The Lee Side

By Elizabeth R Herr

Ever since a merciless clan of beasts became masters the land and destroyed the last great tribe of humans, the world has not known the luxury of peace. When rumor begins to spread of an item lost by the Last Tribe, something that could mean the survival of humankind, both friend and foe set out after the lost treasure. But when one rough and tumble girl finds herself crossing paths with a boy who knows nothing of the world above him, the two are forced into their own search for the truth that takes them deep into the past. Looking back may be the only way they can discover the dark forces at play and keep tragedy from repeating itself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781493111480

Elizabeth R Herr

ELIZABETH R HERR lives in a house surrounded by trees in the mountains of Mount Vernon, Washington, like a hermit. She decided to become an author in elementary school and has been writing relentlessly since she was twelve, taking notes on whatever is close at hand from homework to plastic coffee lids. Trying to challenge herself, Elizabeth chose to write The Lee Side with an initial time limit of two weeks. She succeeded. As a writing machine, she has plans for many more books to come—namely written on scraps of paper in an overflowing drawer she calls the ‘Labyrinth’.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Elizabeth R Herr.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2013918492

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4931-1147-3

   Softcover   978-1-4931-1146-6

   Ebook   978-1-4931-1148-0

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Rev. date: 10/17/2013

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

DEDICATION

Mom, Dad

For believing in me from the very beginning and being patient with me before I had the words to show you my world.

Kristin

For reading, listening, and being there when I needed you most. You are amazing.

For those who have a dream.

Stick by it no matter what, the only one who knows what you are capable of is you. Give it all you’ve got and see where your passion takes you. Nothing will change if you don’t try.

S critch Scritch.

Dark, like an ink stain in an otherwise bleach-pale world, the great bird perched. Her plumage was black satin, ruffled in the bitter wind that swept in from the arctic continent to the south. Strong scaly feet gripped the dead wood of her roost, sickly grey skin mottled with callouses against the pale, toughened wood. Strange rippling sounds could be heard warbling from her long throat as the pitted and gnarled length of her beak touched first one branch, then another. She was searching for branches to add to her nest, miles away from these valley trees and tucked away high in the saw-toothed mountains. It was a long flight, an even longer trek on foot when the winds were too violent to stay in the sky, but it was worth it. There was no wood in the mountains, and scrub couldn’t compare to the strength of a wooden nest. Protection was everything in a world where every beast was willing to eat its own nestmate. She knew that fear and pain only too well, it was reflected in everything she saw.

The warbling sounds grew louder as the bird came upon a particularly straight and sturdy branch. She could feel the strength in this wood, knew it could serve a much better purpose than bearing leaves and growing knotted and brittle with age. It would be the perfect addition to her new nest and she began to use her razorbeak to separate it from the rest of the tree.

Scritch scritch.

It was late to be building a nest, but the bird had flown a long way and was new to this part of the land. There were dark shadows seeping into the world where she had once lived proudly, strange beasts that reeked of death and left only ruin in their wake. No defense was to be had against them, they existed independent of bodies, festering deep into the mind of the ground-dwellers and possessing them body and soul. This was a darkening time, something her kind had known would arise but had done little to avoid. The world that had once been welcoming now felt dark and empty, these peculiar creatures were ruthless and moved like wildfire, without reason. Once apparent, making her feathers glow and purpose fill her being, she had been strong but all the fight had left her now. She just wanted to fade away in peace, but there was none of that left. A fire would at least burn itself out and leave behind a fresh beginning, but unlike fire these creatures were not deterred by rain and cold. It was this bird’s hope that the excess of both of those in the jagged mountains would at least slow them.

A ripple passed though the bird and her raised feathers quivered. The ebony feathers hissed as they slipped past one another, their silky texture maintained since the beginning and allowing the great bird to hold in the heat of her skin even in such low temperatures. Set low on her striped face, the large eyes swiveled teal and flat. She was sure of it now.

