“You’re sure?”
“I mean, he wasn’t actually dead the last time I saw him, but it couldn’t have been anyone else.”
She runs the back of her arm across her face, scrubbing away sweat. She’s flushed, bright eyes narrowed. “But you didn’t see anything. And you definitely weren’t dreamwalking?”
I shrug. “If I had been, would I have been able to yank you back like that?”
She thinks about it, sighs, and hauls herself up the wall to stand. “I need to report this. If you want to get another training session in with Steph, you’d better hurry and meet her. She’s about to get busy.”
I groan. “I thought that wasn’t until later?”
“It is later. You remember how to get there?”
I roll my eyes and stump away on leaden legs.
“Cole?” she calls after me. “You’re sure you didn’t see anything?”
I flap a hand at her and keep scuffing toward the unofficial sparring ring we’ve established in a quiet corner between long, windowless structures.
I’ve spent most of my life obsessing about death and believing I was haunted. You’d think I’d cope better with a real ghost, but . . . Ravel died? Dead—and haunting me. How did he—his ghost—even find me? How many more are on their way . . . ?
When I’ve reached our sparring ring, I take a running leap at Steph, hoping to gain the edge with a surprise attack and outrun my dread at the same time. She knocks me into the dirt.
“Nice try. You and Gracie spend all day coming up with that?” She stomps, kicking up dust where I’d been sprawled on my back only a moment before.
I skitter back, trying to put distance between us and find a less vulnerable position at the same time. “Spur of the moment inspiration.”
I snatch a long, flexible branch from the side of our sparring circle and fold my hand around it lightly, fingers outstretched and thumb curled in. It’s meant to mimic threads since my talents are—were—better oriented to manipulating them directly than using blades like Ash, or the hand-to-hand Steph excels at. We’ve already established I’m more likely to damage to myself than her when handling practice blades, and as I just demonstrated, my direct combat skills usually end with me eating dirt.
I snap the skinny branch in the younger girl’s direction. She twists aside. If I can keep it touching her for more than a five-count, I win. So far my record is half a second.
I flick my arm. The branch whips away and back so fast its end blurs.
She leans; watches it swish harmlessly through the air. “Keep those fingers spread. Rotate, not pinch.”
I snap the branch against the ground. It shudders out of my grip.
Cadence and Steph snicker, trading friendly insults. Steph circles, poking me with her own stick every so often to remind me to keep moving while I flail my branch and pretend it’s a handful of magical string.
If anything, I seem to be getting worse.
“You know this is all pointless if you can’t tap in.” She jabs me in the ribs.
I swat her away. My branch folds against hers and springs back, thwapping me in the face.
“Combat skills aren’t what get you into the program; they’re what keep us in,” she says. “You’ll have to show at least a little talent.”
“So why’re you teaching me?” I flick the branch back and forth with a humming swish to keep her at bay. “Why waste your time if I don’t have a chance.”
“Maybe I just like seeing you wallow in the dirt.” She pivots, drops, and lunges faster than I can redirect my branch’s force, sweeping my feet out from under me.
I land hard, gagging until I can coax air back into my lungs. Steph grins but she gives me a hand up all the same.
I attack. She rebuffs; I hit the dirt. She attacks; I try to block . . . and end up in the same place.
“You’d think she’d at least have learned to fall properly by now,” Cadence says.
“Hopeless,” agrees Steph.
But she waits for me to brush myself off. She’s practically bouncing in place, but she doesn’t move to attack until I’ve planted my feet and raised the increasingly limp branch.
Then we hear the crunch of footsteps approaching. She snatches my branch and throws it aside with her stick moments before the boy rounds the corner.
“There you are.” He drops out of a run without a sign of sweat. “Meet at the training grounds.”
He’s dressed like Steph, well muscled but baby-faced to the extent that I wonder if he’s closer to Grace’s age. He glances at the discarded bits of tree on the ground, apparently identifying them as practice weapons, and eyes me with interest. “She gonna be ready?”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Steph snaps.
