Trion Rising, page 21
“She said it would show us the way east, toward the Trion.”
“She must have meant something else.” Margus dumped out everything in his pack onto the top of a big flat boulder where he’d been resting, and started picking through their supplies: two rabbit-skin flasks of drinking water, stopped with a cork. By now they’d already drained one to half empty. A cloth-wrapped bundle of jerky, the origins of which she would have to reveal to him later. Several pieces of dark, pungent Owling flatbread, none of which would require further explanation. A small bundle of sticks dipped in a waxy coating, probably intended to start a fire. And a dozen dried pear halves, sliced thin and strung like a necklace, sprinkled with that peculiar nose-tickling spice Oriannon had never smelled back in Corista.
Margus sneezed at the spices but did not uncover anything else that even remotely resembled a lodestone, or anything that suggested the black rock was not what it was supposed to be.
“Well that’s great.” Margus sighed. “We’ve come all this way through the mountain and now we don’t have the instrument to get us home. I thought you took care of that.”
“Now you blame me?” she snapped back, still holding the stone. Why hadn’t Wist told her how to use it? And why was Margus acting this way? “She probably just assumed we knew all about these things.”
“Surprise.” Margus parked his hands on his hips and kicked at a chunk of ice, spreading odd sparks of blue-green that helped light their way. “We don’t.”
But Oriannon wasn’t giving up that easily. Never mind the cold that now numbed her face and frosted her breath. What were they supposed to do, climb back into the tunnel and slog all the way back to Lior for instructions? Not now. She squeezed the stone between her palms.
“There has to be something to it,” she said. “I believe Wist. And she didn’t just put a strange old rock in the backpack for nothing.”
“Well, pardon me for saying so.” Margus crossed his arms and shivered. “But I still don’t see how a black rock is supposed to help us. That’s a lodestone? Give me a satellite positioner any day.”
Now would have been an excellent time to plant a good kick to his knee. Instead, she squinted out at the hills in the distance, dim as always but lit by the moons and the lights. The same landscape she’d even started to enjoy during her time here in Shadowside. And sure enough, the grit of wind-whipped dust and sand made her blink and her eyes water. If it got any worse this could turn out nasty.
So it seemed an odd time to hear Jesmet’s voice once more. Not as if he was actually there this time— but still just as real. She almost looked behind her to be sure.
“Then you let go— and let me take care of the rest.”
Literally? She loosened her grip on the lodestone, looked down at it, and sighed. Maybe Margus was right, though she would not admit it so soon. She turned away from him trying to decide which direction looked east. Nothing seemed the same as before— the shape of the hills, the slope of the land, nothing. How could she be certain? Margus peered over her shoulder and poked at the stone.
“Are you sure it—”
“I’m sure, all right?” But when she yanked it away from him it sailed from her hand, landing in fine volcanic ash a couple of meters away. “Now see what you’ve done!”
They both jumped for the rock, bumping heads and stirring up dust in the process.
“Back away!” Ori snapped.
“No. It’s right here!” Margus dug for the rock but came up empty. Oriannon thought she knew where it had landed but didn’t feel it right away either.
“If it’s lost …” she muttered under her breath, continuing to dig. But the more she dug, the more confusing it became.
“I just wanted to see it,” said Margus. “And you act as if I was trying to steal it or something.”
“You didn’t need to steal anything when it works just as well to bury it.”
By this time Oriannon felt her cheeks flush with anger, and it was all she could do not to throw handfuls of volcanic dust at her traveling companion.
“Maybe we should back off for a minute,” Margus finally suggested, clapping his hands of dust and leaning back on his heels. “That way—”
“No, there!” Oriannon bent closer to be sure, then pointed to a faint blue glow just to the right of where they’d been searching. “I think that’s it.”
This time Margus let her pick it up, so she carefully blew the dust from the rock as it glowed even more brightly. She turned left and right, testing her direction. And while the glow dimmed to nothing when she faced the waterfall, it lit back up as she faced directly away.
