Staerstone, page 11
The Sodden slept in murky groundwaters in a cavern beneath tangled roots. Their shadow-arms grew longer, and branch-like hands reached higher, as any klimber approached the summit. In the current chaos, they were restless. They must never be woken. Their hunger had grown through all their death-sleeping years. Hunger for the skin of the living, as their own wrinkled and fell away.
To be scaling the cliffs while racing against and battling the enemy—enemies—would be dangerous, but she must go. For Staerstone. For herself. If she failed, the land would turn to cracked, scorched dirt, barren as the worst deserts torched by the Great Heat.
It had melted Stellaeth’s glaciers and engorged her oceans, driving Arkine and Denesis’s mission, to lead their people to higher ground. To save their lives, as the water rose.
Staercrags was an enigma, godlike. Arkine and Denesis had become demigods.
If Zericha didn’t go, the land she loved might end up cold as the meteorite that long ago smashed the volcano in two—forming Staerstone and sending Staercrags rebounding into space, taking the heavenly climbing with him. The climbing which every klimber aspired to reach, by the Cumulus Ferrata, though so few did. It was the opposite to plummeting downward into murky groundwaters.
Staercrags must be where her mother, Marris, sat in the sunlight, her hair sparkling, strung with precious stones found at the peak, as she waited to greet her daughter.
Student
Andalu rapped on the faded wooden door, and waited. The sun had set since he’d left Beélla, while he’d nursed a beer at the Bronze Plow, wolfed down two dinners, and wished he had something to go on. Some clue about how to take on Staerstone Mountain, let alone the other people he’d have to lead. He’d found himself at the faded wooden door of his old mentor’s home and workplace.
Kodjar always took his sweet time answering, so much so that one day Andalu had given up waiting. Crickets trilled. A frog croaked. Eventually the hinge squealed open. The man eyed him beneath bushy gray eyebrows, leaning heavily on his staff.
“Who darkens my doorstep?” he mused. “A little boy. Late for his lessons. He quit. So who are you?”
“Ha-ha.” Andalu shook his head. “I don’t have time for games.”
“You think I have time, boy? I’ve one leg in the grave.” He scowled. “I hardly recognize you. You’ve grown like a weed.”
“May I come in?”
“What’s the rush, now? You’re three years late. I’ve been here all that time, wondering when—if—you might deign to descend before I cark it. My lessons were so tedious. You had better things to do. Oh?” He reached up and plucked a piece of straw out of Andalu’s hair. “Can’t say I blame you.”
Andalu’s cheeks burned. “Enough already.”
“More than enough. I’ve something to show you. Assuming you have any interest.”
“Would I be here if I didn’t?”
Kodjar’s bushy eyebrows drew together.
“If you’re going take that tone with me, you can get on your—” He began to close the door.
Andalu put his foot in it. “I’m sorry—”
“Apologies and excuses… Is that all you’ve got?” Kodjar sniffed and rubbed his nose. “What’s done is done. You’ve wasted your time, and mine.” He sighed. “Follow me, if you will.”
Humbled, Andalu ducked under the doorway and followed Kodjar through his kitchen, past tables covered in books. The old man was fast on his feet, and led him down the few stairs into his library and workroom. More books towered in piles on the tables. Others lay open, with notebooks of scribbles alongside.
In the middle of it all, on an easel, illuminated by a hanging lantern, was a map of a mountain.
“Staare-stowene?” Andalu said, sounding out the title in olde-Stellaethian. “Where did you find this?”
“At the arse end of the archives, wrapped in a cloth that fell apart, with a detailed spell about how to quell hot stones with composites, something about all stones turning brittle, hearts torn asunder, and the ‘braeght burneng’ threat.”
Andalu hadn’t caught half what the old man had blathered. He focused on the map, struggling to read the ancient characters. “How accurate is this?”
“How would I know? But mountains don’t change much. Apart from seasons, fires and landslides. Can you read it? How much do you recall from our lessons of ye olde tongue?”