The boy’s smirk doesn’t quite mask the flush that reddens his ears. He saunters off, but as soon as he rounds the corner, the footsteps kick back into a run.
I swipe sweat from my face and ask, with admirable nonchalance, “What’s going on?”
Steph shrugs. “We’re wanted. Could be a new mission, or an attack, or some other kind of emergency. Or auntie got bored and dreamed up a new training routine she can’t wait to inflict on us. Either way, looks like you’re off the hook for today.”
Grace must have raised the alarm. The trainees are getting called out to, what? Comb the woods for ghosts? Do their weapons even work on ghosts?
“Obviously,” Cadence says. “How else could you have fought off the Mara?”
Chapter 19: Ghosts
I drop my stick. “The Mara are ghosts?”
“Not exactly,” Cadence sounds bored. “But neither is Ravel if you ask me. Which you should have.”
“You heard him too? Back by the stream?”
“I heard the same thing you did. You just never asked. Which, again, could have made things a whole lot simpler. But now you need to get back to Gran.”
Then, apparently in revenge, she refuses to answer any more of my questions. So I take the long way back, watching people dash around in controlled alarm. Little kids dart in circles waving toy weapons like miniatures of the sticks and branches Steph’s been using to train me, which is depressing. Eager-looking teens in dark combat gear and securely holstered weaponry quick-march in packs, and more than a few of their elders seem to be marshalling, too. The rumours spread: under attack, enemy lurking in the woods, protect the borders, send out scouts, a squad, no, a whole division.
The whispers dry up when they catch sight of me. Tight smiles, wary eyes, or worried, or pitying. One lady even tells me to go on home like I’m one of the little kids getting shooed inside away from the threat.
Soon enough, the streets clear and the clusters of movement wheel away, and there’s nothing much to do besides lurk by the main gates and watch for signs of a ghostly attack, or head back to Susan’s place and wait for news.
So, of course, I head to the gates.
Which turns out to be a boring move. A solid row of dreamwalkers bars my way. They won’t let me up on the wall, where I could get a better view. They won’t tell me anything. They won’t even talk to Cadence when she tries to get answers.
I circle around and try one of the side gates, but guards are everywhere now. They keep warning me off. Every door is buried behind bristling strangers.
I keep thinking I’ll run into Steph and the other trainees that I challenged last week, but after covering maybe a third of the wall from the inside, I still haven’t seen them. They’re either stationed at a different gate, or they’ve been sent out to deal with the threat.
Curiosity gives way to thirst and a growing desire to get off my feet, so I drag myself home. Back to Susan’s, I mean—twisting around to check behind me every few steps and make sure I’m not missing anything important.
When I get there, the house is empty. I slam through the motions of getting a drink, shedding dirt in my wake, too afraid to miss any new developments by wasting time with anything so mundane as washing up.
B
ut somewhere between downing that cup of water and craning my neck to watch the door and the window in turn, I must have put my head down. The next thing I know, I’m picking it up off the table.
Susan stands in the doorway. She looks from the dirty floor to me. “Really?”
I ignore the fact that we haven’t been on speaking terms for days now, and also the related fact that I don’t trust her, in favour of getting some answers. “What happened? Did they find the ghost?”
“Bath. Now.”
“I know, sorry, it’s just—is it over? What happened?”
She sidesteps the mess, opens the bathroom door and points.
“I’ll clean up after. What did they find? Was there a fight? Did we win?”
Her mouth tightens. I’m starting to think it’s not the dirty floor that has her upset. But when she speaks, her tone is surprisingly gentle. “You don’t need to worry. I’ll explain after.”
“Oh, just go wash already,” Cadence grumbles.
It’s the fastest I’ve ever scrubbed down in my life. Susan refuses to answer any questions until after I’ve swept and wiped up the dirt I tracked in the door, too, which at the very least must mean that whatever happened can’t have been too dramatic. Though, what do I know? Maybe she just wants to have clean floors when the invading ghostly hordes descend.
