Chapter 29
29
T WO DAYS AFTER abandoning the winter barn, Nyx stood at the edge of her world. She stared off into the steam of the swamps and listened to its croaking, buzzing, and twittering birdsong. She inhaled its mossy, musky brume. She tasted its dark brine on her tongue. It was all she had known her entire life. She hugged her arms around her chest, trying to hold in the strength necessary to leave it.
She turned and craned up at the sheer white bluffs, which disappeared into gray mists far overhead. The cliffs of Landfall marked the eastern edge of the swamps. Directly behind her, a chasm cleaved the wall, carved through by a river that drained out of the highlands of Cloudreach. It descended in a rumble of silvery cascades and a roar of blue falls to finally flow leadenly, as if in defeat, in to the salty murk of the Myr.
Frell and Prince Kanthe gathered at the silty wash to the left of the river, whispering about how best to ascend the Path of the Fallen. Jace waited a few steps back from her, allowing her a private moment to say good-bye.
But it wasn’t just these drowned lands that Nyx would have to forsake.
She crossed the sandy beach and through stiff reeds to reach Gramblebuck. The old bullock stood fetlock-deep in the dark waters. He ripped out a sodden length of pickleweed, shook away the worst of the salty water, and slowly chewed and ground the leaves. He noted her approach with a heavy chuff and waded over to meet her. She had freed him from the sledge earlier and left him to graze at will.
As he reached her, he lowered his huge head, and she lifted her arms to take him in. She hugged her cheek to his forehead, feeling the rumble inside him as much as hearing it. More than anything, he was her home. It was Gramblebuck who had first heard her bawling in the swamp, who had dragged her dah over to the raft of fenweed where she lay. He was the one who had so often comforted her, who had suffered her complaints as they traveled the swamps together. He had been a constant in her life.
And now I must leave you.
She tipped on her toes, high enough to whisper in his ear, “I love you so much. But it’s time for you to go home.” She knew Gramblebuck could trek back on his own to the paddocks. “Find Bastan,” she urged. “Or Ablen.”
Even saying her brothers’ names pained her, threatened to set her shoulders to shaking, to once again wrack sobs out of her. Over the past two days, grief had struck her at unexpected moments. Even when she thought herself wrung and emptied, she would see the bloom of her dah’s favorite sea lavender or hear a loon’s forlorn call, and tears would flood through her, near to drowning her.
She hugged tighter to Gramblebuck. One hand ran down his thick neck, reaching the thick ring of callus where the sledge’s yoke had scarred him. She rubbed there, as if trying to erase that mark.
“Or don’t go back to the paddocks,” she offered to him. “Be free. Find your own heart’s path. You’ve earned it.”
She leaned back and stared into the milky age of his eyes. He nudged her as if to say, My heart is here. She silently answered with, And mine is in yours.
She pressed her forehead to his one last time and made him a solemn promise. “No matter where you go, I will find you again. This I swear.”
Off in the distance, horns resounded across the swamp, echoing off the high cliffs behind her, persistent in their reminder that she could no longer stay.
Gramblebuck bent his neck to the strident blaring. It was also accompanied by the hunting howls of thylassaurs, likely brought over from Fiskur to aid the king’s legion in tracking their group. Those blood-scenters could not be shaken from their trail, but at least the waters kept the curs from running their group down. Thankfully, those beasts—native to the deserts of Guld’guhl—were not good swimmers.
Still, that advantage would soon end.
She glanced back to the chasm, cut with ancient mossy steps that climbed alongside the river. They needed to put as much distance as possible from those others. Even now, she could pick out faint shouts carrying over the flat waters.
Jace called to her, “We can’t wait any longer.”
She understood. Gramblebuck seemed to, too. He had his rump to her now, huffing at the howls. He turned his ponderous head at her.
She waved to him. “Go now, off with you.”
He still simply stared, looking ready to defend this beach, even if it meant being mauled by a pack of thylassaurs or peppered with arrows and spears. She knew he would do it if she asked it of him.
“Go,” she said more emphatically.
Her command was reinforced by a sweep of wings through the air, accompanied by a high-pitched cry directed at the beast. Nyx’s little brother harried the huge bullock, until Gramblebuck finally harrumphed, turned his head, and lumbered toward the dark bower of the swamp.
Nyx waited until the bullock vanished. Once he was gone, she felt as if an anchor had been cut loose. She could finally turn and cross back to Jace. She gathered her friend in her wake and headed over to Frell and Kanthe.
Jace dubiously eyed the endless climb of steps as they joined the two. “How long will it take us to reach the wild forests at the top?”
