Chapter 4
“Trust? I trusted Alfor but I know he will stop me if he knows the truth. So, I lie, and I pray that one day, he will know all and forgive me. For now, however, I gather my things, my courage, my heart, and step into the night. I feel fate awaiting me, her hand outstretched – I take it.”
Excerpt from Litania’s diary
The snow was falling gently, tiny flakes of snow thickening the heavy blanket that lay over the world. It dusted her furs, dissolving into her the world. Despite the falling snow, she felt the cold barely at all.
Before her the snow framed the broad frame of her guide someone of little words. He had not spoken since their departure, seeming to prefer walking at a hard pace, always two steps ahead. Enough so she couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read those curiously dark eyes that betrayed so little. It was maddening. He was taking her down the mountain, had offered her clothes, even a bloody amulet for protection but said nothing beyond that.
First, he had acted grateful of her, almost too much in his thankfulness in how much he gave her in response – now, he seemed eager to be rid of her, so he could return to what? The ruins of a dead empire, a dragon for company, constantly dogged by the presence of ravenous wyverns? What kind of life was that? What kind of person chose that?
After several short climbs down on little cliffs and ledges they reached a narrow path. He was off, lingering scarcely enough time for her to drop down behind him.
She glared at his back, released a little huff. Guiltily, she made it louder, just to see if he’d slow or stop, turn to see what was wrong. He didn’t. If he even heard he gave no notice.
Rolling her eyes, she gave up trying to subtly get his attention and focused on the narrow path that sloped down the side of the mountain. One side, sheer cliff that stretched high up into the cloud; the other side, a drop that went down further than she cared to look. The path was, however, wide enough for three or four people, so it permitted her to walk comfortably by the cliff. Heights didn’t terrify her like some; still, it didn’t mean she looked down when she was climbing. A smart climber never looked down.
She had tried to look down – briefly – to see if she could spy anything familiar, her village maybe. All she’d seen was rock and snow, a vast abyss of it. So, she kept her gaze ahead, on the stranger that refused to talk, and the snow that was falling. The low, mournful howl of the wind that cut through the mountains was all that she heard with the crunch of their boots into the shallow snow. It was a truly depressing sound; one, she normally loved when she climbed, when it drowned out the chattering of the other climbers below. It made her feel as though she were a lone soul on the mountain, free of the worry below, unbound. That couldn’t be when all she saw ahead of her was a person.
Distractedly, she toyed with her new pendant. The stone was warm, even through her thick gloves, glowing a luminescent blue in the gloomy grey light. For the moment she could hold it out in the open, marvel at it; down at the village she’d have to hide it, keep it close, on her body at all times. As much as she loved the people below she knew some would happily sell it, if only to buy food, which she probably should do herself. A good daughter would do that…only, the thought of surrendering it, even for food, seemed to fill her with a cold, panicky feeling.
That, and she remembered the feeling of facing down a wyvern, and she didn’t want to give it up. If a tiny trinket could avert that then she didn’t want to give it up. That, and she rationalised, it might protect her fellow climbers – that was invaluable. Climbers were precious. Few were brave enough to take to the cliffs in order to farm the rare red flowers that bloomed on high, the main income of their village. Without the flowers their village would have to move lower, become like everyone else. It was why no one really fought over a girl being a Climber. If she could do the climb and had the courage then let her.
When the path flanked inwards and darkness corralled like a plethora of demons she closed the distance between them, within touching distance. She wasn’t afraid, per say, of the darkness, but it wasn’t her element. It felt too confined, chafing against her nerves.
The darkness was short lived as it opened onto a small valley nestled between twin peaks. Snow sloped down sharply on smooth sections of rock, then slipped between the bare trees that jutted up like mangled hands, defiantly reaching for the sun. The sun there was low, slipping quietly behind the furthest peak, with shadows rapidly advancing across the valley.
He stopped, turned to her. “This is where we part ways. Go to the mouth of the valley and there you will find a low section of cliff to climb down. A frozen waterfall and river will be your guide. From there, a path will guide you back to the northern edge where your village is. You will see it on your first climb, so you will easily find it once you’re down and on the path.”
