CHAPTER TWENTY
C HAPTER T WENTY
The Chasm sings.
But this time its voice is a deep drone. A subsonic drum that slowly crescendos. It makes Dawsyn look to the ground, where pebbles and debris quiver. She expects to see cracks forming between her feet – opening to finally swallow them all.
But then comes the sound of echoing voices. Of armour. Of horses.
The Chasm walls collect the noises and surround them with it, so that the cacophony comes from everywhere, all around.
“No,” Ryon breathes, eyes wide. He is as struck as she, frozen in stupor, in disbelief. “No!”
Hector steps toward her, gripping her elbow. His touch is cold.
A glow appears, growing warmer, brighter. It is the same light Dawsyn has seen in her imagination, the same building illumination that would precede their freedom. Paradise.
Only it does not arrive from the north, but from the south.
They come.
On their horses and on foot. With their pulled wagons and glinting armour. They come toward them aglow with lanterns and torches – a travelling nimbus.
It reaches Dawsyn’s face in increments, making her squint. She raises her ax. “No,” she utters. That burgeoning hope, the last vestiges of confidence within her, already it is ebbing, slipping away. “No.” Her voice is louder this time, and she pushes her way forward, through the faceless bodies of her people, toward that brilliant light and the sounds of nickering and clashing armour.
Not now, her mind screams. Not now!
“Halt!” She hears from ahead, inside the nimbus, and the voice is familiar.
Dawsyn does not pause to reason its owner, she retrieves a blade from her side and launches it through the air, to the place where the first horse comes to a standstill, still twenty paces away.
But the rider raises a shield, and the blade clatters off it before it can find its mark. The knife falls to the ground, and the mount jumps, startled.
“Stop!” says that same voice from behind her shield.
This time, the voice catches. It sticks to the sides of Dawsyn’s mind. Then quickly it rots, turning viscid and foul.
“Ruby,” Dawsyn exhales, and it is not a sigh of relief, or of welcome. Because Ruby mounts a horse blanketed in Terrsaw green, and she is flanked by Terrsaw armour, and the shield she holds before her bears the emblem of her homeland. Of her Queen.
“Dawsyn,” Ruby answers, and only then does she lower her shield. Just enough so that Dawsyn can see her face.
The same brown eyes and rich skin. The same lips pressed firmly together, the same cleft in her chin. And not a mark on her to be found. Not a single one.
On her finger is a ring, one not present when last Dawsyn saw her. Dawsyn cannot see the silver band clearly, but the necklace against her collarbone beats its heated pulse, and she feels sure the ring does the same.
Ryon’s ring.
“Easy!” Ruby calls, but she looks beyond Dawsyn, raising a placating hand to those behind her. “Peace!”
But the people of the Ledge are backing away. Most have never laid eyes on a horse, never seen weapons hewn of such fine silver. The light is blinding after days holed up in darkness. It burns their retinas. Dawsyn feels them raising their weapons and retreating.
Already, they know what Dawsyn knows. This is a fight they cannot win.
Ryon is pulling on her arm. “Fall back,” he yells, holding his sword defensively, his eyes pinned on Ruby’s.
“PEACE!” Ruby yells again, and the word seems to be for Dawsyn, for the captain looks to her imploringly. “Dawsyn! Go easy. We do not come to fight!”
Nevrak crawls to his discarded blade and staggers to his feet. “Who are you?” He calls, his front bathed in blood. “What business have you here?”
Ruby looks to him, one hand on her reigns, the other holding her shield. “We are the royal guard of Terrsaw,” she tells him.
Dawsyn feels the turning before the first word of dismay is spoken. The realisation slithers through the crowd, weaving through their number. A shiver of comprehension, of confusion.
“You have come from Terrsaw?” Nevrak asks. Dawsyn watches the terrible knowledge dawn, watches it break over him.
“Nevrak–”
“We have,” Ruby calls. “And we’ve been looking for you.”
Dawsyn braces. They’ve been looking for them. Looking to capture them, imprison them. She raises her ax.
“We will ensure your safe journey to the valley,” Ruby says now, looking over them all, her eyes growing wider as she takes in their dwindled number, their sunken faces, their ragged attire. “We’ve brought horses, carts. Your wounded needn’t be made to walk further.”
“We’ve been journeying to Terrsaw,” says a confused voice. “To the valley.”
Ruby frowns. She looks once more to Dawsyn, and it takes her moments to see it – Dawsyn’s deceit.
And only a moment longer to take advantage of it.
“You’re headed the wrong way. Our valley lies South,” Ruby calls for every hearing entity in the Chasm to bear witness. “I’m afraid,” she says, and here she swallows. The grim set of her lips turns apologetic. “You’ve been led astray.”
Nevrak’s jaw quivers. He turns to pierce Dawsyn with his glare, and with him, Dawsyn feels every single one of her people turn on her in kind. She feels their accusations, the heat of their rising fury.
“You swindled us,” Nevrak says simply, almost serenely, like the strength of his voice has been swallowed by rage.
Dawsyn’s breaths come shorter, faster, her heart sprinting. Her hands rise in a desperate attempt to subdue. “No–”
Ryon is moving to block her, to shield her. But it was not he who lied to them. Tricked them.
“You told us the water led to an ocean!” Nevrak says, his words gaining impetus.
“Listen to me,” Dawsyn shouts loudly. “Please–”
“Just where were you taking us?” Nevrak juts his finger at her, his chest hitting Ryon’s hand. Ryon shoves him backward. “To your Glacian’s den? Some fresh circle of hell?”
“Terrsaw isn’t safe,” Dawsyn shouts, turning in a wild circle, her back to the guard, so desperate is she to stop this thing from slipping between her fingers. “The Terrsaw Queen is the very reason we were condemned to the Ledge in the first place–”
“On the contrary,” someone calls.
It slides over her skin like oil, this voice. Cloys in her ears. Spikes her blood. Dawsyn’s head snaps back to the guard.
“I am most eager to welcome our long-lost kin back to their rightful home.” And like a shadow collecting substance and forming some tangible nightmare, a black horse comes forward, and its rider pushes back their hood to reveal the silvery braid, the map-lined skin, the thinly pressed lips, the ever-calculating stare.
Queen Alvira’s gaze roams over the crowd, catching on the faces of the Ledge people. Her lips turn downward in something akin to compassion.
And then her eyes meet Dawsyn’s. The corner of her mouth quirks – a miniscule crack in the fa?ade.
Dawsyn turns cold.
“Miss Sabar,” the Queen of Terrsaw says. “I’ve been looking for you.”