Winter was coming. She had to hurry.

Scritch, scritch.

CHAPTER ONE

I t probably hadn’t been a good idea to leave the tavern in a blizzard. That was Sy’s first regret. Sure—she was going to make a fortune off this job, and she would probably never have to work again, but winter here was nothing but an unforgivable nightmare.

Her second was that she hadn’t eaten all of her dinner the night before. All her money had gone into that meal, every last copper, and it had been so rich that she almost hadn’t been able to stomach it. In the end she had given the rest to a fellow trapper, it had been that or get sick and lose all of it. Though, it hadn’t been without reluctance what the stew had left her hands. Out here, the wind tearing at her exposed skin and all her clothes rigid with ice, she would have given anything to have downed that last gulp of broth. With the failed harvests and prices rising faster than the banks of snow—which was quite a feat—who knew when she’d get another meal.

No, don’t think about that. Sy told herself, using stiff fingers to pull her collar tighter. Think about how rich you’ll be in a couple of days.

Nothing else could have driven Sy away from a warm tavern and a full stomach. There was a fortune to be made, and she was determined to be the one who got it.

A wee girly like yerself? Won’t last a minute out there! The other trappers had laughed. The poster had been up on the wall for some time now, the paper brittle and yellowing.

Sy had pulled herself to full height, but surrounded by the toughened trapper men she had seemed almost dainty. Almost. Oh? Then why haven’t any of you had the gall to go out there?

Haven’t ya looked outside? Only a real fool would head out in that kind of a storm!

Yeah, Sy, leave it for the boys. Might even take a beastclan to take on the job.

Beastclan. The word was bitter on Sy’s tongue and she scowled at the scarred trapper that had dared say it. "You really want them to find it? I’d rather die than let them get a chance."

"Lass, you will be dead if you try, your head’s filled with silly dreams. Just sit back, us men will get to it." There had been a chorus of laughter that followed, loud enough to veil the sound of Sy’s tromping footsteps as she stormed upstairs to her bed.

The next morning the poster was gone. Though they looked as best they could, no one could find Sy either.

CHAPTER TWO

S critch scritch  . . . scritch crack!

The bird looked down at her work appraisingly. Bark and grain had been shaved back where she had carved into the wood. One end was now long and sharp, shiny with resin and the bird gazed on lovingly. It was small enough to carry back now, either in beak or claw if the winds eased a bit.

It didn’t take long for the wind to drop, and the bird knew this favorable condition would not last. She took to the air, the stick clasped protectively in her capable feet and held close to her downy underside. The faster she flew, the less she was going to have to walk, awkward as a bird in is deep snow, towards home.

Trees and frozen rivers flashed by in a blur beneath her broad wings. These were still foreign sights to her and she kept her calculating eyes trained on the mountain peaks to steady her course. When spring finally came, it would be a fine place; but winter was long and only just arriving. She wouldn’t be seeing the blossoms or sweet grass for some time.

With flat eyes squinted against the whipping wind, the bird didn’t see the small figure in the snow, leather clad and barely moving through the drifts. The gust of wind that sent the bird higher in the sky threw off the figure’s hat and long red hair spilled out and waved like a willow’s sinewy leaves at sunset. The bird saw none of this, instead she watched as the clouds churned and heralded stronger winds to come.

She dove, but it was not her day. Others had gotten the same idea about the calm air and without a moment’s notice there were bigger, faster birds about her. The ambush was well planned, but these valley predators were unused to the foreign breed of this great black bird. She was smarter than these wild-minded air-beasts, and out maneuvered them—threatening them with the deadly sharp lance in her grip.

Though desperate, the meaty predators were forced to retreat—unable to follow the more agile prey. Yet even once thwarted by this new breed, they didn’t leave without protest. One of the raptors caught the end of the great bird’s lance and knocked it from her grip before she snapped and took off a toe.

