Chapter 4
Chapter Four
B riony
I roll up onto my hands and knees and scrabble in the darkness for my bag. The mist is even thicker now, suffocatingly so, and along with the pain in my ribs, every breath is a struggle.
It takes five agonizingly long minutes to retrieve my bag, constantly peering over my shoulder – ears straining in the eerie silence – for another attacker. For that shadow weaver to come for me again.
Why did he leave me like that?
He could have beaten me to a pulp. Tortured me with his magic. Forced himself on me.
It’s what the shadow weavers do.
To them, we are nothing but dirt on the soles of their boots.
I snort. A girl from Slate Quarter. We’re even lower than dirt.
Why the hell did he let me go?
I push the thought from my mind.
What does it matter? I’m not safe yet.
Just because one self-entitled bastard chose to let me go, doesn’t mean the next one will. The night is far from over.
With my heart in my throat, I rummage through my bag, checking nothing was lost or damaged in my tumble. Finding everything still there, I sling my rucksack back onto my shoulders, cursing because, after my fall, my ribs sting even more than they did, and then I start walking again. As I do, I listen acutely for any sounds, and glare through the mist for any flicker of movement.
I have no idea where I am anymore, nor which direction I’m heading in. For all I know, I could be strolling straight into the midst of all those shadow weavers, lying in wait for a powerless girl like me.
My feet catch on a small rock in the earth and I crouch down and dig it out with my hands, my already short nails cracking and snapping off as I do. Then I clutch it in my hand as if it is precious. A weapon I can strike with if anyone does attack. It makes me feel a little better, even if it is most probably worthless.
I walk for what feels like an hour. There has never been enough money for anything as luxurious as a watch. Usually I’d look up at the sky and the passing stars and traveling moon would tell me how much time had passed. However, the muggy mist makes it impossible to tell. Finally though, I hit a crop of trees. This could be the edge of the forest that lay before the academy. Then again, it could be somewhere different entirely.
Cautiously, I venture under the branches, walking a little further until I find a tree I can climb. Its first branch hangs right above my head. With my bag still strapped to my back, I jump and grab the branch with both hands, kicking my feet upwards. It takes four attempts and then finally, I pincer the branch between my feet and swing myself up, climbing into the tree’s boughs, as high as I dare go, the limbs of the tree becoming younger and weaker the further up I go. Then I settle into the crook of a branch, and, despite the cold, shrug off my jacket and use it to tie myself to the branch. Once I’m as secure as I’m going to be, I place my bag in my lap and hook my arms through the straps.
As carefully and silently as I can, I zip open my bag and peer inside, checking again that the contents have not been lost or broken. When I find it all safe and sound, I let out a sigh of relief and, zipping the bag closed, lean my head back against the tree.
I can’t sleep. It’s too risky up here in the tree. My precautions are probably not enough. If I drift off, I could drop my bag or fall to my death. Besides, I’m too wired.
I hope I’m safe up here, hidden and away from all the others. But I have no idea if I am.
Time passes and the mist drifts away. The sounds of the night are no longer muffled, they carry through the trees, bouncing off the trunks, amplified and echoing. Screams. So many goddamn screams. As well as sobbing and crying, yells and shouts, whoops of excitement, the crack of wood and the splintering of branches. Below me, I see magic flash through trees, sparking in the distance, shooting up into the sky.
I yank my rock from my pocket and grip it tightly in my fist.
If anyone comes for me, I will kill them. Better them than me.
More time passes. The noise fades. Replaced by the sounds of the forest. Creatures scurrying through the undergrowth, paws padding softly across the ground, the crack of wings.
I jerk awake. A pale light filters through the canopy of leafless branches and the birds that remain to weather the winter, call to each other weakly.
Morning.
My arms remain curled tightly around my bag. My fist is empty.
I peer through the branches below me and listen once again. Nothing, only the birds singing the arrival of the new day.
New day!
I groan and, stretching out my stiff body, hurry back down the tree.
I am going to be so fucking late for the academy. They’ll think I bolted. They’ll have soldiers out searching for me – or my body.
At the lowest branch, I glance down at the drop to the floor, then, taking a steadying breath in, jump. My legs buckle with the force of my landing and I roll across the hard earth, groaning at the pain in my ribs, until I right myself back on my feet.
“Chose a night up in the trees too, huh?”
I spin around. A tall, spindly boy walks towards me. His clothes are creased and grubby and a dead leaf rests in his mop of dark curly hair.
I freeze in indecision.
He isn’t a shadow weaver. I can tell by his clothes. I don’t recognize his face, which means he isn’t from Slate Quarter either. Granite Quarter maybe?
Which means, while he may be smart, he probably isn’t strong.
Should I be running anyway? He could still hurt me if he wanted to. Who says it’s only the shadow weavers who get their kicks out of beating up weaker kids?
Look at Stanley.
However, before I’ve made up my mind, he’s grinning at me and, maybe I’m na?ve or stupid, or both, but it seems genuine. Kind even.
“Although, it looks like it didn’t help you much.” He points to my face.
“Nah,” I say, “this I already had. No one caught me last night.”