“All the day,” Frell said. “At the very least.”
“If we keep a good pace,” Kanthe added, raising a brow toward Jace’s girth.
Nyx scowled at the prince. Jace placed a protective hand on his belly, looking wounded, but Nyx gave her friend a reassuring touch on his elbow.
Kanthe shrugged and turned haughtily away.
She studied his back, trying to fathom if this prince could truly be her half-brother. She didn’t want to believe it for many reasons. Frell noted her attention, his expression both apologetic and maybe guilty for shattering her past. After so many years, she had come to an uneasy peace, embittered though it may be, with the faceless father and mother who had left her in the swamps, abandoning her until a new mother, one with wings, rescued her.
Over the past two days, she had struggled to fit this new history into what she knew about herself. Alchymist Frell had explained his belief—one shared by Prioress Ghyle—that Nyx’s history of abandonment in the swamp might tie to a story that ended in these same swamps, the tale of the Forsworn Knight, a cautionary fable of broken oaths and forbidden love.
Whether true or not, she suspected the alchymist had kept certain details from her. She caught Frell and the prince sometimes whispering to each other, sneaking glances at her, while she pretended to drowse in the back of the sledge. She overheard something about prophecies spoken by a dark Shrive, something tied to this same tale.
And maybe to me.
She followed the others toward their meager supplies at the base of the steps. Jace had already filled their waterskins from the freshwater flow of the river. The prince had managed to shoot a summer-fat duck and three marsh hares. She had showed him how to salt-pack his game by soaking gunny sacks full of meat in the swamp’s brine and sun-drying them. By repeating this a few times, the hunter could ensure the salt coated and penetrated everything.
They gathered their packs and skins and readied for the climb. From the corner of her eye, she studied the prince, searching for any features she might have in common with him. She certainly lacked his ebonwood complexion and gray eyes. While both had dark hair, his was far blacker. Their noses were both thin, similarly tipped at the ends. But the same could be said of many.
She gave a shake of her head and turned her attention away.
Her tiny brother winged low over her head and flew up into the chasm, as if urging them to follow. But the bat’s true intent was plain as it rolled and dived, catching the last of the swamp’s buzzing hordes, which the river’s flowing mists held at bay.
Finally, another blare of horns pushed them all toward the chasm.
Frell led the way, climbing onto the first mossy step. “Take care,” he warned. “Any slip means death.”
“Maybe that’s why they call it the Path of the Fallen,” Kanthe said sourly, following behind the alchymist.
Jace waved her ahead, then continued behind her. “According to Plebian’s Annals of Lost Ages, ” he said sternly, “the pass was named long before our histories were written. Possibly by those who carved these very steps. No one really knows where the name came from. But what has been carried forward out of the mists of time is how dangerous and treacherous this path can be. Some believe it’s cursed. Others that it’s haunted or daemon-riven.”
“It certainly looks like no one has trodden here in centuries,” Kanthe admitted. “I see no crush to any of these moss flowers.”
As they climbed, Nyx noted the tiny white blooms in the emerald, shiny and pearled with mist droplets. She caught a hint of minty oils rising with their treadfalls.
“I doubt the tales of spookens and curses are what kept people away,” Frell said. “The other two passes to Cloudreach—near Azantiia and up in the northern Brauelands—are far more accessible and better groomed for travel. You’d have to trek half the swamp to reach this pass, one overgrown and crumbling with age. It’s why I chose this nearly forgotten route to get us to Havensfayre.”
Reminded of their goal, Nyx raised a question that nagged. “Do you truly think the knight, Graylin sy Moor, will meet us there?”
A man who may be my father…
“We must hope,” the alchymist answered. “We need a strong ally—one we trust absolutely—to get you out of Hálendii and somewhere safe. And if Graylin doesn’t show up, the misty forests of Cloudreach will offer some refuge all on its own.”
Nyx knew little of those highland woods. They were wild and untamed, one of the rare stands of untouched ancient forests. Few made their home there, only a handful of pale-skinned nomadic tribesmen, said to be as wild and untamed as their woods. Even Havensfayre was less a town than a part of the forest that had been carved into a trading post.
As they continued up the chasm, the way became steeper, sometimes requiring them to crawl on all fours to keep their perch. Exertion and concentration soon silenced them, while the roar of the falls, trapped between the high chasm walls, grew deafening. Still, it was not loud enough to block out the occasional blare of hunting horns behind them.
Frell stopped ahead on the stairs.
Though anxious to keep going, Nyx gasped in relief, needing a break. A glance back showed Jace panting, his red face streaming with sweat and spray. His clothes were plastered to his body as if he had fallen into the river.
