Borderlands

by Skye Melki-Wegner

  ‘No, it was –’

  ‘Don’t lie to me, my friend,’ Silver says. ‘Only ten years since I left the royals’ service, remember? I watched that boy in his early years, and I know those charms belonged to him.’

  Silence. I glance across at Teddy and Clementine, but they seem as uncertain as I am. We could deny it, of course – but what’s the point? She’ll suspect us anyway, and proving ourselves to be liars doesn’t seem a smart way to get her onside.

  ‘So,’ Silver says quietly. She speaks in a pure richie accent now, with no trace of the fake western dialect. ‘This is rather interesting, isn’t it? A group of refugees, all the way from Rourton, in the company of a runaway prince. I’m sure King Morrigan has offered a grand reward. He’ll charge you with kid­napping. He’ll have your heads.’

  ‘We didn’t kidnap anyone!’ I say. ‘Lukas is our friend. He ran away because his family’s a bunch of –’

  I force myself to shut up.

  ‘No need to hold back,’ Silver says. ‘In case you’d forgotten, I abandoned them myself to join this smuggling crew. I have no love for the royal family.’

  More silence.

  I wet my lips. ‘Why did you leave them?’

  Silver sighs. It’s a weary sound, like papers collapsing beneath the weight of dust. ‘Because I invented terrible things in their service. Things I convinced myself were necessary, things for the greater good.’ Her eyes grow distant. ‘Things to keep this kingdom under control . . .’

  With a sickening wrench, I realise what she means. ‘No,’ I whisper. ‘You didn’t . . .’

  Silver meets my eyes. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I did.’ There is a long pause. ‘I invented the alchemy bomb.’

  ‘I thought the king would use my bombs for good,’ Silver says. ‘To fight our enemies across the sea.’

  My chest is hot. All I can picture is my family burning. My mother screaming. Stars bursting like magical shrapnel from the ruins of my home. ‘You mean, to drop bombs on a city from the sky, like cowards –’

  Silver’s eyes narrow. ‘Cowards?’

  ‘Too afraid to come down,’ I spit, ‘and put yourself in harm’s way. Too afraid to look into the faces of the people you kill. It must be so easy from up there, floating safely in the sky without –’

  Silver points at me. ‘You listen to me, and you listen well. I didn’t know my invention would be used on Taladian cities. But even if I had known, I could have justified it to myself. The alchemy bomb was a masterpiece. For a team of young alchemists, it was our way into the history books. Every development in weaponry, all throughout human history, had been leading to this.’

  ‘Is that what you told yourself? Is that what you and your friends whispered to each other, so you could sleep at night while the rest of us burned?’

  Silver’s eyes are hard. ‘If my team hadn’t invented the first bomb, someone else would have. It was inevitable. It was –’

  ‘It was not inevitable!’

  ‘Thousands of years ago,’ Silver says, ‘humans used their hands to fight. Then someone invented clubs. Then swords, then lances. Then arrows. Then pistols.’ Her voice is strained now, half-snapping, half-pleading. ‘Each new weapon was more powerful than the last, and each could be wielded from further away. The alchemy bomb was just a natural progression. It was going to happen sooner or later, no matter who came up with –’

  ‘Your bombs killed my family,’ I say.

  She says nothing.

  ‘I watched our apartment burn. I watched alchemical stars blast into the night like some kind of firework display. Something for the pilots to watch, to laugh at from above.’

  Silver stares at me. She opens her mouth to speak, then closes it again. ‘I . . .’ She takes a shaky breath. ‘I don’t know what to tell you.’ She stares across the lagoon. It ripples, cool and gentle beneath the fading sun.

  ‘What’s the king doing near the Valley?’ I say.

  Silver’s face is almost motionless. ‘My people don’t involve themselves with kings.’

  I wait in silence until she finds the guts to meet my gaze. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’d say you’re pretty involved already.’

  ‘That was before –’

  ‘And this is now.’ I fold my elbows on the rail. ‘You said the king was doing something dangerous. Bad enough to whip up that storm last night.’