He stepped past her, as if that was all to be said of goodbye. A tangle of words cluttered in her mouth. She spun around, opened her mouth, tried to summon any of them but then he was gone, vanishing into the darkness. Somehow, she felt if she followed she would see nothing, as if he were nothing more than a spectre that dissolved once gone from her.
With a sigh, she turned back and set off. In her mind she hoped she saw him again, however unlikely that might be.
Darkness had descended on Fenware and the plumes of smoke were already rising from the houses, thick coils that twisted up into the blackening, angry sky. A storm was coming. The wind whipped up nastily as she walked the path up to the village, though she felt no cold, only irritated as the wind tried to snatch her cloak away. When she reached the threshold of the village, still briefly ensconced in the darkness that hadn’t been broken by the lanterns lit haphazardly about the tiny village, she paused. The second she entered the village she’d have to forget about what she saw; the empire of legends, the man, the dragon, even about the sword strapped to her back and the pendant that glowed warm against her skin.
With a deep breath she stepped forward.
“Who goes there?” A stranger bellowed from the dark.
She squinted into the dark as the figure moved to the glow of a lantern.
“Vaughn?”
He froze, staring at her as though she were a ghost, risen from the dead to haunt him. “Wren, you’re…you’re alive.”
She pushed back her hood and smiled. “Quite.”
“But I saw the Wyvern take you! How did you survive?”
“Another wyvern came and they fought, dropping me. I didn’t fall far but I managed to sneak away. Found some ruins, some old clothes as mine were ruined, even a sword for protection and then I climbed,” she lied easily and glanced over his shoulder. “My family?”
“Grieve. They think you are dead-“
Her mind froze. They thought she was dead. It was expected, really, though part of her had hoped that they’d hope she’d survive somehow. That they’d hope she was tough enough.
“Oh gods, I have to see them!” She was striding past him, ignoring his calls as she quickened her pace, running up the steps to the front door before she knew it.
She didn’t knock before she threw the door open, striding inside. At once her Father and Mother, whom had been in converse by the hearth, sitting in their chairs, rose suddenly. For a second, they didn’t seem to know her; then, her mother let out a strangled cry, slapping a hand to her mouth. Her father, to his credit, looked pale and shocked but stood firm.
“Wren?”
“Yes papa, it’s me,” she said.
With the words said her mother rushed forward, dragging Wren roughly into her arms, sobbing into her daughter’s shoulder. Awkwardly, Wren wrapped her arms around her mother, whilst her gaze was on her father, wondering what he might say or do. Their relationship had always been distant; not cold or cruel but there was not quite the same affection in his eyes when he looked at her, compared to when he looked at her sister, Elise. Still, he cared, in his own way, which was enough for Wren, whom struggled with emotions and being dainty like her sister, a pretty flower growing defiantly on the harsh mountain side.
Finally, her mother pulled back, teary-eyed. “How? Baro’s son said the Wyvern got you, that you were carried away.” Wren went to answer but her mother gasped, then held up a hand. “Oh gods, you’ve come so far, come sit! I’ll get some food, yes, some food. You must be hungry and cold, too! How terribly cold it is outside!”
Wren was hungry but she was by no means cold. So, she removed her sheath and sword, then sat down, pretending to warm herself by the fire, watching idly as her mother hurried about, gathering up some cheese and salted meat, then setting a small pot of stew left over from the evening meal. As it warmed her father sat down before her.
“What happened?”
She told him – the lie, anyway. One spun carefully. Whether he believed her words or not, he gave little indication. Only when his gaze flickered to the sword resting by the fire did his eyes betray something.
Recognition.
She worked her mouth, summoned the question to her mouth but, thinking better of it, pressed her lips together. Behind him the door to the room she shared with Elise opened and her shorter, willowy sister stepped out, clad in a simple green dress. In the soft glow of the fire Wren remarked how different Elise and she were. Elise was pale, her complexion fair and her long hair spun like pale gold. There was a natural, easy beauty to her eyes, and a grace that was beyond Wren’s capability. Her sister would be a wife, soon, a mother not long after, of someone well off in the village – if she was lucky, then to someone from another place entirely. Her limbs were slender, not hardened from climbing, and she was delicate in every movement, even as her soft green eyes fell on Wren and she stilled.
“Sister?”