Kanthe swore ahead of them, drawing her attention forward.
Frell shifted, revealing his halt was not a mercy but a warning. Past the alchymist, a section of the steps had broken away long ago and tumbled into the churning cascade. Only mossy stubs were left sticking out of the wall. Frell glanced back to them with a forlorn expression.
“I can make it,” Kanthe said, and tried to shift past Frell on the stair.
The alchymist blocked him with an arm. “It’s too dangerous.”
Kanthe waved back at a faint blast of horns. “Is it any less perilous than the Vyrllian assassins on our trail?” He pushed Frell’s arm down and brushed past him. “I’ll cross and rig a line.”
The prince dropped his pack and fished out a coil of rope stripped from the sledge’s rigging. He tossed an end to Frell, then crossed to the collapsed section of stairs. He paused at the brink. He rubbed a chin, clearly conspiring how best to traverse the span, likely anticipating his every move.
H OW CAN I get out of this? What was I thinking?
Faced with the task ahead, Kanthe realized the absurdity of his boast a breath ago. His heart pushed into his throat and pounded there, as if scolding him for his foolishness. Not only had most of the width of the narrow stairs broken away, but in the middle, two steps were completely gone. It looked like the gap-toothed leer of a villain mocking him for his false bravado.
“We can find another way,” Frell whispered to him.
Kanthe firmed his grip on the rope. He felt all their eyes upon him, especially the girl who might be his sister. His face heated up. In the past, shame could never touch this Prince in the Cupboard. He had heaved his stomach empty in taverns or woken in beds fouled by his own piss and filth. Back then, he had simply wiped his mouth or arse and carried on, caring little what others thought. But over the course of this trek, somewhere along the way, something new had taken root inside him. Maybe it was being free of his brother’s shadow, or away from the king’s ridicule, or maybe it was simply the nobility of the others that had stirred what was inside him all along.
No matter, he refused to back away from the challenge. Whether it was newfound pride or some anger at his father for trying to murder him, Kanthe took a step to the edge. He turned his back to the wall, reached a boot to the first broken step, and tested his weight on the short stub of rock. Satisfied, he moved to the next, then another. Slowly he scooted his way until he reached the gap of missing steps. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, knowing he would need to leap that open stretch to reach to the far stub.
I can do this.
He opened his eyes and glanced back to the others. They stared at him, unblinking, likely all holding their breath. The girl’s blue eyes shone with a confidence he did not feel. She gave him the barest nod.
He sapped what courage he could from her and turned away with a swallow. He lifted a leg, bent the other, and hopped sideways across the gap toward the next stub. He landed one-footed, expecting it to give way, but it miraculously held—which could not be said of his balance.
He teetered away from the wall.
This is how I die…
Then a dark shape dove out of the mists and slammed into his chest. The bat bounced off of him and battered back with a frantic flap of wings. Whether it was the impact or simply his own startled terror, Kanthe tilted back to the wall and firmed his poise, bringing his other foot down.
He panted for three breaths on the lone stub, before hurriedly scaling the last of the broken steps to reach an intact landing. He dropped to his knees there and began shaking all over.
So much for a brave front.
Still, no one mocked him. Finally, he rolled to his rear, searched around, and found a small stunted tree rooted in cracks in the wall. He tested its hold, then wrapped his rope’s end around the gnarled trunk. Frell took out the slack and did the same, but around a spar of rock jutting overhead.
With a hand bridge in place, Nyx scurried across next, so surefooted it didn’t look like she even needed to run her hands along the rope. Kanthe caught her on the other side and drew her into a hug. She stiffened but didn’t fight him.
“Thank you,” he said.
She frowned, misunderstanding. “I wasn’t the one guiding the bat, if that’s what you think. He did that on his own.”
He rubbed his chest, doubting if that was entirely true. Over the past two nights, he had noted how the creature, surely lice ridden and fraught with diseases, had nestled with the girl as she slept. He had heard it gently cooing and squeaking, which she seemed to imitate in her sleep, as if the two were knitting further together, binding one to the other. So, though she might not have willed the bat to his aid, maybe it was driven by her desire anyway.
Still, that was not the reason he thanked her. He remembered her small nod to him, the confidence shining in her eyes.
For me.
It was something he couldn’t remember ever seeing in another’s eye, certainly not directed at him. That look, more than anything, got him across that damnable gap.
She brushed past him and waved to her friend, the journeyman from school.
“You can do it, Jace! I know you can!”
