Aether and Bone (Aether and Bone #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter one

Top side

Inever thought I would get the chance to stare death in the eye. I also never imagined those eyes would burn bright orange with an intelligence that suggests she knew she was going to eat me whole and delight in taking my soul down to the deepest cavern of hell. But I’ve gotten ahead of myself…

The day of my reckoning started the same as any other. How was I supposed to know that a dehydrated cricket bar would be my last meal? Believe me, if I had known how today was going to go, I would have splurged on some mushroom congee. But you don’t know what you don’t know.

Each bite of my breakfast crackles between my teeth as I chew the dry, tasteless meal.

The crunch isn’t half bad, though. I always enjoy the pop of crickets.

They were better than an algae smoothie.

Those were the worst. Even if my Ma had spent my entire childhood trying to convince me they had the highest nutrient quality of any of the food stores produced in the Bǎodela caverns.

Even now, at twenty-five, I force down one of those earthy green abominations once a week to appease her.

And while I always buzz with energy and a clear mind on those days, I’m not convinced it’s worth it.

Anyway, I had opted for a cricket bar because I was in a rush. Who knows why I was in a rush to meet my death.

Okay, fine, I know. I had made a promise to Dom, and as my best friend since before I could remember, I was going to deliver.

He never asked anything of me. Taking a few plants topside during my next harvest seemed like a small enough favor.

But I needed to get this wrapped up quick before that pompous prick, Caius Amarala, got wind of it.

As captain of the guard, he had access to every secret in the caverns, but it’s more than that, it feels as if that man is everywhere, and if I didn’t know better, I would swear he is using unsanctioned magic to surveil the populace.

I do know better, though. Caius doesn’t bend the rules. He holds every citizen to the letter of the law, and I hate him for it. If he had even an ounce of humanity, my father would still be alive. But that’s ancient history. Caius got to keep his soul clean, and I lost a father. It’s all prime.

I cinch the straps tighter on my pack as I pass below the dual statues guarding the entrance of Eztia sub-cavern.

Of the seven gods of creation, two stand watch over my home: Guārgia the god of light, and Ilunahēi'àn the god of dark. Dual sentries to watch over the populace, bringing balance to all things. The statues are colossal, taking up the entire cavern wall, carved straight into the limestone, a testament to what our people could accomplish, back before the gods took back their gift of magic and forbade its use to all future generations. A shiver runs down my spine. Since my father died, I’ve always felt that Ilunahēi'àn is watching over me, and as the god of darkness, I wish he would turn his attention on someone else.

A short walk through the central tunnels takes me to the main cavern, my fingers absentmindedly tracking the worn patch of a metal bird on a background of scattered stars stitched into the strap of my pack, a thing of lore, just another beast from my father’s fantastical stories.

If it were true, maybe we would stand a chance against the beasts that ruled the skies.

Bǎodela proper is a cavern of legend, one of the grandest cities of The Below, not that I have ever seen another of our subterranean nations; the tunnels to the east collapsed long before I was born, and tensions between Bǎodela and Suade, our neighbors to the south, had run high for as long as I could remember.

Even without comparison, Bǎodela proper was built on a scale beyond anything created in generations.

Massive stalactites hang overhead. White wispy clouds weave around the sunny yellow moss that clings to the ancient rock teeth, bathing the cavern in a soft glow that never ceases, merely shifting hue to indicate the passage of time.

While magic is strictly prohibited, bits of our ancestors remain, like the glowing moss that lit the subterranean cities of The Below.

The cavern is supported by the pantheon itself, with statues of each of the seven gods carved into the perimeter of the city, stretching the entire height of the cavern, their faces often shrouded in the clouds that gather over the city proper, obscured and sightless.

How appropriate, as I am certain they abandoned us long ago.

I smile up at Kōngqìairea, goddess of air, patting her toe, which towers over me.

“Give me wings this day,” I whisper.

It takes a special kind of insanity to enjoy living in the mouth of a monster.

That’s hyperbole, of course, our subterranean cities are carved into ancient cave systems. My mother always said I had too much imagination for my own good.