The foul taste was the last thing on the great bird’s mind as her pursuers limped lamely off and the winds began to rise. With an indignant screech she dove after her prize, loathe to letting the branch she had so painstakingly carved get away from her. But the choice was her branch or her neck, and she turned from her dive when the branch tumbled into a rift in the snow. Sweltering steam bellowed from somewhere below, and to that place she had lost her nest resources.

Now with heavy beats of her wings, the great black bird soared off toward her mountain haven. The hollow sounds of the branch’s descent into the earth masked by the howling winds and her own bitter laments.

CHAPTER THREE

T umbling end over end, the branch fell. Snowy walls gave way to ice, then sheer rock. Though the path twisted, it was not dark but glowed faintly amber from the small lichens that clung to the pitted and fractured rock. Whenever the stick grazed a wall it did not get wedged, instead the rock would crumble and fall alongside the ornate branch. Down, down it all plunged until the crack became something more.

Empty space yawned wide beneath the fissure, the air hot and dense with steam. The cavern walls were shiny with condensation as well as many more of the lustrous plants. Some shone with pale amber light, but some more magnificent specimens luminesced pink or teal. Deep beneath the surface, scarred and bruised by winter, the grotto existed safe and warm. A simple branch could not appreciate the haven that had appeared before it; it continued to spin and plummet toward a larger hole in the floor of the cave from which the steam rose. Before it could reach that void, however, it was snatched from the air with a quick and lithe movement.

In the dim glow most of the figure was obscured, though in the light spilling from the same gorge as the steam, what had seized the stick was easily identified as a foot.

That foot belonged to the only inhabitant of the cavern, a boy. Beside where he had been sitting when the debris started falling into his home, was a small pile of plump, gelatinous morsels. Laid below ground, the grubs were easy for the boy to find, he had spent years learning where to find them, and this time of year was best for harvesting them.

With another glance at the strange object that had fallen from topside, the boy gave a use to it and skewered a particularly fat larva. Scrunch. Green liquid oozed from one side and the boy held the stick out over the sweltering banks of steam. From experience he knew not to let his hands near the steam, but his feet were tough and calloused, so he held the skewer in this manner; his toes gripped the branch with the same strength as his hands could have, the blunt end of the branch digging into the tough pad of his heel.

Soon a sweet smell began to whisk away the dank odor of the cavern and the boy’s teeth could be seen shining in the dark—notably cleaner than one would expect of a subterranean grub eater. Though, the insects were not that bad once the taste was acquired. Raw, the exoskeleton was the only thing keeping the whole watery lot together. Once steamed or roasted, as the boy had learned through trial and error, it was a new creature entirely and the flesh was tender and nutty-sweet.

Delighted with the new instrument he had, the boy ate and ate, the process hastened by the ease with which he could prepare food. Only when the pile was gone and his stomach bursting did he set the stick aside and curl up beside the steam vents. Warm, full, and safe, he drifted into sleep.

CHAPTER FOUR

S he didn’t have any food, and all the water in this cursed valley was locked up as ice. When desperate, Sy held snow in her hands and tried to let the warmth of her palms melt it enough for a sip of water. Now her hands were too cold, the snow remained snow, and she kept forging forward. If she was about to die of thirst, surrounded by this much water, it would be the irony that really did her in.

Can’t . . . think . . . about that. She tried to console herself, but even her thoughts were shivering. A ways back now she had lost her hat to a vile squall of winter wind and now her thick cloak was haphazardly pulled up in an attempt to cover her head, but it did little and both her head and torso were frozen. Up ahead there was a tiny spur of rock that the wind and snow had molded into a sort of squat overhang. Each agonizing step took an eternity, her goal only a couple of feet away but the wind was against her.

Within inches of the overhang she collapsed, crawling the last bit to reach shelter. Using the frozen tools that were once her hands, she scooped away snow to reach the solid ground underneath. It was her hope to find dirt, and the unwelcome sight of cold stone made her frown. There shouldn’t have been sheets of rock out in the open like this, it was called grassland for a reason, but there wasn’t anything to be done. There was no way she was going to head out into the wind again.