  ‘Yes, but –’

  ‘If you want to forget about the bombs, that’s your choice. I know what it’s like to feel guilty. But if you ignore what’s happening right now near the Valley, you’ll do more than just block out bad memories. You’ll put your whole damn clan in danger.’

  Silver pauses for a long time. A breeze sends the bedsheets dancing, but they remain in place upon the rail. The old woman looks down at her hands and examines her fingernails one by one. Stalling for time, I suppose – or remembering the horrors those fingers have crafted.

  Finally she says, ‘Do you know “The Song of the Road”?’

  ‘You mean the one that goes “Oh mighty yo” and all that?’ Teddy says. ‘Yeah, that’s what led us here.’

  ‘Good,’ Silver says. She stares across the lagoon. The ripples are growing darker now, stained by the encroaching dusk. And in a singsong whisper, she begins to recite:

  Oh mighty yo,

  How the star-shine must go,

  Chasing those distant deserts of green . . .

  ‘The Magnetic Valley wasn’t always a valley,’ Silver says. ‘Not as we know it today, at least. Hundreds of years ago, it was a channel of water. A narrow lake weaving between the mountains.’

  ‘The Valley was full of water?’ I repeat, startled. ‘But then, how –’

  ‘It was the king at the time who drained it,’ Silver says. ‘An ancestor of the current royal family. He wanted to invade the land beyond the Valley, and foolishly believed it was the water – not the magnets beneath – that interfered with his soldiers’ magic.

  ‘It was a time of great change, you see. Just a century into the Alchemical Renaissance – and barely months after the fall of Midnight Crest, which had been a terrible humiliation for the king. So he set out to achieve something grand. Something visionary.’ Silver gives me a sharp look. ‘Something to remind the people of his strength.’

  She turns back to survey the water.

  ‘Traditionally, water flowed from Taladia down into the Valley. But the king changed all that. He conscripted workers to mine a system of tunnels beneath the Valley. Hundreds died to build those tunnels. The catacombs, they were called. The king used them to pump the water back into Taladia, contaminating the region nearby.’

  I feel a chill of recognition. ‘The borderlands.’

  Silver nods. ‘But those tunnels were tainted by alchemy, and the magical residue of those who died to build them. Sometimes when a soul dies, you see, it doesn’t take its whole proclivity with it. As the water pumped through, it was . . . corrupted. Polluted. And so the borderlands became a realm of wild magic – and the Magnetic Valley became an empty bowl.’

  ‘So that line in the song, about deserts of green . . .’

  ‘Refers to the Valley,’ Silver says, nodding. ‘It was once a mighty waterway, but now it lies empty. Just high slopes and green grass. A desert of green.’

  I stare towards the horizon. With no trees directly overhead, I can just make out the peaks of mountains in the distance. Fragments of the Eastern Boundary Range. They paint massive shadows on the sky: too high to climb, too high for biplanes to cross. Those mountains divide Taladia from the land beyond. The Valley is the only chink in their armour. And beneath its grass, beneath its magnets . . .

  ‘The catacombs,’ I say. ‘Are they still there?’

  Silver gives me a hard look. ‘They are, but only a fool would trespass there.’

  ‘Why?’

  �
�Too old,’ she says. ‘Too unstable.’

  ‘I don’t see how they built ’em in the first place,’ Teddy says. ‘I mean, everyone knows that magic stuffs up in the Valley. Too dangerous, right? If they used alchemy to pump the water, I reckon it should’ve ricocheted, or exploded, or –’

  Silver shakes her head. ‘The catacombs aren’t in the Valley. They lie deep beneath it.’

  ‘Yeah, but if the magnetic field goes up high enough to mess with biplanes, I reckon it’d go –’

  ‘The airspace is only tainted,’ Silver says, ‘because thousands of magnetic seams run up the Valley’s sides, cupping it from all directions. Those seams lie near the surface, and their fields are shallow. But the catacombs are deep, buried far below the reach of the Valley’s magnetism.’ She pauses. ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Mostly?’

  Silver shrugs. ‘There are a few stray seams of mag­netic rock that run deeper into the earth. But their magnetism is weak, and their effects don’t reach far.’

  Teddy frowns. ‘How come you know all this?’