Her sister was across the room in a flash and Wren on her feet, embracing her. As she did, she peered over Elise’s shoulder, the feint smell of perfume touching Wren’s nose, she saw her father staring back at Wren with an expression she’d never seen before.
Wren couldn’t tear her gaze away.
Before dawn split between the mountain peaks over the village it seemed everyone knew of Wren’s miraculous survival and return. Well-wishers came in droves, knocking on the door, curious to see Wren. The whole time Wren remained cloistered in her room, secure from their prying eyes. Yet even through the walls she heard snatches of their conversations; blessed, a sign, ill-omen, a changeling. The latter made Wren smile. The folk, though dismissive of the dragons that once ruled the mountains where their village stood, seemed inclined to believe in Fae and their changeling children – as if Wren could be one of them. She didn’t like the whispers of her return being an ill-omen…and ill-omen for what? Nothing ever happened in their sleepy village aside from the regular sale of the red flowers, which were dried and ground, made into a fine powder and sold in small vials. A single trader came every year, paid handsomely, then left without staying a night, let alone conversing with anyone he didn’t have to.
By midday the attention had waned a little, giving time for Wren to slip out. She wore her thick furs for climbing and had her thick cloak set about her shoulders, hood down. Much of the village had started work; women were in the main hunt, grinding down the dried flowers, with the men in the few fields that skirted the village, steep on the side of the hill, growing what few things survived the cold. The few that were out smiled and waved at her, a couple came over and touched her reverently, murmuring how wonderful it was to be back. It made Wren smile because she knew, though the village was small and most knew her by name, few probably cared enough about her to really notice her. After all, she wasn’t pretty like Elise, and only her talent with climbing marked her out.
She made her way to the climbing hut where she found her team rigging up harnesses and studying maps of the mountains. Safe passages were always changing as avalanches happened or thick ice clung to cliff faces, making ascents impossible. New ones had to be found, marked, indents for climbing tools made.
None of her squad seemed to notice her standing at the edge of the room, warm in her furs; that is, until Vaughn himself stood upright, stretching out his lean body with a long yawn – then he saw her.
“Wren!”
At once, everyone looked up and before she knew it had descended around her like a flock of birds. They were too close, drawing in around her, cutting off routes for escape. She had to leave. Coming was a bad choice but she’d felt stifled in her room, bored by the plain walls and still air. Then Vaughn squeezed to the front, pushing the crowd away from Wren.
“You sure you should be here? You should rest,” he said, his eyes warm, affectionate.
She chafed against his kindness. “I’m fine. I just needed to get out. So, what have I missed?”
He blinked, startled by her abrasiveness – though, she wasn’t sure why. She was always like that. Then he smiled, maybe seeing just that, and the others dispersed, remarking how happy they were she was okay. Vaughn led her to the table.
“There was an avalanche after you were taken, which has cut us off from the fields we were at. Hopefully the summer melts it but we won’t be back up there any time soon,” he said grimly.
“Which means we can’t plant in time for the next harvest,” finished Wren. “Please tell me we have some seeds left, something to plant if we find fertile soil?”
“A little but next year will be a small harvest.”
Wren ran her hand over the map, tracing the routes. “The harvests get smaller every year.”
“And there are less climbers every year,” he added quietly.
She glanced around the room. True enough, there was half the numbers there had been when she first started full time at fourteen. Most had left the village entirely, seeking warmer climates and easier jobs. The girls that had left were married, mothers of small broods. With fewer recruits every year – hell, there had only been one in months – their ability to climb, to tend to the fields of flowers that needed specific height to grow well, to find new paths to climb, was reduced dramatically. At the rate of decline she expected they’d run out of flowers to harvest in two, maybe three years, and that was if they didn’t lose their remaining climbers by then. Hell, even Vaughn was looking to settled and once he married he’d retire. She knew it.
She thought of the fields amongst the ruins. It was perfect territory but it was overrun with wyverns and far too high to climb. She tried to remember the exact way her guide had led her down but the details were foggy, already slipping from her mind before she knew it. It left her with only a vague sense of where she’d gone but the route, if she tried to find it again, evaded her.
“We’ll find a way to survive,” she said but there wasn’t the same confidence in her voice anymore.
From the stray looks given from the other climbers they sensed it, too.797Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡrryxBg7Sf2
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