“Hmm.” He leaned in a little closer. “Maybe we have something here after all.”
“What did I tell you? Wist said it would work. She said it would point toward the Trion. It’s going to take us home, Margus. Or at least it’s going to take me home, and if you want to follow along …”
Margus looked in the direction she pointed, sheltering his eyes from the blowing sand and probably wondering, as she did, how they would actually get there. But she could walk with her head down now, her eye on the lodestone. If they ran into canyons or hills too steep to climb over, they would walk around them and continue following the lodestone’s leading.
“Hey, wait up!” Margus could follow along, and for the next several hours he did. Neither said much of anything above the howling wind that seemed to grow louder with each step. After a while though, Oriannon could feel her stomach beginning to growl.
“How long … do you think … we can keep this up?” Margus’s voice sounded muffled from beneath the wool scarf he’d wrapped around his face. That would be partly for the cold, partly for the sand. She looked over at him, and his hair already looked peppered with the stuff, like an old man. Sand in his ears, sand in his nose, sand everywhere. She guessed she probably didn’t look any better.
“As long as it takes,” she answered, and that was the best she could manage. She didn’t know the answer either. But every time she wanted to just curl up in a ball and cry, she imagined the Coristan ship on which Margus had traveled to Lior, hovering just below the city, just waiting for permission from Corista’s ruling Assembly so they could destroy it.
The thought haunted her for a few more hours, through open fields of loose red volcanic rock that shifted under her feet, and over low hills of boulders full of crevasses— deep holes that would catch and turn her ankle if she didn’t place her feet with care.
What will happen next time they return? she asked herself, and the question made her hurry her steps even more. Maybe she could talk to her father. Maybe she could prevent a disaster.
Or not.
Here and there they ran into fields of icy snow, but covered thick with a layer of gray sand, and she couldn’t tell what was beneath until her feet slipped out from under her. From then on she had to test her steps.
“Faster,” she told herself, checking the lodestone for the hundredth time. She changed course a little as they crested another barren hill, and was about to slog down the other side when she felt a weak hand tug her arm.
“We’ve got to stop for a minute, Oriannon,” Margus begged her. “Please. We’ve got to rest.”
“Are you kidding? You’re just slowing us down.” But Oriannon paused, breathing hard, hands on her knees. The longer they rested, the longer this was going to take. And already it was going to take way too long.
Yet she hadn’t noticed how her lungs burned and her legs ached. Her eyes still watered from all the sand in the air, and she started coughing.
She gasped when she looked over to check on Margus, who had collapsed to his knees in the little sand hill. His forehead almost touched the ground, and his chest heaved. And for a moment she thought it was just the wind stirring things up, sending little twisters across the surface. Almost too late she recognized the way the sand was moving, and she grabbed Margus by the arm.
“Margus!” she cried. “Get up!”
Of course, she had no time to explain what popped out of the sand with a hiss, only centimeters away from where Margus rested his head. And when he looked up with surprise, the huge sand worm timed its stream of bile perfectly, hitting him square in the eyes.
He screamed and clutched his face as Oriannon did her best to roll him away. The sand worm only spit once more, this time missing Margus but hitting Oriannon on her bare hand.
“You picked the wrong person to spit on!” she pulled away for a second, and it felt as if she’d stuck her hand in a flame. Welts rose on the back of her hand, but all she could really do was kick and scream at the attacker while poor Margus rolled away in agony.
“Jesmet, please help me!” The plea slipped from her lips before she realized what she’d said. By this time the worm had crawled all the way out of the sand, showing it was at least as long as Oriannon and Margus put together. She wasn’t sure if it could bite too, but in one wild attempt she managed to connect her kick with the head of the creature, sending it sprawling and quivering.
“Oh, oh, oh …” Margus staggered away, hands still on his face. She couldn’t imagine the pain, perhaps like on her hand but so many times worse.
