Lark Ascending

Text copyright © 2014 by Meagan Spooner

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Spooner, Meagan.

Lark ascending / by Meagan Spooner.

p. cm. — (Skylark trilogy)

Summary: The final volume in the Skylark trilogy finds Lark fighting her way back into the City Behind the Wall, the place where it all began and where she will finally discover the cause of the cataclysm that caused the world to fall.

ISBN 978–0–7613–8867–8 (trade hard cover : alk. paper)

ISBN 978–1–4677–4629–8 (eBook)

[1. Fantasy.  2. Survival—Fiction.  3. Magic—Fiction.]  I. Title.

PZ7.S7642Lar 2014

Manufactured in the United States of America

1 – BP – 7/15/14
eISBN: 978-1-4677-4629-8 (pdf)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-7449-9 (ePub)
eISBN: 978-1-4677-7450-5 (mobi)

Their clockwork sun is rising. In these half-forgotten tunnels beneath the city, the sound is like the roar of a rainstorm, lashing my ears again and again. The swell of magic washes over me like a tide, flooding my senses; I taste copper, and I don't know if it's magic or blood from my bitten tongue. Breaking through their barrier drained me of every ounce of magic I had, making this surge overwhelming. It nearly drives me to my knees in the ankle-deep water. My sloshing footsteps are lost in the din as I stagger forward, bracing myself against the tunnel wall. The stone bricks are slimy to the touch, wet with decades of mildew and mold.

I pull myself upright again, a moan echoing away from me down the tunnel. There's no telling what security sensors they might have—for all I know, the city's forces are on their way already, wondering what foreign danger breached their defenses for the first time in a century. I can't be here when they arrive. I keep moving through willpower alone.

It was Dorian who taught me how to do it. He deciphered the theory of it, spent months locked up in his house, poring over equations and diagrams. Sometimes in the night I'd awaken, consumed with fear and doubt about what lay in store for me. I'd look out my window and see, across the darkened sea of the Iron Wood, a single light—like the solitary lantern in a lighthouse, calling to me, drawing me to him.

I always knew he could teach me how to get inside, but only I could break through the flawless metal dome enclosing the city. Only I am strong enough to magic iron.

I'm too drained to even conjure a light, so I rely on the dim illumination that filters through the occasional grate in the street overhead. As the cacophony of the sunrise fades, I begin to hear the noise of carriages and foot traffic here and there as the city's citizens shuffle off to begin their days.

With the fading of the sunrise's harsh magic comes the return of my senses. The city itself is an utter mystery to us—no outsider has been inside since before the cataclysm over a century ago. There are no maps, and I can't risk showing my face aboveground until I absolutely have to. We don't know how many people live here, or whether they'd recognize me as a stranger if they saw me. In the Iron Wood, we all know each other. We'd recognize a newcomer in a heartbeat.

So I have to follow the scent of magic. The moment I crossed through their barrier I could feel it, a shining beacon in the hazy unknown. Though there is magic in the air here, most of it resides at the far end of the city, in a complex of buildings. I could see them lit up like stars when I scouted from the rooftop in the predawn hours before I retreated beneath the streets.

If anything can tell me the secret of how this city survived the cataclysm that turned the rest of the countryside into ruins, it'll be there. Dorian thinks they had something to do with the end of the world. And we'll never be safe until we know they can't do it again.

Over the sounds of distant machinery and street traffic, something else catches my ear. A tiny buzzing, almost musical. I pause, listening carefully. The sound is coming from down here—from the tunnels. And it's coming closer.

I pull back against the wall, tucking myself into an alcove. Whatever it is has magic, I can feel it now, bobbing nearer and nearer. They have sentries even down here. Carefully I pull the last shreds of magic I have close around myself, imagining a hard, iron shell.
Camouflage.
Holding my breath, I wait.

Eventually, a tiny machine flits into view. Its wingspan is no bigger than my pinky finger, and if it hadn't buzzed through a shaft of light from the streets above, causing its copper body to flash, I never would've spotted it. I hold even tighter to my shell, willing the sentry to move on past.

Though it pauses to scan its surroundings—I can feel the sweep of magic slide past me—its senses don't penetrate my camouflage. It hums off into the distance again, leaving me alone with my pounding heart.

I have so little magic that I feel naked, vulnerable. If that sentry had spotted me, I'm not sure I could have destroyed it before it took word of my intrusion back to its masters. Summoning my strength, I step out of my crumbling alcove and slip on through the maze of tunnels.

The knot of magic at the end of the city draws me onward, and eventually I feel it start to shift. It's no longer ahead of me, but all around me. Somewhere above my head are the answers I seek.

The world around me is nearly pitch-black now, no more grates leading to the streets. There are buildings above me, and no more easy escapes. Swallowing my fears, I send flickers of magic ahead of me, feeling the way they caress the stone and bounce back from the metal. I'm forced to form a picture of my surroundings the way a bat does, ghostly images coalescing in my mind.

There—a ladder. I grasp for it, fingers curling around the clammy iron. No hiding underground anymore. I have to cling to the rungs for nearly a minute before I summon the courage to step out of the water and climb up to the hatch above.

The wheel-lock screeches as I open the hatch, but it gives way—there's nothing blocking it from the other side. The trapdoor is heavy, forcing me to lean my shoulder into it awkwardly as I try to shove it up and away while balancing on the ladder. Finally I manage it, and it falls back with a clang. Light floods my eyes.

I stagger out of the hole in the floor and let the hatch drop closed again, and then catch my breath. I'm in a vast room, larger than any I've ever seen. The ceiling is a huge dome with skylights to let in the artificial sunlight, crisscrossed with tracks for machinery. As I watch, an immense ring with a fiery sun on it ticks over, a simulated passage across their simulated sky. The floor is polished marble—when I look down, the hatch is nearly invisible, masquerading as a beautiful compass rose inlaid with gold at the center of the floor.

Corridors lead in every direction, labeled with signs. Most of them I cannot understand, despite being one of the few in the Iron Wood who can read.
Biothaumatic Laboratory,
reads one sign.
Museum and Archives,
reads another.

Archives. That one, I recognize. I take a step forward.

“Hello.” A voice echoes out from behind me, freezing my blood and making me whirl.

A woman stands there. She's older than I am, but not by much. She has short black hair and a round face with keen, narrow eyes. She's a little plump, wearing a long red coat that reaches to her knees. Around her neck she wears a gold necklace adorned with an ornamental version of a drawing tool I've only ever seen in Dorian's office, used when he studies his maps and diagrams.
A compass,
my mind supplies.

She doesn't seem surprised to see me—she seems only interested, curious. Even pleased.

My thoughts tangle, trying desperately to seek out some excuse, some reason for being here. My pant legs are sodden from my trip through the tunnels—in the silence I can hear them dripping on the immaculate floor. The droplets strike out a rhythm against the floor like the ticking of a clock, measuring the time since she spoke, the time I've failed to reply.
Too late. Too late.

The woman's head tilts to the side as she studies me the way Dorian would study one of his maps. “Welcome to the Institute,” she says. “What's your name?”

I open my mouth, my dry throat working soundlessly. Finally, painfully, I whisper, “Eve.”

She smiles, but the expression leaves me cold, makes me wish I'd stayed in the damp, musty tunnels underground. Her smile makes something at the base of my skull ache—her smile lifts the hairs on the back of my neck.

“Hello, Eve,” she says. “My name is Gloriette. I think we're going to become the best of friends.”