Page 157

A laugh, hollow and deadly. Nevrak. “You come back to preach what you do not know, Sabar. The strange Glacians… they have already come. They come when they choose now. Day and night.”

Dawsyn’s throat closes. She looks amongst the crowd at the shaking heads, the eyes on the sky. If there is a way to make the Ledge worse, it’s to make every day a Selection Day.

She trembles, feels the iskra wind its way from her gut to her hands.

Dawsyn suppresses it. She must stay the frost.

“The Glacians I brought with me… they are rebels. They have been with us in the valley, and they want to help. Please–” Dawsyn breathes, her lungs shrinking. She has grown unused to the mountain air. “Let them.”

There is silence. A strange, almost hopeful yearning in the space between them. And in the lag between words, Dawsyn sees clearly how desperate they are. They are starving. Dying. Living in a constant state of defence. This is what will bring them into the Chasm, she realises. Dawsyn can see it. These people know now what they did not before – they can no longer survive on the Ledge. Every day, more people will fall.

Dawsyn fills her chest with all the air she can manage and sends a prayer skyward. “At the bottom of the Chasm,” she says, “is a path. I have seen it.” She lets the message reach them. Lets it stick in their ears and watches their eyes widen. “My friends are waiting in the woods, but I assure you, they mean only to help you get to the bottom of the Chasm. We can walk to its end. We can be free. And if you won’t let us–” here she pauses. She prepares the words. “Then you willnotbe forced. We have brought food and we will leave it here. Weapons, too. There aren’t enough rations to last more than a day or so, but if that is what you choose, then you may have it. We will take our leave to the bottom of the Chasm. You won’t be harmed.”

More silence. More restless desperation. “We don’t belong here!” Dawsyn cries out, imploring them, one by one. “All the hostile seasons we’ve survived with so little to eat. Every Selection that stole more of us to Glacia. Thisfucking shelfthat tries to tip us into the Chasm,” Dawsyn heaves, but does not remove her gaze. “You do not need to choose fear and death.” She looks back to the crowd. “Choose to find a way out. Come with me,” she says. “Please.”

The wind whispers threats into their ears, but these are Ledge people, and they have long since learnt to ignore them.

Nevrak is silent, looking down at his daughters, shrouded in their lumpy hide. The cold has already found them. Next, it may find his son.

The crowd tarries. Waiting for someone to speak. Waiting for the first crack.

“How will we all reach the bottom?” comes a voice, the same woman who spoke with quivering lips. Now, her voice is lifted, rallied with something like possibility.

Dawsyn almost laughs, almost falls to her knees with the weight of unfettered relief. The iskra in her stomach becomes languid. The glow in her mind burns brightly. “As I was saying,” Dawsyn says. “I have friends.”

When Ryon, Tasheem, and Rivdan appear, they do so slowly, carefully. When Dawsyn nods to them, they summon their wings. Angels of death in a place for the dead.

Dawsyn turns to the Ledge people, expecting to see weapons raised, fear replacing the looks of hope. But they are either too hungry or too desperate to quail at the sight of these three mixed-blooded, who neither advance nor speak, and Dawsyn’s shoulders sag, relieved.This will work,she thinks.

Dawsyn explains the way they will be carried down into the Chasm – not with talons, but in the mixed-Glacians’ arms. Baltisse demonstrates the way she can fold and unfold on the spot, earning gasps and low oaths. She curtsies with a wicked sneer. Yennes remains behind the others, but Dawsyn explains her ability to fold similarly. She orders those willing to go into the Chasm to collect their belongings and dress for the journey.

She allows them an hour. An hour to reassure the children that all will be well. An hour to make peace with the unknown that lies ahead. An hour to collect whatever food and clothing they might possess, and pray that it’s enough.

Dawsyn is not so hopeful to expect that all are convinced to come with her, and indeed, she sees several cabin doors swing shut with grim reproach. They do not reopen.

Salem, Esra, and Hector organise the supplies where possible. Dawsyn does not trust that some advantageous idiot won’t be tempted by the proximity of a mixed-blood’s throat when they are carried into the Chasm, and so Dawsyn orders that their weapons be handed over. Yennes and Baltisse will fold those into the Chasm and return.

There are perhaps ten hours left in the night. Ten hours to move a hundred people into the Chasm, two at a time. When Ryon, Rivdan, and Tasheem take the first six, Tasheem grins widely, turns to Ryon and says, “Now this here, Mesrich, is real Izgoi shit.” And then takes off.

Dubious tension mounts when the Glacians return a good chunk of time later without their encumbrances, having safely displaced them to the bottom of the Chasm. When Dawsyn calls for the next six to step forward, no one does.

Baltisse huffs impatiently, and abruptly folds, leaving everyone to stare dumbfounded at the place she disappeared. A moment later she reappears, holding the wrist of the man Ryon had just taken over the lip, and waving it in the air the way one would a rag doll. “He lives,” she says in a bored voice.

The man gasps in great dry gulps. “It’s… safe,” he nods, though his face is grey. “What they say is true. The bottom of the Chasm… it’s safe. A path.”

“Fantastic,” Baltisse mutters. And folds them both away again.

The people go more willingly after that. Some of the children scream and cry, but as soon as the Glacians leave the ground, they become stricken and quiet, hurtling away through the pine grove.

Hector and Dawsyn light a fire for the people that remain on the Ledge awaiting their passage. She walks to and fro between the people. Eyes sliding over their bodies for any weapons they might be concealing. She answers the hundreds of questions when she has answers and determines which of them seem strong enough to withstand being folded by Baltisse or Yennes.

Otherwise, Dawsyn feels useless. She watches Ryon, Rivdan, Tasheem, Baltisse, and Yennes come and go, over and over, growing wearier with each passage. The mages must rest after each journey to the Chasm and back. The distance to the bottom is great. They must allow their magic to regenerate after each expenditure. After several hours, Yennes simply stops reappearing. She remains at the bottom of the Chasm. She can fold no more.

The mixed-bloods are strong, but the strength needed to raise themselves from the Chasm wanes them. They sweat, bodies slick with exertion. Their shoulders begin to sag.

But the numbers on the Ledge are dwindling. Another few trips will be all that is needed before it is just her and Hector that remain. The night wears on, but the skies remain a depthless, inescapable black.

The sound of wings on the wind is the only sign of Ryon, Tasheem, and Rivdan returning, but when she hears it again, something makes Dawsyn turn.