“Margus, are you okay?” She knew better. But she knelt next to him, wondering what to do, while still keeping one eye on the sand worm. It still quivered, only not as much. And Margus didn’t answer, just moaned in pain.
“Okay then,” she told him. “Let me see what’s going on here.”
“Wait, no,” he finally managed. “Where’s that thing?”
“You don’t have to worry.” She checked again to make sure nothing had tunneled its way under the sand. It was probably a good thing Margus couldn’t see the worried look on her face. “It’s gone.”
At least she didn’t see it anymore. So she finally pried his hands back enough to see that Margus’s eyes had taken a direct hit and were starting to swell shut. The sand worm’s saliva still covered his face and hands, and any other time she would have gagged at the sight. Now she only had one worry: How to clean it off?
“My eyes,” Margus moaned, “my eyes …”
“I know. Listen.” She grabbed one of the remaining water flasks from their pack. “I’m sorry it hurts so much. But you’ve got to stay still and let me wash this out.”
Which she did, using the water from one jug and part of another. Margus just grit his teeth and trembled, but he let her. And he did seem to relax slightly after she’d done as much as she could. Next she took the scarf that had wrapped their jerky and laid it carefully across his eyes, mainly to keep sand and grit from blowing at him and making things worse. Although, come to think of it, she wasn’t sure if it could get much worse.
“You’re going to be fine,” she told him, hoping she was right. “But let’s just rest those eyes for a little while. How’s it feel now?”
“Like somebody took a blowtorch to my eyeballs. Other than that, never better. What happened to that snake thing?”
Oriannon looked back over where she’d last seen the sand worm.
“Uh …” She stood up to make sure.
“Tell me.” He started to stand up too, but Oriannon pushed him back down. No reason to have him stumbling around yet.
“I told you before that it’s gone.”
“I don’t believe you.”
She glanced around once more, looking for telltale waves in the sand. Maybe he was right to doubt.
“Okay then. We’ll get a little farther away, just in case.”
“Just in case is fine with me.” Margus stood up and held out his hands, looking for help.
She slung the pack over her own back and guided his hand to hold onto her arm so they could keep going. At this rate it could be many days before they made it back to Corista, and the thought crossed her mind that, given these new circumstances, maybe they’d be better off turning back to the Owling city after all.
And what about their water? She didn’t tell Margus how much she’d used to wash out his eyes, but he had to know. She tried to swallow, but could only cough on a mouthful of dust and sand.
Still, she tried not to think of it, leaning into the wind that still howled at them and clawed at her coat without mercy. She checked the lodestone once more just to be sure, and Margus now gripped her arm as if his life depended on it.
Perhaps it did.
28
What did she expect us to burn?” Margus wanted to know. He held his hands out, shivering, as if a fire would magically appear. A fire that he still wouldn’t be able to see, even if Oriannon ever managed to get something going with the starter sticks Wist had packed for them.
“I’m sorry, Margus. I’ve never done this before. I’m working on it.”
To which he didn’t answer.
“I thought maybe this tumbleweed stuff would burn,” she went on, “but it just kind of fizzles and smokes.”
“I noticed.” Margus waved his hand and coughed. “Keep trying.”
Oriannon looked around their little shelter— just an oversized dimple in the face of a large rock, really, and it seemed to her almost like sitting under a large umbrella, tipped on its side. In other words— not much. At least they could hide here from the full blast of the windstorm. But without a fire and with no more water to drink, the shelter would not be enough.
“So tell me again why you went to Shadowside?” Perhaps Margus was just trying to make conversation while she worked on the fire.
“You know why.” She struck the piece of steel against a stone and cupped her hand around the flickering sparks, which the wind threatened to snatch away. “I had to find Jesmet. We all had to find Jesmet. Didn’t you see how it all came together?”
Margus tilted his head back, as if he was thinking long and hard.