Her shelter barely deserved the title, but as long as it protected her from the gusts out there, she could pretend that it was slightly warmer. Only now without the fear of her pack being ripped from her shoulders did she let the burden down and bury her hands inside it. Letting her hands melt a bit until she could move her fingers again, she groped around until she came to the softness of a blanket. There were two packed away, and one she set to protect her legs from the icy stone, the other she wrapped around her shoulders and face.

Poking bravely out from the stone she sat on were tiny, and notably woody, plants. Sy ripped them out by the roots and began to make a small pyre. The stems were rough against her skin and the brittle bark flaked away as she twisted and tore at each bundle. With her back to the outside and the wood tucked in towards the back of the crevice she had found, she struck her flint stones together until the sparks took hold of the scrub and began to crackle greedily.

Finally she could melt some snow. With the small pot from her pack, Sy stuffed as much snow as she could into the depression and held it over the flame. The flame guttered and smoked, making Sy fear that it would go out before it was of any use at all, but with another fistful of scraggly plants the fire settled and glowed warm. She watched impatiently as the sparkling ice steamed and shrank, waiting for the water to be warm before she drank. Though it would not curb her hunger for long, the warmth spread through her limbs and occupied the emptiness of her stomach. Once her thirst was satisfied, Sy held her hands above the fire. Joints slowly thawed and she could feel a soreness spreading through each digit. In the process of warming up, Sy even held her hair at a safe distance above the heat to melt the ice from it without burning it right off.

After all that, there wasn’t much else for her to do. A few more shrubs were added to the fire, and the rest were stacked safely to one side for easy access. Yet even with the blankets and fire, Sy was still chilled to the bone. All that was left was to try and shut out the thoughts of the cold. It was because she had nothing else to distract her that she thought of home.

Warm, cozy home. Having been born in the far North, Sy was completely unused to winter like this. All year round the temperature was perfect, neither too hot nor too cold and every harvest was a success. Orchards had dripped with fruit, rivers flowed lazy and laden with fish, she had want of nothing. She remembered her house, small with gaps in the walls that let in the summer breeze and the occasional snowflake. Her bed had been hammock-like, cradling her as she woke to the smell of breakfast in the next room. Eggs, meats, breads for breakfast, pockets filled with gravy and delicious morsels for lunch, stews, roasts, smoked fish for dinner. There had been sweets too, cakes and sweet fruits sometimes sprinkled with sugar. That tiny house had always been choked with the lasting aromas of food, Sy had loved that. Everything was so warm and safe in that place, she had felt protected. Of course, she hadn’t lived there since she was little, maybe it was just her naïve memories that made it feel that way.

Now her memories were clear and unencumbered with childlike visions of perfection. Her town had been burned and leveled. Since she was eleven she had wandered around and now that was how she made her living. Trapping was all humans could do anymore. Do the dangerous work, go south into the unmapped terrains and catch wild creatures the beastclan paid well for.

Sy’s mouth felt dry again. Beastclan, they were the ones who had destroyed her village. Humans had once been the rulers of this world, there had been so many of them… until the beastclan had shown up. Who really knew where they had come from, but the humans had done their best to fight them off. Now it was rare to see another breathing human, let alone one that had enough fight left in them to do more than cower from their oppressors. Sy only knew the faces of a few because of the guild she belonged to, back at the tavern. That was the only place where jobs could be found, posted on a wall, often for the beastclan’s benefit. It was the sole way to make money, so Sy went along with it even though the mere thought of working for those monsters made her sick to her stomach. Every time she took a job for them she felt her loathing grow, but she had to eat and was left with no alternatives. Above all others, the beastclan were the most dangerous animals and dealings with them were always perilous. One could meet with them to report a task fulfilled and end up serving as extra payment with their life. Humans were nothing more than errand-runners and slaves to the wretched beastclan.