Andalu studied the map, sounding out the strange words. It took time, but the knowledge was there, buried deep. Bae…relends. Wyn…dery. Vaerdent Traecht. “I can read it. It rings true with the little I know of the mountain.”
Kodjar clicked his tongue. “Who’d have thought, after all, that my teachings could be of some use to you.”
Andalu reached for his shoulder. “Kodjar, don’t be like that. You molded me. But in the end…I had to go. The Wyld calls me, though everyone says it shouldn’t.”
“They don’t say that anymore.” He took Andalu’s head in his hands. “Did I teach you how to think? To look not for answers, but for the right questions?”
Andalu groaned. This was the problem with him. One minute he was sensible, the next he went abstract, digressed or rambled on and on. But the map…it was just what he needed.
“Thank you for this. With it we might have a chance.”
“Another thing.” Kodjar shook his finger. “Nef, when he wakes, he’ll be after blood.” His gray eyes—one big, one squinted and small—warned. “He raved, half conscious, on the cart. He blames you for what Zericha and the Wyldren did to Skom. He says you freed her, so it’s your fault. That you’re on their side. That Staerstone is thirsty for Plains blood.”
“I don’t give a damn about Nef. We have bigger figs to fry.” He had no regrets about freeing Zericha. No way could he have left her in that madman’s hands.
He studied the contours of the land on the map—the cliffs and waterways, the forests and caverns, the strange drawings and words.
“Will you help me discern the best route?”
Kodjar leaned closer to the map of the mountain, trailing his fingertips over the paths and cliffs winding up to the summit, and the caves leading deep down inside.
“All I know is that you can’t take Peak Track. It is easy going, but the Wyldren have traps set, and can lie in ambush too easily.”
“What about the Granite Ladder?”
Kodjar shook his head. “I’d only be guessing.”
Andalu nodded and folded the map. “At least you’ve given me something to work with. Now we might have a chance.”
Part II
Ascent
The Team
Jarjarth grunted as Andalu squeezed his thighs into the horse’s ribs, driving him faster. The stallion’s hooves crashed over the gravel on the dark road. Breath steamed from the horse’s nostrils in the predawn chill, illuminated by the pink light of the Rose Quartz Moon.
As Andalu rode out from Blast Town, the others followed on their horses, a quarnight before dawn. Beyond the foggy fields, all the Denizens slept in their huts. Hooves thundered up the road, toward Trechaur Cliffs, gravel and dust mixing with the mist behind them. Beélla wasn’t far behind, driving the wagon filled with bags of gear and food.
Channagrin’s horse surged across Andalu’s path. He reined Jarjarth in and swore, narrowly avoiding a collision. Channagrin! The turd-jar didn’t even glance back. Andalu would not have chosen him for this quest. When they’d mustered outside the stable he’d told them all to go home. He didn’t want them here. The two dressed in gray had laughed in his face, and the other four ignored him. One hadn’t even turned up, supposedly running late. Maybe he’d had second thoughts, wised up. Another shuffled from foot to foot and mumbled something about his family needing the grain to make it through the winter.
Channagrin, though… Seeing him here was the worst. He’d been Andalu’s best friend until two years ago. He couldn’t bear to rehash the betrayal right now. Why had he come? To gloat over Andalu’s failure? He wouldn’t feel the importance of this mission, the responsibility for the survival of their people. The future of starvation, famine, and chaos they risked, the val and valis’s heads on stakes. He didn’t see eye-to-eye with his parents, but he couldn’t let them die.
As mission leader, Andalu would bear the brunt of defeat if they failed, but his people would hurt for centuries to come. If they won, would he know glory? At least he’d be free again. Free to be on the cliffs with Zericha. Oh, choss, what was he thinking? That would never happen. Even if the law didn’t forbid love between their peoples, she’d never sink so low as to be with him. If he were val, could he change the law? Or did the separation of their people run deeper, emanating from the mountain? He’d have to ask Kodjar, if he saw him again. Maybe surviving this summit and claiming the prize would make him worthy of the Wyldren’s klimber-princess.
