Chapter 6
ATLAS CLIMBS BACK ON TO THE horse, then reaches down to me.
I take his hand, my limbs moving of their own accord despite the blind ricocheting of my mind between two images.
Atlas, blood seeping through his blue Bletchley uniform.
Atlas, galloping towards me, the sun like gold on his skin.
Suddenly I’m on a horse, its body hot beneath me as it snorts in panic.
My hand curls around its wiry mane. Atlas’s arms encircle me as he takes the reins.
Thick smoke clouds the sky. I can’t see Marquis or Chumana, but when the horse barrels through the smog and up the cliffside, a voice screams from behind us.
‘Fuck!’
I turn to look over Atlas’s shoulder. Ralph is staring up at me from the beach, pointing his gun.
Our horse gallops up the path, foaming at the mouth as bullets whir past. I lower my head, pressing my face into its neck, and inhale its musky smell.
It’s the only thing tethering me to this moment, reminding me that I’m not in some sort of hallucination.
Dragonfire streaks past us and the horse rears, sending rocks skittering down on to the beach below.
I hear Atlas’s voice soothing it, calling it by its name.
I look up as we reach the top of the hill.
Below, flames are eating their way through the tents again.
A Bolgorith lies across the sand in a gush of blood.
Then we’re streaking down the hill, the wind stealing my breath, and I see another horse galloping across the fields ahead, a tall, lanky figure on its back.
Since when does my cousin ride?
I close my eyes, clinging to the horse until finally we slow. It whinnies as we come to a stop outside a low flint wall. Behind it is a field of wheat, dotted with huts and backed by a huge forest.
‘About bloody time,’ says a voice.
The sound has me slipping from my horse and then I see him, holding the reins of a black mare and looking at me with a sheepish grin.
‘Marquis,’ I gasp.
We reach for each other and I hug him fiercely, my fingers grasping the back of his jacket.
His hair is longer and he’s wearing an army uniform and combat boots.
When we come apart I see a black armband on his bicep, decorated with the outline of a swallow.
I linger on it, not daring to turn around.
I hear the soft whip of reins, the clink of the bit in a horse’s mouth and then a thump as feet hit the ground. But still I can’t look at him.
‘He’s dead,’ I whisper to Marquis. ‘I saw him die.’
Marquis rests his hands on my shoulders.
‘He’s not,’ he says gently. ‘We only thought he was.’
The oyster-catchers continue their squeaking amid the rush of the wind in the trees.
Buttercups sprout up around my boots and I stare at them as I concentrate on breathing in and out.
I turn to face Atlas. He has one hand on the reins and the other is stroking his horse’s nose.
His face is smeared with soot and his hair drenched in sweat.
This is the first time I’ve seen him without his seminarian’s collar – he’s wearing the same clothes and armband as Marquis.
And his eyes are searching mine, imploring me to .
. . what? What do you do when the person you love dies and comes back to life?
He lets go of the horse and takes a step towards me. His hands are open, palms upturned, as if in prayer. I drink him in: the ruddy glow of his cheeks, the stubble on his chin, the bright hope in his eyes.
‘After I was shot—’
‘Get out of here!’
A voice interrupts Atlas and I turn to see a boy charging through the wheat field towards us. He’s tall and slim and shirtless, with wild brown hair and a long, freckled nose. He stares at me with a sour expression. ‘She can’t be here,’ he says. ‘I told you, Wyvernmire will come looking for her.’
‘All right, keep your hair on,’ Marquis says. ‘We weren’t going to bring her back to camp.’
‘You’re already too close,’ the boy says.
Several small children appear behind him, watching us from a distance.
‘Jasper,’ Atlas says, ‘surely you can let her rest for a while?’ He looks back over his shoulder. ‘There will be dragons out searching for her, so let her hide here until nightfall. Then we’ll go. You have my word.’
Jasper shakes his head. ‘Sorry. Too dangerous.’
I jump as a hand slips into mine. ‘Are you Viv?’
The girl is about ten years old, wearing a pair of trousers and a shirt several sizes too big for her. She grins at me and Marquis sighs.
‘Yes, Philippa, that’s Viv.’
‘Jasper said Marquis and Atlas could go down to the Guardian camp to get you, and now you’re here and they said you’re a rebel from London and they said –’ she gasps for breath – ‘that you can talk to dragons.’
My heart races. Why did Marquis and Atlas need permission? Why are they living with Canna kids? What are they doing on the island in the first place? I nod at the girl, unsure how to reply. The warmth of her small hand in mine reminds me of Ursa. She turns to Jasper and sticks out her chin.