But this job was going to be different. Sy reached into her bag and removed the brittle paper she had brought from the tavern. Jobs for the beastclan were marked with a wax seal on the bottom of the page, some strange lettering she didn’t recognize left by the force of heavy metal imprinting scalding crimson wax, but this one lacked that ornament. In its place was a name, Erwin Paltria. Every human, young or old, knew that name. After the final fall where the beastclan had ambushed a group called the Last Tribe including their leader, Iliran Adronar, Erwin Paltria had been the only survivor. He was out there somewhere leading a resistance against the beastclan. The job had the highest rating Sy had ever seen, twenty bolts marked along the top edge in red asterisks, compared to her usual level of work which was a measly eight.

Sy recalled the last time she had increased her workload, by a single bolt, and had nearly lost her life in the process. The ratings of jobs were not to be taken lightly and served as the only warning a person would get, but Sy couldn’t help it. For a chance like this—to search for the very thing that gave humans hope, to work for Erwin Paltria—Sy would rather die trying than let it slide. It wouldn’t have been long before a beastclan trapper had wandered into the tavern and seen it anyway, and that was the very last thing humankind needed.

And so, Sy had taken the job. If she succeeded, it would be all the proof she needed that she could work just as hard as any of those other trappers. They wouldn’t be able to look down on her anymore, just because she was little or rash or a girl. She’d show the beastclan too, she would complete the job and the humans would assume their rightful place: they wouldn’t have to hide anymore. There’d be no more taxes to the beastclan, no more enslavement camps, and those outside the camps wouldn’t have to be in constant fear of being hunted down or stabbed in the back during this twisted system of employment. All of it hinged on whether someone could complete this job, on whether the object of their hope could be found. It depended on whether she could do it.

The downside was that she was probably going to freeze to death in the process.

CHAPTER FIVE

T he glistening cavern, humid and veiled, was much more than it seemed.

Just as with anything in the main chamber, the tunnels leading away from it were drenched in shadow. With the growing of the plants, light was as liquid as the hot springs that were the source of the steam. Many of the tunnels were thin and ragged, for the chamber and all webbing paths leading away from it had been naturally formed and unchanged by their inhabitant.

It was from one of these tunnels that the boy emerged, arms laden with fresh grubs that he deposited into a bowl-like hole in the floor near the main steam vent. It was shallow but the insects had no legs or other means by which to escape it. Though he had just woken and had planned to dedicate the day in the search of a new source of the grubs, luck had favored him and on his first try he had discovered a massive nest of them. The job was as good as done, again with more time to spare than he could use.

Due to the large amount of steam and the pyramid shape of the chamber that only let a little escape at a time, the cavern was hot and on some days sultry. The boy decided he could take the extra time to bathe; as after climbing up and down through the narrow tunnels with the sour smelling, squirmy larva he could sure use a long soak. He gathered clothes from a few natural shelves and headed toward the widest and flattest tunnel, almost hidden behind the wall of steam rising from the central vent.

The path was smooth from use and window like gaps in the rock peered into pools of steaming water. Some were so clear that the deep bottoms could be seen, while others were vibrant green and so opaque that they could have been mistaken for solid stone. The boy knew the temperature of each pool, for every one of them was slightly different. Those closest to the main chamber were the hottest, while the further back you went, the cooler the water became. When even the vents that led topside let in unbearably hot air, the cold pools near the back were the perfect places to lounge and wait out the heat.

This time the boy was headed for his favorite pool. To get the grubs, the tunnels had led upwards and the air had been tinged with a chill he was not familiar with. A warm bath was what he sought, and the water of his favorite pool was languid, and a peaceful deep blue.

