with a bit less grace and a lot more grunting – and hoist my legs up onto the island.

  Once we’ve all scrambled up onto the rocks, we retrieve our packs and struggle to our feet. My shoulders ache. My calves throb. It’s funny how exhaustion can strike sometimes. Back in the water, energy and willpower seemed to spool out of my pores . . . but up here, on the safety of the shore, I want to collapse in a heap.

  The others look as weary as I feel, and no one speaks. I’m tempted to suggest a nap, but this isn’t a safe place for dozing.

  ‘Come on,’ I say, hating myself a little as I say it. ‘We’ve got to find a better hiding spot.’

  Clementine groans, but no one argues. We traipse deeper into the trees, tripping occasionally when an upraised root goes ankle-fishing.

  Lukas points ahead. ‘See that?’

  I can just make out a strange gleam: pale and winking. We tramp forward cautiously to peer around a cluster of trunks.

  It’s a tiny stream, thin and bedraggled. But it’s not exactly water. It looks thick and white, almost like clouds, with winking beads of light that pop like bubbles on its surface.

  ‘Alchemical residue,’ Maisy whispers.

  The clouds billow along the stream bed, flowing like water. But their colour and consistency are as thick as storm-stained sky.

  ‘Better get a wriggle on, I reckon,’ Teddy says. ‘Don’t fancy kipping near that thing.’

  We turn away from the stream, our worst suspicions about the borderlands confirmed. Oddly, I’m more irritated with myself than anything. So much for a peaceful breeze and sunshine. I’d started to think that the rumours were unfounded – that the only sign of magic here was the strange geography.

  Back in Rourton, I’d never have been so quick to trust.

  We settle on a patch of knotty wildflowers in the middle of the island. It’s dotted with rocks and doesn’t look comfortable, but at this point I could sleep on a torture rack and be grateful for the rest.

  The air buzzes with mosquitos, but they seem to avoid the strongly scented flowers. I make a mental note to harvest some in the morning for bug repellent. If we’re to travel through waterways from now on, I’d rather not do it as a walking insect buffet.

  Lukas volunteers for first watch, and we’re all too tired to argue. Normally we’d all make half-hearted offers to take his place, but I’m too drained to make my tongue form the syllables. I nestle into the flowers, pull the edge of our sleeping sack over my body, and close my eyes.

  A few hours later, I wake to the sound of rustling. It’s proper night now, with only a hint of moonlight coming through the canopy. Dew beads glisten in the undergrowth near my face. When my eyes adjust, my breath catches in my throat.

  It’s Lukas. He no longer sits in position at his watch post. He’s rummaging through our pile of packs, sliding nuts and oats into his pocket. Stealing. Stealing from his own crew.

  Maisy was right.

  I want to throw off the sleeping sack, leap to my feet and scream. I’m the one who vouched for Lukas Morrigan. I told my crewmates he was more than just the king’s son; that he was a refugee like us and he could be trusted. I broke my own survival rules and put my trust in a stranger’s hands.

  And he used that trust to betray us.

  I force myself to lie still, muscles clenched. My heart beats so loud in fury that I’m sure it will wake the others, but they slumber on beside me, unaware. Lukas carefully refastens the pack, then buttons up his pocket. He glances back at the rest of us. I hurriedly close my eyes, hoping he won’t notice I’m awake. For several long moments I hold my breath. Has he looked away yet? There’s no sound of movement, so I guess he must be lingering – staring across our sleeping forms.

  The undergrowth rustles. I crack open my eyelids to watch Lukas. He turns, takes a deep breath, and vanishes into the trees.

  I follow. I’m not too good at sneaking in the wilderness – a month ago I’d never even seen beyond Rourton’s city walls – so I have to tiptoe. Left foot goes here, right foot goes there . . .

  Lukas ducks through a thicket of vines, heading towards the far side of the island. We haven’t explored this area yet. He can’t really mean to abandon us, can he? The idea makes my skin tingle with its sheer wrongness. There must be something I’m missing. I think of his lips upon mine in the tower – the soft warmth of his breath – and my fingernails slice like knives into my palms.

