Chapter 62
T he wind howls, nipping the tip of my nose numb.
Eight aurora cycles in and out of the air, sleeping beneath Zekhi’s wing or nudged next to sunburnt boulders—doing what we could to avoid civilization. It was pleasant until the sun lost its strength and The Fade swallowed us whole with its snow and endless buffeting wind.
I’m homesick already.
I’m sure Zekhi feels the same, nudged in an unfamiliar hutch he blew into a molten dribble before he tucked himself inside. Trying to keep warm until I return.
Another pushy gust, and the massive colk pulling Noeve’s cart trembles all the way to his thick fluffy hind, though he keeps his plodding pace along the frail Path of Daes, snorting milky plumes of air that tangle with his curly horns.
I lean my head over the side, looking down the sheer drop to our left, finding the below still hidden by a swirl of mist that creates a false sense of security.
Very false.
I’ve traveled this part of the wall on mistless cycles. We’re so high the plummet looks endless. Like falling into a pale, moonless sky.
Another howl of wind crams a flurry of snow into my hood, and the entire cart jolts right toward the equally brutal fall on the other side of the Path. My heart jolts with it, my hand whipping out to white-knuckle the side of the cart. Not sure why, we’re all fucked if this thing goes off. The cart, too.
I clear my throat, busying myself by brushing away some of the snow that’s gathered in my lap. “That was a bad one.”
Beside me, Noeve chuckles—the maniacal sound of an old crone who’s done this so many times she clearly believes she’s invincible. I sure hope so.
I intend to die doing something brilliant and heroic. Not free-falling to my doom.
“You’re out of practice,” Noeve says, her voice a husky rasp from all the smoke she’s inhaled over the phases. “A blow like that never used to ruffle your feathers.”
I look sidelong at the fae—a short, stumpy female who must be over a thousand phases old to have earned the dollop of gray hair she keeps coiled atop her head. Not that I’ve ever inquired about her age.
Seems rude.
“How are you not cold?” I ask, eyeing her simple gray tunic and pants, only embellished with a fluffy patchwork belt that knots around her waist and dangles to the floor, made from the hides of her favorite beasts from times past.
Or so she told me once.
She quirks a quizzical brow my way, the reins draped within the loose grasp of her bare hands.
“I’ve never seen you in a cloak,” I continue. “No matter the weather. How you haven’t frozen to death yet is well beyond me.”
She clicks her tongue. “Have to be tough to live east of the Path of Daes, my dear. Especially in times like these. You know as well as I do that it’s a hotspot for renegades and folk a few eggs short of a clutch. The cold is a cushion compared to some of the shit I’ve seen.”
I don’t doubt it, and I don’t particularly like going there myself. But flying into Gore’s hutch would publicly announce my arrival to my not-so-darling brother. Making use of one of the old, abandoned hutches in the east has always been my safest bet since I’d rather risk falling off this very sheer cliff than tempt a run-in with Cadok.
At least until I finally get the chance to meet him in a battle ring and cut off his head.
There’s a jingling sound from somewhere ahead, tolling through the din. Noeve pulls her own handheld bell from a compartment by her feet, rattling it, informing whoever’s waiting to move onto the frail Path that it’s currently occupied. That they need to wait until we pass before they move onto it themselves.
I tuck deeper into my fur-lined cloak. “Here I was thinking the Path would be quiet at this time.”
“Often times, others have the same thought,” Noeve says. “You can clamber into the back if you’re worried about being seen.”
I twist around and lift the flap of leather that saddles the deep wooden tray, frowning at the flock of goggin birds pecking at a scatter of seed, clucking away. One of them tilts its plump feathery ass, then paints the thick drape in a splash of white.
Gross.
“Think I’ll take my chances,” I mutter, dropping the leather, Noeve’s chortling laugh making it impossible to keep a straight face. “You’re terrible.”
“You missed me.”
“I did,” I admit as a squeal of wind whips past us so fast it makes the cart wobble again. The colk tosses his head and snorts at the sky rather than buck us over the edge.
That’s the difference between Noeve’s Path-traversing colks and almost anyone else’s: they’re truly charmed. Less chance of death. Well worth as much bloodstone as I can pack into her very deep pockets.
No wonder she turns them into belts.
“It’s been a while since you’ve graced my cart, my dear. I started to think you’d gone off me.”