Susan cooks in silence, and then we both have to eat even though it’s the middle of the night—still without answers—and then, settling in her chair with mugs of tea for the both of us, she tips her head. “Now, what was it you wanted to know?”
I could scream.
Deep breath. Unclench fists. Okay. “Oh, nothing much. Just wondered if that ghost Grace and I met in the woods came back, maybe with a ghost army? Seeing as how we scrambled our entire fighting force this afternoon? Which, by the way, I wasn’t aware included you—”
“She’s retired,” Cadence says helpfully.
“Semi-retired.” Susan sips her tea, watching me over the rim of the cup. “Was that all?”
This time I nearly do scream, emitting a high-pitched shriek like a boiling kettle before clamping my lips.
Susan grins. “Good news: there was no attack, ghostly or otherwise. You’re lucky you didn’t get called out; you had a nice peaceful day at home while the rest of us charged about defending against an imaginary enemy.”
“I didn’t make it up. Cadence heard too—”
“Sit down.” She flaps her hand at me. “I wasn’t accusing you of lying.”
I perch on the edge of my seat stubbornly, tea growing cold beside me. “We heard him.”
“Okay. Tell me all about your ghost.” She settles back in her chair like she’s getting ready for some kind of bedtime story.
“I’m not making this up.” I pause, but she doesn’t argue. Just sips her tea expectantly, if a little louder than strictly necessary. “It was Ravel. I know it was.”
“Oh? How?”
“His voice. What he said. No one talks like him. No one calls me . . . that.” Goosebumps ripple over my skin. Why isn’t Ash here? Why is Ravel haunting me? I thought I’d come to terms with him, with the way he’d been.
“Calls you what?” she asks.
I glare.
She blinks innocently. “So you just knew it was this Ravel from his voice. But you didn’t see anything?”
“Can you see ghosts?” I mean to sound sarcastic, but a note of curiosity creeps in.
Her eyes crinkle, but all she says is, “So, basically, you saw a bunch of trees and heard the voice of an old friend?”
“He wasn’t a friend.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Cadence says.
Susan’s eyes widen. She sits up a little straighter. “Noted. So this not-friend, you knew him back in—”
“He was the son of the leader of Refuge.” Cadence takes over. “And a wannabe rebel. A creepy, controlling jerk, but he had his uses.”
Susan looks like she’s waiting for me to argue.
I shrug. “What she said.”
“Did he hurt you? Is he dangerous?”
“Not anymore,” says Cadence.
Dangerous? He’d caused harm. Cost lives. Almost cost me mine.
He’d also tried to sacrifice his own to save it. I’m certainly no longer dazzled by him, no longer overwhelmed beyond reason, but neither will I make the mistake of thinking him harmless, nor powerless, nor even, simply, an enemy.
“Always. Especially when he was trying to help.” My tone is mocking, but the words fall like stones on the rug, with a nearly audible thud.
It was true of more than just Ravel. I’m not sure if that makes me feel more forgiving of him, or more wary of everyone else. Especially myself.
“How much did he know about us?” Susan seems alert, but not alarmed.
“Nothing,” Cadence says. Susan still looks to me for confirmation.
I feel just a tad smug about that. “He saw me dreamwalk. Saw me fight. He has memories of when we first arrived and Cadence’s parents dying,”—Susan blinks fast, a sudden sheen to her eyes—“and he seemed to have some idea of what we could do. But I don’t think he could actually see much more than the silvering. He didn’t seem to notice the threads or even the Mara—”
“That’s what they called their monsters,” Cadence interrupts. “Anyway, we never told him anything so if he found out something out, it wasn’t our fault.”
“But you do think he knew you were from outside the city?”
“I guess,” I say. “But nothing more.”
“So he couldn’t possibly have found you all this way away?”