  The island is larger than I thought. By the time Lukas slows, I swear we’ve traipsed at least a kilometre through the trees. He pauses in a grove of wildflowers not unlike our camp site. A fallen tree sprawls across its centre, half-collapsed with rot, and Lukas climbs atop its corpse to survey his ­surroundings.

  I can’t hold it in any longer. ‘Lukas?’

  He jumps like someone’s sent an alchemical jolt through his veins. His head whips around to face me, scanning the dark, and those green eyes glint like glass in the moonlight.

  I step forward to reveal myself. Lukas relaxes a tiny bit – who was he expecting, Sharr Morrigan? – before his face falls. I hope his reaction is guilt, and not disgust, because I don’t know if I could handle the latter. Mind you, I’m pretty disgusted with him at the moment, so maybe it would even out.

  ‘Danika,’ he says, ‘I can explain.’

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m . . .’ Lukas looks down, unable to meet my eyes. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘You said you could explain.’ Even I’m slightly startled by the coldness in my tone. ‘So explain.’

  Lukas opens his mouth, looking nervous. He descends from the log and moves towards me, hands shoved into his pockets. Then he brings his hands out and gestures, uselessly, at the forest ahead. ‘I didn’t have a choice. You have to understand, I –’

  And that’s when we hear the voices.

  There’s nowhere to hide but the log.

  We stuff ourselves into its innards, hearts beating faster than cricket-song. The bottom of the log has deteriorated, and the ground below is sunken like a dimple, so there’s just enough space to cram ourselves into sitting positions.

  A moment later, they’re here. I glimpse their silhouettes through a crack in the log’s shell. Hunters. Sharr’s hunters. And finally Sharr herself: tall and slender, her face framed by sleek dark hair. She doesn’t carry a flame this time – she simply walks in silence, lips drawn together like blades.

  We’ve been so stupid. So arrogant. Splashing through the water, joking around, acting like we were on holiday. We put too much faith in our own cleverness and too little in the abilities of Sharr and the king’s hunters. Of course she knew which way we’d travel; where else would we go? Refugees don’t run towards the west. They run towards the Valley.

  Sharr beckons her companion after her, and I recognise the hunter with the Reptile proclivity. A couple of other shadowy figures follow before the entire group vanishes into the trees. A night breeze crinkles the canopy, and moonlight dances in tiny chinks upon the forest floor.

  The forest is silent.

  Lukas leans closer to breathe in my ear. ‘Are they gone?’

  I’ve no better idea than Lukas has. But I can’t see any hunters through my knothole, and I know we’re hidden well inside our log. So long as we don’t move . . .

  ‘We’ll have to wait it out,’ I whisper.

  My only comfort is that our friends are safely cloaked in my illusion. So long as they keep silent – and so long
as the hunters don’t literally step on them – they’re just as well hidden as we are.

  Moments turn to minutes, then to longer trails of time. A few rays of moonlight sneak into our log – just enough to catch the shine of Lukas’s eyes. I look away. My limbs are stiff, but I don’t dare move. For all I know, a hunter could be lurking in the nearby trees.

  Lukas’s breath is on the back of my neck. I don’t know how I feel about it. I tingle at the touch, and part of me secretly longs to draw a little closer. The rest of me wants to recoil. If he doesn’t have a good explanation for sneaking off . . .

  Finally, I can’t stand it any more. I twist about to face him in the dark. ‘Why?’ I whisper.

  For a moment, Lukas seems to forget how to breathe. Then he exhales. ‘I saw something . . . when I used the eagle’s eyes. Something I didn’t tell you.’

  ‘Something bad?’

  Lukas hesitates again. ‘Something only I can fix.’

  ‘So you decided to run away?’

  ‘I decided to fix it.’

  I give my lips a nervous little lick. I can’t help but notice that Lukas’s breath smells sweet, like apricot syrup, and it’s oddly distracting in the close confines of our hiding place. ‘Why didn’t you tell the rest of us?’