He applauds me.
“You know we’re going to be so fucking late.”
“Probably,” I concur, waiting for him to catch up with me.
He chuckles. “No doubt about it, Cupcake. I’m just so glad I won’t be the only one.”
“Do you know where we are?” I ask him.
“I think …” he says, pulling out a compass from his pocket – definitely Granite Quarter. “We’re west of the academy which must mean we’re in the Dankland Forest.” I nod like I know what that means. I guess he sees right through me. “About an hour’s walk from the academy.”
“Shit,” I mumble. “That far!”
Judging by the lightening sky it’s already eight o’clock in the morning.
“Yeah. Afraid so.” He smiles flatly. “Although, I have to say, turning up late and receiving whatever punishment we get given has to be a hell of a lot better than the beating we’d’ve gotten last night if any shadow weavers had caught us.”
I nod, although I can’t help thinking of the shadow weaver who let me go. “No points for us though.”
The boy shrugs. “I think we made the better choice.”
We walk on together, the dead leaves crunching under our feet. The cold air nipping at our faces.
He pulls something else from his pocket. A small parcel wrapped in a handkerchief. He unwraps it carefully, pulling out a lump of baked goods.
“Want some?” he asks, breaking a corner off and offering it to me.
“Is it poisoned?” I ask, side-eyeing him.
He takes a big bite. “Fuck, I hope not. Then again, I’m a massive disappointment to both my parents so maybe they decided to finish me off before I even got to the academy and could disappoint them even more.” He chews. “Tastes okay.”
“Not smart enough?” I say, taking a piece of the spongy concoction this time when he offers it again.
“Huh?” he says, watching me cram the piece into my mouth.
“Not smart enough for Granite Quarter? Is that why you’re a disappointment?”
“No,” he says gravely, “not – who knows the fuck what – for Iron Quarter.”
“Oh,” I say, my cheeks warming. Based on his appearance, I'd assumed he was from Granite Quarter. I don’t like it when people make assumptions about me but I guess I’m guilty of doing just that.
I try not to, but I wolf that small piece of cake down quickly, licking the crumbs from my fingers when I’m done. I haven’t eaten since the evening before yesterday and even my nerves aren’t dampening my hunger.
“Here, have it all.” He hands me the entire piece.
“I can't,” I say.
“Slate Quarter, right?” he says, holding his hands way above his head when I try to pass the food back.
“How did you guess?” I ask just as flatly, taking another bite of the cake. I’m not sure I care if it is poisoned. It tastes so good and has my stomach rumbling in appreciation.
“Oh, you know,” he says casually, “the general look of despair and malnutrition.” He waves his hand in my direction.
I snort laugh, spraying crumbs real classily from my mouth and nose.
“I’m Fly, by the way,” he says. “As in the act of, not the small annoying buzzing insect. Obviously.”
I laugh again. It’s a long time since anyone’s made me laugh, since I found anyone remotely funny. It feels good, even if it hurts my ribs. Those nerves that have me tightening my shoulders and clenching my jaw, relax just a little.
“Briony,” I say through gritted teeth, wincing against the pain.
He frowns. “Are you sure those fuckers didn’t catch you last night?”
“Shush,” I say, swinging my head around in mock horror. “You can’t let anyone hear you call them that. They are our esteemed and respected betters.”
“Still fuckers though,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “But, like I said, this wasn’t them. This was from before.”
“Before?”
“I wouldn’t give my lunch up to one of the fuckers I traveled with from Slate Quarter. Not that I had any lunch to give him.”
“Not got a lot of friends in Slate Quarter then?”
I hesitate, then shake my head. Maybe I’m opening myself up here, showing him my weaknesses – ones he could use against me. Then again, he’ll learn soon enough that I have no friends. It’ll be damn obvious.
“Yeah, same,” he says.
I stare at him, finding it hard to believe. Okay, so he’s not some muscle-man like Stanley or the shadow weaver from last night. He definitely could do with eating more of this cake. But he has a warm face – all smiles and bright eyes plus he’s funny and friendly. How can he not be popular?
As if reading my thoughts, he adds: “Unless you’re able to pump iron or run a sprint in less than a millisecond, nobody’s interested.”
“You can’t do either of those things?”
“Nope. Can you?”
“Never tried.”
I mine the handkerchief for any remaining crumbs, then fold it up neatly and pass it back to Fly.
“You must be pretty good at running if you made it to the trees to hide before any of those …” I pause, “fuckers caught you.”
“I’m not stupid. I knew what was coming. I wasn’t going to hang about and let them catch me.”
“Me neither.” And for a moment we look at each other, understanding passing between us.
“Ahhh,” he says, “looks like we’ve reached the perimeter of the academy.” He points towards a fence woven from the branches of willow trees and blocking the way ahead. “Come on, Briony, we’d better go find out what punishment lies in wait for us.”
We climb over the fence and step out onto mossy moorland. Immediately a murder of crows, feeding on the land, crack their wings and take off into the sky, skimming over our heads and cawing at us angrily.
“Great,” I mutter, ducking my head. “I can’t wait.”