Page 40

If the valley is heaven, and the mountain is hell, then surely this is the purgatory between, an infinite torment. A path with just one true end. The other is a winding maze, entrapping those stupid enough to follow it.

No,Dawsyn thinks, shaking the thought away.This will end too.It has become her mantra, her war cry.Stay alive,she commands herself.It is all you have to do.

Twice, they stop, so that someone can kneel and leave their kin on the ground, their body having succumbed to this wretched journey.

“A mistake,” Dawsyn hears, over and over. Words that find their way to her down these obsidian walls. “Leaving the Ledge was a mistake.”

She cannot bring herself to look them in the eye. She suspects they might be right.

The third time they stop, it is a different energy that passes down the convoy, raising the hairs of Dawsyn’s neck.

“Stop!” she hears Ryon command. And they do.

But there are whimpers, shouts, the sound of bones and flesh meeting that accompanies the call. The dismay of bystanders bellowing and pushing one another.

Dawsyn doubles back, knocking into the chests and backs of those who bear the misfortune of blocking her sightless path. She follows the glow of the torch held high above her head, for surely Ryon is its carrier.

The sounds of fighting grow louder, more vicious. It is the very same accompaniment one would often hear when these sorry fools graced the Ledge. It is the chorus of her childhood as the Drop came. The canticle of every feud, every transaction, every settlement of grievance.

But there is no time for public exhibitions here. No energy to be expended on frivolous quarrelling. Dawsyn barrels toward the noise, toward Ryon’s beacon, and draws her ax forth, however heavy it may feel in her hand.

“Move,” she calls, nearing the commotion. “Move!”

“Ah, here she is!” comes a voice. The last spectator moves, and Dawsyn takes several moments to blink the scene into view.

Nevrak stands before her, straddling the stream. Beneath his hand is someone on all fours. Their fingers claw into the earth on either side of the water’s edge. By the sounds of their laboured breathing and the way Nevrak’s fingers are twisted into their hair, it seems their grip on the ground is necessary, lest Nevrak decide to bury their face in the brook again.

“I won’t ask it again,” Ryon is saying, his sword tip levelled with Nevrak’s bared teeth. “Drop her.”

The girl in Nevrak’s hand, spits, whimpers, water cascading from her clothes and hair. Hair that glints auburn in the flicker of torch flame.

Abertha.

“She.Killed.My son,” Nevrak shouts, his jaw trembling with the force of his rage. “Burned him.Alive.”

“He –he set it –himself!” Abertha pants, her face screwed up tightly in pain as Nevrak yanks.

“SHUT UP!” he bellows, incensed. “Enough lies!”

Abertha cries out, then thrusts her hand upward in an attempt to grab Nevrak’s beard. In turn he pushes her back down, her face breaking the surface of the water.

“Stop!” Dawsyn calls, stepping forward, holding her ax aloft. She waits until Nevrak finds her in the gloom, his expression only darkening. Slowly, he lifts Abertha’s face.

The woman gasps violently, spitting grit and icy spatters back to the ground.

“Killing the girl will not bring him back,” she calls, but the volume of her voice ignites that waiting flame in her chest and throat, and her abrupt coughing dulls the sharpness of the words.

“Thought she’d pay back my son for deigning to notice her,” Nevrak bleats, ignoring her. His face bears the fiery, veined conflict of man far surpassed of his rational nature. “Too fucking high and holy to bear his attention!”

“He forced himself on me!” Abertha spits, her cheeks billowing with the strength of her gasps.

“And youset him alight.” Nevrak growls. His teeth are bared. The fist that holds Abertha captive pulls her head from side to side.

“No!” she cries.

“NEVRAK!” Dawsyn bellows, but Ryon now touches his sword tip to Nevrak’s throat.

“Do it,” Nevrak hisses. “Cut us all down. Put an end to thisnightmare.”