There was that confidence again in another. He felt a stab of irritation. Maybe she throws it around to everyone. His face reddened, knowing his thought had been uncharitable and mean.
To make up for it, he called over to Jace. “It’s not that difficult. Even my sister did it easily enough.”
Nyx scowled at him, clearly assuming he was mocking both her and her friend.
Kanthe started to explain, then gave up.
It’s got to be my tone. I have to work on that.
Still, the trepidation in Jace’s face firmed to determination. Sometimes anger was better than courage. The journeyman grabbed hold of the rope and accepted the challenge. He was not as deft as Nyx, needing the rope to keep his balance, especially over the gap, but he managed to reach them.
Nyx hugged her friend.
Again, Kanthe felt that flicker of irritation.
Sard them both.
Frell soon joined their group and clapped Kanthe on the back. “Well done.”
He accepted the praise sullenly. Frell shifted to the front and started off again. Kanthe lagged behind to shake the rope and loosen the loops around the spar of rock. He gathered the freed rope and continued after the others.
The bat sped through the mists alongside him for a breath.
He glowered at it. “If you’re waiting for thank you, too, you can feck off.”
As they climbed, the mists thickened, making the steps even more treacherous. It wasn’t just due to the dampness alone. The mix of fog and spray watered a riotous garden. Thorny vines draped from walls or snaked underfoot. Flowering shrubs sprouted everywhere, both on steps and walls. The stunted trees of the lower chasm grew into giants here, with their roots kneeing everywhere, as if trying to push them off of the steps.
Their trespass disturbed scores of rooks nesting in burrows in the walls and a handful of hawks perched in the branches above. Furry weasels and other vermin scurried from their path. A few snakes hissed and spat. He even spotted a dwarf deer bound away, leap to a rock in the river, and vanish into a copse on the far side.
It appeared the forests grew even thicker as the stairs vanished into the mists ahead. Somewhere up there a leonine yowl warned them away. Kanthe pictured the distant forests of Cloudreach spilling down into the chasm as fiercely as the river roaring next to the stairs.
They finally reached a wide landing next to a waterfall. Frell lifted an arm and called for a stop. They all needed a rest before tackling the remainder of the forest-choked chasm. No one complained.
Jace looked like a drowned dog. He stood with his back to the climb, as if unable to face it. But that was not the reason. He pointed back the way they’d come. “Nyx, look.”
They all turned.
Through the mists, the chasm walls framed the last glimpse of the swamps of Myr. Nyx’s expression turned desolate, and Kanthe wanted to shove Jace into the river for reminding the girl of all she was leaving behind, especially who she was leaving behind. He didn’t know if he shared any of Nyx’s blood, but he knew two men—Bastan and Ablen—who did not, yet they remained her truest brothers.
Them and one other.
The bat, as if sensing Nyx’s distress, swept a circle over her head. Or maybe the creature was equally distraught. The view to the swamps centered on the dark mountain rising from the emerald expanse. The Fist wore a crown of steam and vents along its flanks shone crimson with the fires of Hadyss.
Even from this height, Kanthe could discern darker shadows plying the hot updrafts around its summit. Closer at hand, the tiny bat keened sharply, raising the hairs on his neck, as if calling to its brethren.
Frell shaded his eyes and stared up at the winged beast. “Apparently, Nyx, your friend intends to stay with us rather than returning to his flock.”
She didn’t respond, still gazing outward.
Kanthe tried to distract her from her misery. “If it’s going to stick with us, maybe we should give it a name. Just so I can curse it properly.”
Jace nodded, looking at Nyx with concern. “What do you think we should name it?”
She continued to ignore them.
Kanthe remembered the bat snapping at him when he had once tried to touch it. “As churlish as the bastard is, the name should be something that warns of its savage nature. Maybe arse-wing. ”
Jace glared at him. “He’s not just a beast. There is a grace to him, too. Something you clearly can’t appreciate.”
Kanthe rolled his eyes. “Let’s see you try to pet it.”
Still, he remembered Anskar expressing a similar sentiment about the beasts in general. There be a noble savagery to their nature. The reminder of the Vyrllian captain only soured him further. He tired quickly of this game already.
Frell did not. “I think you’re both right. Savagery and grace are distinct sides to his character and comportment. Maybe a name tied to the Elder tongue, as their kind have been around long before our histories were written. In that dead language, bash means savage.”
Jace brightened. “And if I recall, grace is aliia. ”
“That’s right.” Frell smiled. “I think it’s a fitting name.”
Jace tested it aloud. “Bash Aliia.”
Nyx flinched away from her friend, her face horrified. “No…”