“I saw. I just wish I wasn’t the blind man now.”
“You’ll be fine in a few hours …” She paused.
“You’re hopeful. They still feel swollen shut.”
“When we get home we’ll get you to a healer.”
As if that would help. Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t.
“Hmm.” He hugged at his own shoulders and stomped his feet. “Can’t you get your friend’s fire starter working?”
“Like to see you do better.” Oriannon cradled a shy, smoky flame in a pile of twigs she had gathered from underneath a small bush. But before she could see it graduate to larger sticks, it retreated into a sad little plume of smoke, just as the ground shook all around them. But by this time, they were both getting used to the constant quivering and shaking of Shadowside’s latest earthquakes.
“Again?” he asked, sniffing at the air.
“I’m no good at this.” Whoever had to make a fire back in Corista? She sighed and threw the whole mess down to the ground. “I know in my head what I’m supposed to do, but my hands just won’t do it. I’m sorry, Margus.”
“Yeah. What do we need a fire for, anyway?”
“Not just about the fire.” She didn’t know how else to say it, or when. “I’m sorry for yelling at you back at the waterfall when we were looking for the lodestone. I didn’t need to be that way.”
“That was yelling?” A small grin spread underneath his eye bandages. “I’m sorry too. But let’s forget about it. At least we still have plenty of food and water.”
Oriannon looked over at their open backpack just in time to see a cat-sized rodent scurry away, dragging away their jerky and flatbread.
“Hey!” She dove for the disappearing food too late. “You can’t do that!”
It could and it did— even though Oriannon scrambled after it, out into the storm’s blinding clouds of sand.
“Come back here,” she cried, diving at the rodent’s tail as it darted toward a nearby jumble of rocks. “No!”
She only came up with gravel between her fingers. By this time the wind had grown into a hurricane, blasting her in the face with sand so hard she cried out and covered her eyes with her hands. If she stayed out here any longer Margus wouldn’t be the only blind one.
But she wasn’t going to give up that easily, and she crawled toward the rock pile.
“I know you’re under there,” she told the rat, tossing rocks aside, clawing frantically to get their food back. A sharp gust of wind nearly pushed her over, but she crouched even lower.
“Oriannon!” She heard Margus cry out from the shelter, a distant voice barely sounding over the cry of wind and sand and dust. “Where did you go?”
She didn’t answer at first, just kept grunting and screaming and pulling rocks aside until her fingers were bleeding. And of course, when she reached the bottom of the pile the rat was long gone.
“Stupid!” She pounded on the rocks with her fists, bending low to protect herself from the storm. If she lifted her head again, her ears and nose would have been sandblasted right off her face.
“Oriannon!” Margus shouted once more. He sounded weak and far off, though he couldn’t have been more than four or five meters behind her. “Are you out there, Oriannon?”
“I’m here,” she answered back, knowing her tired voice would only be carried off by the winds. So it was probably a good thing he was yelling. Certainly she couldn’t see her way back; she would use his cries as a beacon. And with a final glance to make sure the hungry rat had really escaped with their food, she turned back toward shelter.
“I hope you choke on it,” she muttered as she slithered back on her stomach, face down, listening for each time Margus yelled “Oriannon!” That close to the ground, she could almost hear the planet’s heartbeat, a shuddering giant.
“So you were surprised at what you found in Lior?” asked Oriannon.
Two hours later she still huddled against the inner cave wall, arms around her knees, shivering and waiting for the wind to let up enough for them to leave again. How long? How soon? Talking didn’t help much to keep warm, but she couldn’t think of anything else.
“Are you kidding?” answered Margus. “Sure I was surprised. That city stuck to the side of the cliff, the crazy Owlings with their bird eyes, the whole weird deal here in Shadowside. How could I not be surprised? I mean, imagine old Mentor Narrick saying, ‘Margus, I want you to find me the city of Lior on the holo-map.’ Ha! We sure didn’t learn about any of this in school.”