‘Let her stay,’ she says. ‘I want to hear about the dragons.’
Over the top of Philippa’s head, Atlas and Jasper are glaring at each other. Then Atlas points to Philippa.
‘I saved yours,’ he tells Jasper quietly. ‘Now you save mine.’
Mine.
I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I see the hardness in Jasper’s eyes soften.
‘Fine,’ he mutters, casting a look at the sky. ‘But quickly.’
Philippa flashes me a grin that reveals several missing milk teeth.
Marquis leans towards me. ‘Go across the fields and into the forest with Philippa.’ Then he nods at Atlas and Jasper. ‘We’ll straighten things out here.’
‘You’re joking,’ I say. ‘I don’t even know—’
‘We’ll explain everything, cousin,’ Marquis says. ‘But for now, you have to stay out of sight.’
My gaze flits to Atlas again. He’s watching me.
I feel my breath quicken. I remember the last time I saw him, how his chest rose and fell and didn’t rise again.
He wasn’t breathing. I was so sure of it.
He offers me a small smile but I can’t bring myself to return it.
I spent three months in that sugar house, crying myself to sleep.
‘Come on, Viv,’ Philippa says as if she’s known me her whole life.
I let her lead me across the field towards the huts.
They’re made of driftwood and sheets of iron nailed together, any gaps stuffed with what looks like grass and sheep’s wool.
Philippa slips between them, across paths pre-trodden in the wheat, and it’s like walking through a village.
Children stare out at us when we pass. They’re all at work: repairing the huts, grinding the contents of huge clay mortars, gutting fish.
A boy sits on a stool outside one of them, plucking a bird.
No one I’ve seen so far can be older than sixteen.
Philippa skips ahead, then comes to a stop in front of a long line of trees.
She smiles and takes my hand again. The air is cool and damp as we climb up a dirt bank.
She doesn’t speak, her long hair swaying across her back, until we reach the top.
‘You made it,’ she squeaks, gesturing down the other side. ‘Camp Jasper.’
The other side of the bank slopes down into a valley, a natural crater in the earth surrounded by trees.
They tower over us, their shadows enveloping everything in a green hue.
I see more children, sun-kissed and long-limbed, running up and down the slope, stacking wood, stirring hot liquid in big pots.
An older girl shouts at a group of younger ones and they scatter, shrieking like gulls.
They’re either wearing clothes that are too big for them or no clothes at all and I notice small, felt pouches hanging around their necks.
Philippa has one too, tucked beneath her shirt.
‘This way,’ Philippa says, sliding down into the valley. ‘I’ll take you to your friends.’
‘Friends?’ I reply.
Philippa streaks ahead and I try to keep up, slipping awkwardly down the slope. I feel myself blushing as children stop their games to stare at me open-mouthed, like I’m some sort of exhibit in a zoo.
‘Another new one?’ a girl says.
‘No,’ a boy replies loudly. ‘She’s too old.’
Philippa circles back to me and tugs impatiently on my hand. ‘Your friends,’ she says again.
On the other side of the valley is a group of teenagers. Most have tools and knives made of flint strapped to their bodies, except for two, who are carrying guns and wearing black armbands. They look ridiculously out of place and when they stop their conversation to stare at me, I realise why.
‘Serena?’ I say incredulously. ‘Gideon?’
Serena gives me a cool look. ‘The rescue attempt was a success, then.’
Her hair is braided tightly to her head and the apples of her cheeks are flushed and weatherworn. She’s wearing the same uniform as the boys and a handkerchief, embroidered with dragons, around her neck.
Gideon stands beside her, looking at me reproachfully.
A few months ago, he was so afraid of me cracking the dragon code before he did that he tried to kill me.
I discovered afterwards that losing to me would mean he would be sent back to Canna, where he was originally recruited.
He was desperate never to set foot on this island again, and yet here he is. Why?
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask. ‘And how did you know I was on the beach?’
‘Chumana turned up here looking for you,’ Gideon says, glancing nervously at the sky. ‘Said you’d been arrested.’
‘We thought she was bringing you to Canna when we saw her,’ Serena says. ‘We’ve been waiting long enough. When we realised you weren’t with her, Marquis and Atlas panicked.’
‘What do you mean, you’ve been waiting?’
Serena and Gideon glance at each other.
‘You weren’t the only one given a mission,’ Serena says. ‘Once we completed our training we were sent here to look for a group of wyverns. Apparently, they’re important.’