He knew he was close by the smell. It was warm without the mugginess of the main cavern and around him wafted the smell of herbs. Whatever minerals were abundant in the blue pool, it was not just the boy that was fond of them. Thousands of plants grew all around this particular spring, adding their own aromas to those of the water itself. Every inch of rock was masked by greenery and the blossoms that bloomed year-round. Fallen petals wafted down and mottled the perfect blue of the water with spots of pigment. Even deep down in the caverns, small insects fluttered in the uneven waves of heat rising from the water, caressing blooms and flashing colorful wings impervious to the moisture. The blue spring was one of the only gardens of its kind in the network of tunnels and chambers.

Old clothes were pitched carelessly in a corner while the boy set the still folded bundle neatly by the edge of the pool, careful not to disturb the countless fluttering inhabitants of the spring. The air above water felt almost chilly against his exposed skin, the circulation caused by the steaming water pulled cooler air from the hall in and goose bumps appeared on the boy’s sweaty skin. Water welled around his calves for a moment as he waded in, his muscles quivered with anticipation at the memory of the calm water. The further into the pool he went the higher the level rose and his body began to relax. At its deepest point the water lapped at his chest and he bent his knees to submerge his head.

When he rose again the dirt and sweat was gone, petals clung to his shoulders and remained caught in his hair. For a moment he paused, looking out across the steaming surface. Ever since his childhood days, rough with play and adventure through the various labyrinth tunnels, this pool had healed him. Often he had come here, feet sore and bloody from running over the sandpaper rocks that were the floor of the cave. He would dive in and feel his tingling feet ease until he was playing around just as eagerly in the tranquil water. He would be chided for making such a mess of the hot-springs. The vibrant play would leave the surrounding floor soaked from his splashing about, but the scolding words could not wipe the smile from his face.

The boy, floating on his back, raised one foot above the surface of the water and let it fall back with a generous splash. Ripples spread and the edge of the water slapped against the walls of the pool, petals rode the waves and flashed with color before sinking down out of sight. Tiny insects fluttered up from the edges of the spring to avoid the splash, but descended once the threat was gone and resumed hovering among the various plants. The boy’s feet were calloused now and did not bleed. There was no one here to chide him.

With a sigh the boy’s eyes closed and he let the warmth wash away his thoughts, absently twisting the gold cuff around his left wrist. The metal, once having hung loose with a tendency to dislodge itself, was now the perfect size and while it did not irritate his skin, it was unable to be removed. When the cuff spun, he sighed—something that happened more than it used to. Perhaps he was just hoping for the day to come when that was not all he could do.

CHAPTER SIX

S y didn’t know what she was going to do.

When she had woken the wind hadn’t reigned itself in at all. In an attempt to dress more warmly, she had wound herself up in one of the blankets before putting her cloak on over top of it all. A portion of the blanket emerged from her collar and covered the top of her head, but it still wasn’t as warm as her hat had been. Now her pack felt small, the extra layer making her cloak fuller and it was harder to keep the bag safely on her back.

Barely an hour after setting out, Sy was frozen through again. Though the blanket had seemed like a good idea it simply made it harder to move and the tail end poking out from under the top layer was soaking up water like a sponge. Aside from it being cold, it also meant she was carrying more weight.

Then, since the world seemed determined to make this the worst time of her life, Sy had been surprised by some snow-burrowing creature that had leapt from its hiding place. She fell back onto the bag and the lid had popped open, spilling all of her equipment in the snow. Most of it she was able to scoop back in, along with generous handfuls of snow, but her most important treasure had sunk down deep and out of reach. No matter how hard she tried to unearth it the fresh snow falling around her covered every trace. Nothing could have been worse than this, lost in an unrelenting blizzard without flint stones to build a fire. She might as well lie down in the ice and give up.

But she was stubborn and her desperation turned to anger that served to warm her briefly. If she kept moving, that would keep her warmer than kneeling there in the snow. Even when the storm had taken her hat and her flint, Sy was as fired up as ever—failing wasn’t something she was ever going to let herself succumb to again. She just had to keep going and hope that in the whiteout, she was heading in the right direction.

Snow and ice clung to her clothes, every time she raised her legs and pushed through fresh walls of snow her thighs burned with the effort. Her lungs were on fire and her gasping breaths billowed before her icy lips.