As they reached the incline that began the steep track up Trechaur Cliffs, the horses grunted and whinnied in effort. Jarjarth stumbled over loose rock, veering close to the perilous edge.
“Steady, boy.” Andalu patted the stallion’s shoulder.
The road wound ever upwards. The wagon was laden with their packs, with as much dried food and equipment as they could carry—about four days’ rations. Beélla drove the mares with a finesse and skill bordering on magic; their gait was strong and steady, despite the load. The climb might take weeks, but that was as much as they could reasonably carry.
The ascent passed quickly with the horses doing the work, and they shuffled to a stop in the forêt. By the light of burning torches, Andalu dismounted, as did the seven other climbers. They shouldered their packs, talking amongst themselves in the still night. One laughed. What was the joke? Andalu felt distant from them, alone, but he should talk to them before they started climbing, build some rapport.
Close to the cliff, his fingers tingled with excitement. He looked up at the enormous granite steps, some of them chest-height, that began their mission up the mountain. A sense of certainty surprised him as he touched the rock. This was right. As it should be. It was where he belonged. He closed his eyes and ran his hand over his horse’s warm neck, a last link to home and hearth.
“I’ll be back to ride you over the plains again,” he promised Jarjarth. He pressed his reins into Beélla’s hands. “Take care, descending the track in the dark.”
“You know they’ll be fine.” She stroked his forearm. “Valis Cerderus gave me this for you,” she whispered, pressing a cold glass bottle into his hand. “For the enemy.”
“Poison?”
“A drop in a cup is enough.” She nodded. “Win this quest and return to us, triumphant.” Her blue eyes shone like a child’s on Harvest Eve. “I should also warn you, or perhaps you’ve already noticed—”
“How dare they?” Andalu clenched his jaw. His parents insisted he cast his values away like fish guts. Infuriating. How could their law only apply within the bounds of their own lands? The Wyldren didn’t live by Plains law, true, but they had their own beliefs. For them the living of life was sacred. They lived to be, and let be. Their culture maintained the diversity of the Wyld.
He couldn’t kill with so little honor. Victory would mean everything for him and his people, but would he have to stoop so low and sacrifice every ethic?
Rubbing his forehead, he dismissed the troubling thoughts. He had to focus on getting his team up the Granite Ladder. If they made it, they’d cross the Glorious River to the Spiral Staircase.
The churn of wheels over gravel drew his attention to the wagon. Beélla was already driving away, down the hill. What had she been trying to tell him? Whatever it had been, it was too late to find out. He took a deep breath and turned to his people.
“Ready to climb?”
Their eyes shone with anxiety. He forced a smile for these people he might be leading to their deaths, even cementing it to his face for Channagrin…but when he saw who stood beside him, it died.
This was too much.
He turned away from her, aching like he’d been stabbed in the chest. They might as well have run him through with a hot blade. Of everyone they could have sent, why Dendreá?
Fingers pressed to the rock, he turned his face up to the cliff. It was a moment before he could breathe, let alone string words together. When he did, they caught in his throat, emerging as nonsense. He pressed down on the rock and stepped up onto a large step to start the climb.
For two long years, climbing had taken him away from the pain he’d been unable to live with on the Plains. But now, on this most important of quests, it was coming with him.
Escape
All is dark in the cave. Zericha holds the tip of her knife to the floating heart. It defies gravity, cradled in the mountain’s magic. Her blade eases into its flesh and a drop of blood hisses, hitting the Scepter half buried in stone. The Scepter glows red and rainbow-flecked with power. This Scepter will decipher the shadows haunting Zericha’s past, revealing the future. It called her here to free it—beyond terrifying caves, treacherous cliffs, ravenous beasts and scorching lava, but this sacrifice, this floating heart above the spear, hums in harmony with her own.
Tears glisten on her cheeks. Who does this heart belong to, pulsing in time with her own? Why she must bathe the stone in its blood?