  ‘How do you think?’ Silver says. ‘My people have tried to explore the tunnels, to extend their reach. We hoped to sneak all the way beneath the Valley. But those who go in rarely come out.’

  ‘Why bother then?’ Clementine says.

  ‘Because we could make a fortune!’ Silver says. ‘A hidden web of paths beneath the Valley, leading to the land beyond. We could smuggle goods in secret beneath the border: silver, spices, people . . .’ She gives a wistful sigh. ‘Believe me, my friends – if those catacombs could be easily salvaged, my people would have found a way to restore them.’

  ‘Have you been there?’ My throat is suddenly tight. ‘The land beyond the Valley?’

  Silver shakes her head. ‘I work in the south. I buy spices cheap, and I cart them up for a premium in the northern markets.’ She pauses. ‘And things less legal than spices.’

  ‘But you’re so close! Someone in your crew must have –’

  Silver cuts me off. ‘Only Quirin has crossed the border. He won’t speak of it, though, and he won’t let anyone else try. Not profitable enough. Not worth the risk.’

  ‘The risk?’

  ‘King Morrigan keeps a damn close watch on that Valley. And he can be a bit –’ Silver waves a hand – ‘obsessive, let’s say, about the land on the other side. If we’d managed to sneak through the catacombs, that would be one thing. But we can’t just march back and forth in the open.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t afraid of kings.’

  ‘True,’ she says. ‘Because we’re smart enough to work around them. There are some lines even smugglers don’t cross.’

  For a long moment, no one speaks. There’s just the afternoon light, the breeze and the ripple of the water.

  ‘But now King Morrigan’s trying to fix the catacombs?’ I say.

  ‘I told you, my people don’t –’

  ‘He’s sending in hundreds of soldiers, all with Earth and Water-type proclivities,’ I say. ‘Why do you think . . .?’

  I trail off, struck by realisation. If magic works in the catacombs, soldiers with Dirt or Stone proclivities could extend and stabilise the tunnels. Those with Water proclivities could deal with groundwater, or any pockets of flooding.

  It wouldn’t be the first time that soldiers were given jobs based on their magic. I remember an old bedtime story, The Rats of Ridgeton, about soldiers with Beast proclivities who were tasked with sending plague rats into the enemy’s camp.

  ‘He is trying to repair the catacombs, isn’t he?’ I say. ‘That’s what caused the bellyacher. People messing around down in the tunnels, treading on old magic that shouldn’t be touched . . .’

  Silver looks down at her hands again. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Why?’ Clementine says. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t see how a bunch of old tunnels is supposed to help –’

  ‘It must be his Plan B.’ I glance across at Teddy. ‘Remember? When we were in the Knife, Sharr Morrigan said something about the king bringing in soldiers for his Plan B.’

  ‘Because we blew up his Curiefer stash,’ Teddy says, nodding, ‘and all his biplanes. He can’t invade by air any more, and I reckon ground troops’d be too exposed without magic. So instead of going over the Valley . . .’

  I finish the sentence. ‘He’s going underneath.’

  By the time the others return, the sky is growing dark. The Forgotten sweeps back with silent ease: a shadow on the lagoon. It’s followed closely by a smaller boat, which is streaked crimson with rust and old paint. The name upon its side is Firebird.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I say.

  ‘It’s our clan’s emergency boat,’ Silver says. ‘We keep it hidden with our backup supplies. I suppose Quirin wants me to take it until Carrilla returns to fix the Nightsong.’

  The boats drop anchor about twenty metres away, in deeper water where the rocks can’t scrape their bases. Then a strange flag sticks up from the Forgotten’s mangled cabin. It flutters blue, barely visible in the fading light.

  ‘What’s that?’ I say.

  ‘If blue should leer, then soon be here,’ Silver recites, in a weary singsong tone. ‘Ah well, at least it’s not red. He wants us to join him on the Forgotten.’

  ‘What’s a red flag mean?’ Teddy says.

  ‘When cloth bleeds red, a soul is dead,’ Silver says.

  ‘Ah. Right. Probably should’ve guessed that one.’