As long as she kept moving, she would be okay.

Maybe.

CHAPTER SEVEN

W ithout anything to judge time by, the boy slept and woke at strange periods of the day. Mostly he slept to pass the time, he was rarely tired from the access of it and when he was awake he foraged or expanded his knowledge of the endless tunnels around him. Though he lacked the names, he knew more about the rocks and plants that surrounded him than anyone else could have and would be able to identify them from great distances by means other than just sight. While he was alone and humble, he would not have bragged even if there had been someone there to listen. Sometimes he acted as though talking to himself, mouth opening silently as if mimicking a conversation in his head, but he could go months without even thinking about sounds other than those made by his surroundings. Even on the occasions where things frightened him—a rarity for an expert of the caves—there was a stunning lack of sound to hint at his surprise, for it would be the sound itself that made him jumpy.

Noises filled the cavern, but they were those ever present friends that the boy was used to: steam hissing, trapped grubs squirming, the earth groaning, occasionally a rock tumbling. These were the voices he constantly listened to, like a hushed conversation with the earth itself. The boy was merely eavesdropping, but he had learned to pay close attention and knew what many of the whispers meant.

That was how he knew something was coming. He was only just returning from an expedition of the lower tunnels when as he reached the main cavern there was a sharp clack and a shiver ran through the rock. The boy set aside the trinkets in his arms, strange objects he had discovered in the forgotten tunnels, and he eased himself against the closest wall. His palms were pressed against the stone, reading the movements as a shark feels the movements of the water around it. He did not need his eyes, he just had to trust what he felt.

There it was again, sharp impacts followed by an unearthly stillness. It was no natural process that was causing the rock to tremble. Like the stick, which he had taken to carrying with him most of the time, something was coming from topside. Bigger, faster, potentially more dangerous, he noted these things before the first of the debris had fallen into view from the vent in the ceiling.

From a strap on his back, the boy pulled the stick free and gripped it, point facing upwards toward the vent high above. He stood defensively for only moments before something made him loosen his hold. With care he set the stick against the wall and stepped closer to the fissure in the floor. Instead of skewering whatever was coming, he would catch it. Maybe it was delicate and he did not want to break whatever it was. Unless it was dangerous, then he would simply throw it into the fissure. It had worked in the past.

This time the jarring could be felt in the whole chamber and a torrent of rock and ice plummeted straight down into the fissure, barely missing the boy. His attention was not on the debris, something was falling that was not rock. The way the object hit the sides of the vent, the tremors and the whispery sounds told the boy as much, and he prepared himself. Like launching from a spring, the boy leapt across the void. In the dim light, he could not see through the veil of pebbles and ice but had managed to time his jump just right so the object fell right where he wanted it. The strange object was soft and he clasped it to his chest as he twisted in the air, landing so hard on the other side of the fissure that he lost his footing and tumbled back—unnervingly close to the edge.

His eyes remained closed for a moment as he grimaced, he had bit his lip as his landing had failed—his back taking the weight rather than his legs. It was heavier than he thought it would be, and a strange shape for that matter. Against his back the stone dug into his ribs and he knew it had ripped through the back of his shirt. The shock of unexpected pain made him stay still, that is, until the thing in his arms started moving. Softly, then with a bit more force that he was no longer able to deny, the object was prodding him, moving over his skin with what felt like feelers of ice.

Alarmed, the boy shot upright and peered down at the thing he had caught. It moved again, and this time the boy was irritated that his eyes were not better. He had to be seeing falsely because what he thought was before him—cradled in his arms with more weight and more presence than he could create simply from imagination—could not possibly be correct.

He sighed.

CHAPTER EIGHT

K eep walking. Keep, walking. Keep. Walking. Keep  . . .

She couldn’t. Sy’s movements slowed and finally stopped. Her breathing was harsh and her lungs felt raw. The cold