Red light reflects off Zericha’s cracked fingernails as she reaches for the glowing prize—a perfect fit for her hand—
“ZERICHA!”
She snaps her hand back, turns to the voice she knows but cannot place. If she takes this prize, someone she loves will die. If she does not, the mistakes of the past will never be righted. Unrest and violence will destroy the Wyldre Forêt and the world—
Zericha’s eyes snapped open an hour before dawn. She’d finally begun to understand her dreams and visions—the Sodden’s dreams, which had tangled with her own, driving her half mad. She couldn’t shake the images from her mind. They plagued her all day, unless she was moving. Her ankle ached only a little when she stood on it, and warmed up after a few steps. Lucky she was a fast healer.
She arranged her pillows and covers to make it look like she was still in bed. Transgressing her parents’ orders made her heart race, but there was no denying the urge that drove her towards the summit. She’d have to make it through the bars and past the guards somehow.
She’d slept in clean leather shorts and a crop top, and braided her hair into her klimber’s spiral before sleeping. The dark and light brown strands were entwined in a tight weave. She taped her cut fingers to protect their wounds, and picked up her semi-full pack, ready with food, equipment and a waterskin. She put it on the table, and squeezed through the bars to get out through the window. She pulled the half-full pack out after her. Grabbing the other items from the table, she stuffed it full, tied on a chronos robe, and slung it onto her back.
So far, so good.
Below, a guard rounded the corner. She held her breath as he passed. Silently, she scaled the exterior wall up to the roof. There was enough pink moonlight to see by.
She’d snuck out this way on childhood expeditions, on quiet nights, when all the dimarcheio slept. It was a long time since she’d had to leave this way, but Father hadn’t forgotten. Hence the bars and sentries in the courtyard.
With predawn chill triggering goosebumps, she scaled the brickwork, damp with condensation and mold. She waited for a small eight-legged pidey to run across the wall, and made double sure of her grip before transferring her weight, and trust, to each slippery hold.
She stood on the roof and looked up at the sky, then pressed her nose to stifle a sneeze. The Rose Quartz moon glowed, and Staercrags shone, the brightest star in the sky. Now she must dress in the chronos robe. Her disguise. She donned it over her pack and pulled up the hood, then tucked the hem into her shorts to keep it out of the way.
On hands and knees, she crept over the roof’s wooden boards, then sat on the edge and rolled onto her belly. Carefully, she lowered herself to hang by her hands. A nightbird called in the distance. She released her hold and dropped down to land on her feet. Her sore ankle stung, but it wasn’t too bad.
Zericha raised her hood and lowered her hem so the robe hung down to her feet. From the windowsill to her right, she retrieved the walking stick she’d stashed long ago, relieved to find it still there. It completed her elderly disguise. She pulled her hood forward, bent double, and hobbled out of the alleyway.
A guard rounded the corner, startled. “Oh— Ma’m, you frighted me!” Embarrassed, he patted his chest. “Leaving early to gather nuts?”
Face down, she nodded, hobbling toward the western garden.
A bird sang in a mandarin tree, anticipating dawn’s approach. Zericha checked for guards—none here—climbed up the fountain and grabbed the hanging roots of a large fig tree. She scrambled onto a wide branch with knots and bumps. The atrium at the center of the tree was big enough to host the funeral she was going to need if she was caught.
She removed and folded her robe, and then tucked it into a large hole. The branch was broad enough to run along, reaching out over the fence. Zericha crouched and dropped to lower branches, deep in the Forêt Wyldre, inhaling the rich scent of moss and decaying leaves. Her heart sank. No sign of her sister. She must have decided to stay home. Zericha accepted the loss somberly. It would be a dangerous, lonely, solo ascent.
She descended large roots as thick as heavy ropes, outside the dimarcheio’s walls, into deep darkness where the moonlight couldn’t penetrate the canopy.
Her toes touched down to leaf litter over soft earth. Wait!—blue light shone brightly from her sister-stone.
“You’re late,” Catiallé said.