  ‘I didn’t want you to come. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘If it’s not too dangerous for you, it’s not too dangerous for –’

  Lukas raises a gentle finger to my lips, cutting me off. ‘Danika, it’s to do with my family.’

  I want to swipe his hand away and tell him to shove it somewhere the sun won’t shine, but I can tell he isn’t doing this to be arrogant. He looks gentle, nervous, like it’s genuinely paining him to keep these secrets. ‘Tell me,’ I say.

  ‘I can’t,’ he whispers. ‘Not here, not now. But I’ll tell you when it’s safe. I promise, Danika – I’ll explain everything.’

  ‘In the morning?’

  Lukas’s expression shifts a little, but he nods. ‘When it’s safe.’

  We fall silent for a while, just two nervous bodies squished into the dark. I remember the first time I had to hide inside a log – the night I escaped from Rourton. I’d just shot Lukas’s biplane from the sky so he must have been lost in the forest as well.

  ‘You must have been lonely,’ I whisper. ‘Those first few days after we left Rourton.’

  Lukas gives a half-hearted smile. ‘I’m used to being lonely. I grew up in a family of royal nutjobs who would’ve killed me to inherit the throne.’

  ‘But now you’ve got us,’ I say. ‘You’re part of our crew.’

  Lukas doesn’t respond. After a couple of minutes, his fingers nudge their way into my own cupped palm. I accept his hand and squeeze gently, reassured by the warmth of living flesh against my own. His breath brushes against my cheek, a lullaby of warmth and apricot syrup.

  ‘Better than the last night I spent in a log,’ I think. Then, too late, I realise I’ve whispered the thought aloud.

  ‘Oh?’ Lukas says. ‘Is it the decor that’s improved, or the room service?’

  ‘Teddy’s rubbing off on you.’

  ‘Is that such a bad thing?’

  I tighten my grip on his hand. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, not really. Lukas, I –’

  There is a crunch in the undergrowth. We lean together, hearts hammering, as an unseen figure stomps through the foliage. I can’t twist my neck far enough to search for a knothole on that side of the log, so my ears are all I have to go by.

  Somehow, hearing an enemy is even worse than seeing one. It could be a man or a woman. It could be a wild animal or a hunter. It could be a figure with a gun, or a Flame proclivity, or some other terrible weapon pointed at our hiding place. I don’t know. I can’t see. In another second our entire world could be in flame, our bodies burning, and I wouldn’t even know death was coming.

  All I know is that those footsteps crunch, crunch, crunch . . . and their maker moves without fear. Every step is loud. Unafraid. Whatever is making that noise, it knows it’s the predator, here. Not the prey.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate on the feel of Lukas’s hand. It’s warm and moist, dampened by sweat. I run my thumb back up across his wrist and settle on his pulse point. It takes me a moment to find it, but then it’s there – the thrum of heartbeat beneath skin. I force myself to calm down. We’re alive. This rhythm inside Lukas’s wrist is proof of that much. So long as I can feel his pulse, I know we’re still alive.

  The footsteps fade. A minute passes, two minutes, and finally they’re gone. The world is silent. I keep still for another minute, finger pressed so hard into Lukas’s wrist that it’s probably hurting him. I know it’s selfish, but right now I barely care. All that matters is that we are alive.

  We don’t speak after that – not for a long while, anyway. I release Lukas’s hand and turn back to face the log. This isn’t the time for long conversations. This isn’t the time for anything. I yearn to stretch out my legs, to twist my torso, but it’s too risky. If I punch through a wall of the log, or even crack off a slab of bark . . .

  So I sit, stiff and sore, my limbs tingling. Pins and needles. My left leg bends at an unnatural angle beneath me, so it’s the first to prickle and numb. My right arm isn’t much better, as it’s pinned against the wood. I’m in a narrower part of the log than Lukas, so I can’t move my hands as easily as he does. I sense his quiet movements behind me – the stretches as he flexes each limb – and fight a stab of envy.

  ‘You all right?’ he whispers.

  I swallow. ‘Fine.’