  We slip beneath the guardrail and into the lagoon. I expect the water to be cold, but a pleasant warmth still lingers from the afternoon sun. Behind us, the Nightsong lies abandoned beneath a rising moon.

  When we board the Forgotten, Clementine shoves ahead in her haste to enter the cabin. I squeeze inside a moment later to see her bending over Maisy’s couch. Laverna stands nearby and I hear the gentle murmur of voices from the bunkroom below. Clearly someone has bolted this boat’s furniture to the floor, because it’s nowhere near as disrupted as the Nightsong’s splintered chairs.

  ‘I’m all right,’ Maisy says. I jump, startled to realise she’s awake, and turn back to her. A little colour has returned to her face, and her eyes look fairly alert. ‘Laverna’s had me out on deck all day in the sunlight. Honestly, I’m feeling much better.’

  Laverna nods her confirmation. ‘One more day, dearie – maybe two – and I reckon you’ll be fine.’

  Part of me feels terrible for smiling when the smugglers are in mourning for their friends. Still, this is the best news I’ve had in days.

  ‘Any word from the others?’ Silver says, settling back into her false accent. ‘Once the storm died off, figured they might make it to the –’

  ‘Not yet,’ Quirin says. ‘But they can’t all have drowned – not with their proclivities. So long as they stayed conscious, they’ll turn up sooner or later.’ He pauses. ‘But our friends aren’t the only ones out near the lagoon today.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Our boat was followed.’

  We all stare at him. I feel the hair on my forearms prickle.

  ‘Someone on the shoreline,’ Quirin says. ‘I saw glimpses of them through the trees.’

  ‘Was it –?’

  ‘I couldn’t see his face. Just a single figure.’ Quirin’s expression is tight. ‘I don’t like to stay out here on the lagoon. We’re too exposed.’

  Silver gestures through a side window, where the hulk of the Nightsong lies visible upon the rocks. ‘Till she’s fixed, that beauty’s not going anywhere.’

  ‘Do you think it was a hunter?’ I try to keep the nerves out of my voice.

  Quirin scoffs. ‘A hunter wouldn’t follow us here. If they know what’s good for them, they leave us alone.’

  Not if they know we’re with you, I think. The idea makes my skin crawl. Could Sharr Morrigan have discovered we’re travel
ling with the smugglers? Would she risk an attack upon their boats, just to get at us?

  Of course she would. Her life is in ruins. She’s on the run, just like us, and she has nothing left to lose. If Sharr knew we were here – if she even suspected we were here – she’d stalk these boats with all the strength she could muster.

  But the evening fades with no sign of Sharr. No sign of anyone, actually. The stoves are dead on both our boats, so we build a fire on the beach of the Jaw. Quirin provides a sack of supplies: potatoes, dried beans, strips of salted fish. We cook the food in the coals of the fire, and each mouthful spills warmth and salt across my tongue. Even Maisy joins us on the island; she hobbles through the water, leaning on Clementine’s shoulder.

  ‘Good for the girl to do a bit of walking,’ Laverna says.

  I’m not so sure at first – I’ve seen enough infected wounds before, and I doubt that drag­ging her cut through greenish water is the best idea. But Maisy lifts her shirt to reveal the wound is healed. The skin has knitted itself back together with a shining white scar. It seems that bone-shaped charm is worth a hell of a lot more than its weight in silver.

  So we sit on the island, and stuff ourselves with fish and potatoes. The moon rises. But as wonderful as it feels to eat a proper meal, the scene doesn’t feel quite right. I shouldn’t be here. It feels wrong to sit here eating potatoes while Lukas is out there, lost in the dark, and soldiers are burrowing their way beneath the Valley.

  While King Morrigan plans another invasion.

  War is already raging to the south and west. If I hadn’t left Rourton, I’d have been conscripted at age eighteen. Five years of terror on foreign soil, all to expand the Morrigan empire. To bring glory to the throne.

  And now, he will attack the east.

  We thought we had stopped him. We thought that destroying the airbase would stop him from crossing the Valley – that we’d saved the land beyond from his wrath. But now his officers will comb our cities, forcing more soldiers into his ranks. Perhaps he’ll conscript younger kids – how else will he find enough troops for a fresh invasion?