Nine
Y ou’ve climbed in the dark before,” I tell myself, choosing to ignore the glaring differences between Szent and the Verdens Kant.
Even on the darkest nights, Hreinasta’s temple was bathed in light.
As the capital of the realm, Szent’s holy fires burned eternally.
Torches lit the streets, and the moon illuminated the building I’d memorized every inch of.
Night at the end of the world is absolute. This is not the same.
But I tell myself it is.
“Slow down, my child,” The Stranger speaks into my mind. “There’s no need to rush.”
“I don’t know how much longer I can hold on,” I say through gritted teeth. My limbs are ready to give out, and my bloody fingers are raw.
“You’ll hold on as long as needed,” he answers. “I will not watch you fall.”
“Then help me.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“You must do this alone. You must have faith.”
“I do have faith.” I spit. “I’ve spent over a cycle trusting your promise. My body aches. I’ve lost so much weight that my bones stick out, and I’m covered in sunburns and scars. I have faith, but I’m exhausted. Why can’t you help me?”
“I wish I could.”
“That’s not an answer!” My anger echoes off the eternal cliffs.
“Yet it’s all I can give. Climb, child. Do not despair, for I am with you.”
“You’re always in my mind.” I take a deep breath and slip my fingers from their crevice, hoping to locate another handhold in the blackness. “I sometimes wonder if my grief invented you.”
“You’ve seen my face.”
“Twice.” I almost laugh with relief when I find a sturdy grip. “That hardly proves my sanity.”
“I am here and real. Your faith tethers me both to you and this world. You’ll see me soon.”
“I would prefer if I could feel your hands again, like at Death’s temple.”
“I would carry you if I could, but for now, you must climb alone. You’re almost to safety. Don’t surrender now.”
I grunt as I pull myself up the rocks. I can’t see the protruding ledge, but a section of the air is darker than the rest, and I hope my aim is true.
I speak his name instead of a prayer. I say it a second time, then a third.
When my knuckles finally reach the ledge, I’ve repeated it seventy-three times, and I clamber to safety.
For long minutes, I sit against the cliff wall in exhausted relief. I didn’t die. I can climb in the dark.
I fish through my pack for a strip of dried meat and the waterskin. I eat every bite but drink sparingly, and then I say his name again as sleep claims me against my will.
* * *
“Sellah?”
His voice is wrong. It’s not deep enough. There’s no thunder to the tone.
“Sellah? My Child!”
I jerk awake, and my scream catches in my throat when nothing but air fills my vision. I’m hanging precariously at the edge of the ledge, and I scramble backward to safety as I realize it wasn’t Kaid’s voice but The Stranger’s.
“Thank you,” I gasp.
“You refused to wake up,” he answers in my mind.
“How long was I asleep?” I ask, for the sun is well overhead.
“At least twelve hours. I planned to let you rest longer, but I reconsidered once your arm fell over the edge.”
I rub my face, and now that my alarm has receded, I notice the ache in my muscles.
Sleeping on this rocky surface did nothing to ease the soreness from climbing.
Part of me wants to sit here for the rest of the day and start my ascent in the morning, but I can’t waste supplies.
“Do you think there’s another ledge above? ”
“Who knows what nature has created?”
“Do you hide your face from me because you know these half-answers annoy me?”
“Who knows my reasons?”
I roll my eyes as I grab a handful of nuts and seeds from my pack. My hunger isn’t satisfied by the meager meal, but rationing is more appealing than starvation.
“If you climb, the gods will provide,” The Stranger says.
“The gods have forsaken me.”
“Not the ones who truly care.”
My mind flicks to Lovec and Udens, to Elskere, the wed gods. I’m like the first two in my loss, the last two in my vows. Perhaps Elskere still favors me. Look at all I’ve done in the name of love and marriage.
There’s something different in The Stranger’s tone, though, a tenderness that makes me wonder if his words hide another meaning. Is someone else looking kindly upon me? Hopefully, a secluded god sits atop the Verdens Kant, watching me with favor as I climb the edge of the world.
“The sun’s shining,” The Stranger continues. “The path is clear.”
He says nothing more, but as I stare heavenward, I cannot help but think that he’s guiding me again, just as he did with the ledge.
With pained fingers, I begin, and my raw skin bleeds instantly.
My muscles shake with exhaustion, my mouth is parched despite the drink I washed down my breakfast with.
I regret not remaining on the ledge for a second night, but I sense him.
He’s close. I’ll find another scattered bone soon.
I have so few left to recover that I can practically taste his kiss.
That memory spurs me on as I whisper his name, remembering how his dark hair hung over his eyes, how his large hands always located the perfect grip when he climbed, how, despite the ash coating his forehead, he was still the most beautiful thing to grace this world.
I miss his scar and the way it twisted when he smiled, how it felt rough against my soft skin and molded to my fingers when I caressed it.
I miss everything about him, from the way his body moved against mine, to the deep voice I’ve forgotten, to the smile that eclipsed the sun.
It hurts to think about him. It brings me peace to remember him.
Tracing his muscles in my memory helps pass the time and blocks out the sight of the blood dripping down my knuckles.
My knees are scraped, and my toes are bruised, but taking inventory of everything I love about him erases the now and leaves me in the past. It grants me the strength to find another crevice, another handhold, another footrest, and I’m shocked when I suddenly come across a vast indent in the cliffside.
I couldn’t see it from below, for the jagged protrusions hid it, but as I haul myself up between two pillars, I notice a path that’s been carved into the mountain.
Excitement fills my chest. It’s wide enough for me to walk on, the open air above me allowing light to spill in.
This is why The Stranger encouraged me to climb.
This path winds on a small incline up the cliff face, disappearing into the clouds, and I cannot stop my feet from following its call.
Have I passed the test? Did I ascend high enough that the Verdens Kant deemed me worthy and offered me aid?
I race along it as the day dies, hours passing peacefully, but the sudden end of this path dashes my hopes. It was merely a reprieve, like the ledge below, and I stare at my mutilated fingers. I can’t do this again. I cannot bring myself to shove them back into the minuscule crevices.
“Help me,” I whisper. To him? To the gods? To the empty air? I don’t know.
I should camp here for the night, but if I sleep, I fear I’ll never climb again.
So I place my hands on the rocks and haul myself up.
I don’t know how long I scale the harshness.
I’ve lost track of the time, and all I know is I made a mistake.
I should’ve camped on the path and rested, but I ignored my body’s warning, listening to desperation instead.
As the blood on my palms causes me to lose my grip, I realize I’ve made more than a mistake.
I’ve killed myself, for my fingers keep slipping, slipping, slipping.
I try to hold on, but it’s too little too late, and I fall.