Maybe she was right, or maybe it’s a product of the wondrous tales my father whispered to me when we were working alone in the caverns.

I pick up my pace as I hit the main street that passes through the central cavern.

I’ve never lived in the city proper. I’ve never been that important, and the grand scale of the carved apartments towering over street-level shops makes me feel as if the earth is closing in around me.

It’s a strange thing to feel claustrophobic when you have lived your whole life underground.

But that is the best way I can describe it.

Like if I don’t watch my step, the buildings will collapse and smash my bones into powder in their wake.

A silly thought, I know, when the human body is fifty-five percent water and I am more likely to end up a puddle of goo, but whoever said that phobias were logical?

A sharp turn takes me down a quiet side street. I hate that I have to pass through the city proper to get to TóuKita Canyon, but the city planners of old didn’t have stealth in mind when they laid out the cave system. Nearly everything connects to the city proper.

Sometimes I wish I had been born a zhìsatorra, with their power to shear through slate and shale and earth alike, so massive that nothing can stand in their way. To carve my own path and never have to take the worn tracks laid out by people long since passed from this plane of existence.

I take my first full breath, slipping into the side tunnel that will lead to my escape. Already, the sounds of the city and the oppressive man-made structures are fading behind me. I’m not yet close enough to smell the fresh air that blows in through the cavern, but I can imagine it all the same.

The path is dim; only a thin swath of moss is maintained along this tunnel. Humans don’t venture to the surface. At least not sane ones, but I’ve never vouched for my sanity. I love the solitude and the certainty that I will not see another living soul on my way to the slot canyon.

TóuKita canyon is narrow. So tight that if I lean back in my harness and reach out my arms, my fingertips will brush the opposite side. There are many canyons that lead to the surface, spread out around the city proper like a starburst. But TóuKita is my favorite.

The moment I step out from the tunnel into the slot canyon, I close my eyes and take a deep inhale.

It smells of pine needles and ancient wood, of past and present and possibility, of a world where I am not the daughter of a traitor and I can choose a destiny all my own, and that is why TóuKita is my favorite.

There are other canyons where you can smell the pine forest above, but it’s strongest here where the giants grow right up and over the edge, their ancient roots drilling down into the rock, breaking free to taste the sky at points over head, strong and free from expectation, long smooth tendrils worn by time and weather, yet the trees still stand tall overhead.

Yes, today is a perfect day for harvesting.

I can smell it in the petrichor. The trees will be slick, but the rain tends to keep the beasts away.

My palms tingle, and the sky stones strung on a cord around my neck heat pleasantly.

They always do that when my magic bubbles to the surface, begging to be used, a reminder of the shared secret between me and my father.

I nod once, open my eyes, slip off my pack and prepare to climb. First, I kick off my boots and wiggle my toes in the fine red sand. The earth is cool and dry; the rain having not penetrated into the canyon. That’s good. Climbing slick stone isn’t on my list of things I want to do today.

With my harness securely in place, I attach one bag full of friction anchors and another filled with chalk.

Then I secure my pack once again, Dom’s plants tucked safely inside.

I slip my feet into the tight climbing shoes.

The edges compress around my foot as my heel hits the bottom.

My toes already ache as I place the anchor and attach my rope. Now the only thing left to do is climb.

“Well, let’s get to it then.”

I move quickly up the rock surface, having climbed this route a hundred times before. Still, I remember the lessons my father taught me. I place my friction anchors and secure my rope.

I have never fallen on this route, but my father’s words are etched in my mind: “Ollie, it only costs seconds to be safe, time well spent when your life is on the line.”

I snort at that. Maybe he should have taken his own lessons to heart.

But the conditioning of childhood holds strong, drilled into me with hours of climbing until my arms ached and my legs wobbled.

I place my anchors every two meters, just like he taught me, even if my life isn’t on the line climbing this route.

A route that I know better than the carved texture of the ceiling over my bed.

This is my haven, my safe space, my temple. Nothing can harm me here.