“I don’t think ghosts care about distance—”
But Cadence speaks over me again. “He was good at finding out secrets. If anyone could have figured it out, he would have. But not from us.”
“Did anyone else know where you were from? Where you were going? Did you ever say anything to him, or even near him, or around those under his influence, about Nine Peaks?”
“No,” I say.
“Yes,” says Cadence. “Maybe. Ash might’ve mentioned it to, um, some people.”
Susan’s fingers tighten around her teacup. “He knows better. What people?”
Cadence doesn’t answer, so our grandmother frowns at me instead.
I fidget, knowing it makes me look guilty but helpless not to. “Don’t look at me. I didn’t even know we were leaving until it was too late.”
“Cadence?” asks Susan.
“It was nothing. Just some kid,” she finally says.
“What kid?”
“There was this little girl. Her family helped him when he first arrived. She’d been separated from her dad and wanted help getting him back. It was hard for Ash to leave her behind. He talked too much, maybe, but she was just a kid . . .”
Lily. Ash had told Lily? Then, somehow, Ravel had gotten a hold of her? Would he have hurt her?
To get to me? Maybe. Probably.
Ugh. I’d liked it better when I’d thought he was a ghost. “Okay, so maybe he could have found out where we were headed. There’s still the barrier—”
“Um,” Cadence interrupts. “Ash might have mentioned something about that too . . .”
“Time for bed.” Susan jolts to her feet.
“I still have questions.”
“Bed.” She follows up the order by marching into her room and closing the door.
“Somebody’s in trouble,” Cadence singsongs.
Chapter 20: Sparks
Susan is gone before I get up the next morning. Grace refuses to answer questions in her place. I should be panicking about losing my challenge—six days away, now—but I’m distracted by the tingle of unseen eyes on the back of my neck.
If Ravel could haunt—or hunt—me from the forest, I don’t see any reason he couldn’t haunt me from inside these walls. Or worse.
It’s one thing to think about Ravel. I can bring reason to bear on his actions, his motivations, considering each piece
of evidence and laying them down in tidy rows where they can’t hurt me. But the way I feel—I keep pushing it off at arms’ length to keep from going under, the memories of being lost in what he wanted and who he would have made of me sparking a swelling surge of panic that threatens to paralyze me.
So, instead, I practice the forms Steph has been teaching me, building up muscle and balance if nothing else. But I keep flinching, imaginary knots of wood flying at me out of my blind spot. Grace gets fed up and makes me sit on the ground with my eyes closed and my hands clasped. I keep peeking until she adds a blindfold. It only makes me jumpier.
“Focus.” She raps the top of my head, which doesn’t help.
“I can’t. This is a waste of time.”
“You’re a waste of time.” She pats my shoulder to soften the retort. I only flinch on the first pat. “Meditation is the first step to unlocking your abilities.”
“I thought playing with string was the first step? Or forest gathering? Or basic stances . . .”
“Different paths. That was for weavers. Like handing a stick to a dreamwalker. And meditating for dreamspeakers.”
“But I am a dreamwalker. And weaver. And—”
“You were a dreamweaver. And we’re all—well, not me so much, but the rest of you—dreamwalkers. Weapon-based and hand-to-hand fighting are just for the lowest rung of travellers. Um, maybe don’t mention that around Steph, ’kay? The point is, weaving’s rare and kind of a big deal, but you said you’d done it before, and your family was known for unusual talent in working the threads, so we started you there.”
“Then why am I sitting in the dirt?”
“’Cause you suck at everything else,” Cadence says.
“It’s even less common than weaving,” Grace says. “And not nearly so powerful, but there are also dreamspeakers, and the first step in their training is—”
“Sitting in the dirt?”
“—Meditating. Which looks a lot like sitting in the dirt, yes. You must’ve noticed a few speakers at the training hall. Basically, they’ve moved on from the need to fight on the physical plane. Instead, they just tap the dreamscape and work from there. Which is what you need to do, either way.”
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