  Lukas must hear the discomfort in my voice, because he stops his own stretching to survey me. He detects the hunch in my shoulders, the twist in my limbs. ‘You can’t move?’

  ‘Not a lot,’ I admit. ‘But I’m fine.’

  After a while, Lukas shifts his weight and places a hand on my shoulder. I tense up, but then he begins to rub. He kneads my shoulder gently, squeezing through my coat.

  ‘Where’d you learn to do that?’ I say.

  ‘We used to get cramped in the biplane cockpits,’ Lukas says. ‘Not a lot of space to move, and sometimes we’d be in the air for hours. Our instructors taught us this so we could help our friends when we landed.’

  I fight a sudden urge to recoil. I know why a royal biplane pilot would be in the air for hours – to bomb the northern cities. Suddenly, I don’t want a bar of this massage. It feels like something toxic: a way to reduce the pain of killers while their victims burn.

  And Lukas used the word ‘friend’. I’ve never heard him call his fellow biplane pilots his friends before. Suddenly I imagine him living in the airbase, learning to fly, training alongside a dozen other teenagers. Did they take classes together? Eat dinner together? Drop bombs together?

  ‘I’m fine,’ I tell him stiffly. ‘Please stop.’

  Lukas stops. There is silence.

  I twist away from him and lean back against the log. I know I’m being unfair, that Lukas never dropped a bomb on a city. He risked everything to escape from that life.

  But all I can think of is my family. They died in the smoke and flame of a biplane’s bomb, while alchemical spells filled the wreckage with stars. And in those hours afterwards, while I sobbed in the husk of my home, triumphant pilots were massaging the stiffness from each other’s shoulders . . .

  This time, the conversation really does end for good. I can’t bring myself to speak, and Lukas seems too uncertain to break the silence. So we just sit there, awkward and stiff and sore.

  Sometimes I hear movement in the foliage, but I can’t tell whether it’s a hunter or an animal. Perhaps it’s too dark to scout properly. I hope so. I haven’t heard any shouts or screams, so I guess my friends must still be hidden. So long as my illusion holds, they should be safe.

  I don’t know how I slip into sleep, but I do. O
ne minute I’m weary and aching and feeling oddly ashamed of myself. The next minute I’m dreaming that I’m running through a forest of clouds and stars and signal flares. They burst around me in patterns of gold, scattering unnatural light through the air. I trail my hands out sideways as I run, brushing my palms through the sparks, and they nibble like tiny insects at the skin of my fingers.

  Then the air smells like apricot syrup and the wind whirls around me, and everything sinks into darkness until I stand alone in a field of utter ­blackness . . .

  I wake.

  The log is empty.

  Lukas is gone.

  For a few minutes, I just sit there. It’s lighter outside now – not quite dawn – and every breeze sends shadows dancing through the leaves. I clamber out of the log, too shocked to care about the throb in my limbs.

  ‘Lukas?’ I hiss. ‘Lukas, where are you?’

  Nothing. The area is deserted. I whip my head around for any sign of a trail, but I know nothing about tracking – how would I even start? I see broken branches and trampled flowers, but those could be from my own footsteps last night, or hunters prowling in the dark. They sprawl in all directions, more of a mishmash than a trail, and I realise how Sharr must have felt upon spotting our tangled foxary tracks in the Knife.

  Lukas could have been gone for hours. I’ll never find him on my own.

  I hurry back the way we came last night, recognising the cluster of trees where I hid before revealing myself to Lukas. Then I begin to run. I almost don’t care about secrecy at this point; there’s no sound of human life or movement nearby, and I can’t afford to waste a second. Not if Lukas is using that second to slip further away from our crew.

  Liar. He promised to tell me the truth in the morning – not to sneak off while I was sleeping. But as I plough across the island – ducking under branches and scrambling over logs – I realise Lukas never actually used those words. He said he’d tell me the truth ‘when it was safe’. Maybe he thinks we won’t be safe until he’s dealt with the problem. And if things go wrong . . . Lukas might get himself killed before we even know why he’s left us.