“Never. I just decided I don’t like the wall anymore, or most of its inhabitants—present company excluded,” I say, giving her a soft shoulder-nudge. “Feeding folk to dragons because they piss you off rubs me the wrong way.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” she murmurs, and a heavy silence elbows between us.
I have no doubt she’s considering times past, when this colorful kingdom was at its prime. Until Cadok marked his scent all over it and turned it into a military nest.
“Heard you were sneaking folk out of the city for the Queen?” I ask, reaching into my pocket for one of my few remaining sticks of dried meat, chewing on the lanky end.
“Not since she tried to stall an execution.”
My eyes widen. “Really?”
Noeve nods. “I believe it got back to His Imperial Shit Stain . Apologies,” she’s swift to tack on, flicking me a quick glance. “I know he’s your blood.”
“Not gonna stop me from decapitating him,” I mutter.
Noeve chuckles, taking a while to recompose herself before she speaks again. “Anyway, I haven’t heard from her since. Guess it doesn’t look good for your significant other to publicly oppose a ruling of your Guild. Especially when that ruling’s against a member of the Fíur du Ath ,” she says, waggling her brows.
“Interesting …”
Very.
“Mm-hmm.”
I rip into the meat, chewing through the tough salted meat, taking the edge off my hunger but making me incredibly parched. Unfortunately, I have only gritty water to look forward to when we reach our destination. And a date with someone who’ll probably eat me.
Noeve transfers both reins into one hand and pulls a leather roll from the pocket of her pants, unraveling it. She plucks out a smoke stick and waves it in my direction.
“Thought you gave that up?” I ask, reaching into my pocket for my fire weald. Well, Kaan’s old fire weald I stole when I was young, imagining I’d need it one dae. Or more to the point—wishing.
Hoping.
Wasted hopes they were.
“Over thirty times since you last sat in that seat. But I’ve decided I quite enjoy it.”
I smile, flicking the metal lid, using the dancing flame to singe the end of her death stick. She draws on it, blowing a swathe of sweet smoke that gets lost amongst the fog while I polish off my meat strip to the tune of our trundling cart.
“Why are you here, Veya?” Noeve asks between deep drags.
“Left something important in Gore,” I say, removing a glove to pick the meat from between my teeth.
“How long ago?”
I think back to the moment just after the blank in my head. The inky smudge that somehow feels both void and unfathomably hefty. “Over a hundred phases?”
“Ahh,” Noeve muses, taking another deep pull of her stick, blowing a plume of smoke that soils my next breath with the overly sweet residue of whatever herb she’s wafting. “And where did you leave this … thing ?”
“Tossed it down the rubbish chute.”
I thread my hand back in my glove and cross my arms over my chest, settling deeper into the cold wooden seat. Frowning, I try to wiggle my ass into a more comfortable position.
Given how much Noeve charges for crossings, I’m surprised the seats still have no padding. Next time, I’m packing a cushion rather than two useless forks I haven’t even looked at since I left Dhomm.
Suddenly registering the void of silence beside me, I glance right, straight into Noeve’s wide gray eyes—the smoke stick hanging from her pinched fingers, a curl of ash threatening to blow away on the next whirl of wind.
“What’s wrong?”
“There’s a velvet trogg at the bottom of the rubbish chutes in Gore, Veya.”
“Oh, that.” I reach into my pocket for another piece of meat, inspecting both ends, picking the stumpier one to gnaw on. “Unfortunate, isn’t it?”
“You’re not intending to—”
“Confront her? Course I am. How else am I going to get the damn thing back?” I mutter through the leathery mouthful. “She’s obsessed with jewelry, correct?”
“From what I’ve heard, yes …”
“Wonderful,” I say, swallowing. Biting off another big chunk.
Hope she hasn’t eaten my bangle, otherwise this’ll be for naught. Especially since there’s next to no chance of me finding Elluin’s diary without this particular piece of jewelry I stupidly decided to part with many phases ago, tossing it down the chute like some cursed trinket. Certain it had something to do with the reason I had a blank spot the size of thirty aurora cycles smudged in my mind.
Seemed like a good idea at the time. Now it might cost me my life before I get to do something grand and heroic with it.
“You paid for a return trip,” Noeve says, and I shrug.
“If I die, keep the change.” I wiggle in my seat again, trying to find a more comfortable position while I stuff my mouth full of meat. “Perhaps use it to invest in some Creators-damn padding.”