The Stars Askew (42 page)

“Giselle is right. We should turn back,” said Armand.

None of them spoke as they looked out over the bleak and beautiful landscape. Armand thought about the journey back, the possibility of again being caught, of suffering a slow death in Camp X. Despair took him.

Even now, the cold bit at Armand's hands, numbing them. Irik wore the gloves and Giselle's coat for the moment, though she might take them back at any time, for they rotated regularly. Irik's strength was slowly returning. Now the man's fever had gone, and he slept soundly and ate well. He had lost weight he would not regain until the journey was over, but Armand no longer feared for his friend's life.

Giselle turned. “Come. We'll retrace our steps.”

“Wait!” Irik's fine face turned to the south; his neck craned forward as he squinted. “A road. I think I see a road.”

“There are no roads,” said Giselle.

“There is one, spanning the valley to the south. Come! See!”

Armand rushed back to where Irik stood. He peered into the distance.

Irik pointed away across the valley. “There, against the mountains. It's just a fine line, but see: there are supports holding it up, I think.”

Armand tried to follow the man's hand, but he could see nothing but mountains and rock faces and patchy snow. Low-lying clouds drifted between the mountains, momentarily obscuring them. “I can't see anything.”

Giselle joined in the search. “You're imagining it, Irik. There's nothing there.”

Irik faltered, his confidence draining. “I saw a line, but it seems gone now. The light, you know, it changes.”

Armand peered to the south, straining to see something. Eventually he said. “There's nothing there. Let's go.”

Irik followed him. “I so wanted it to be true.”

The two men were already back on the trail when Giselle's voice came to them. “Wait. Just for a moment I saw it. A line cutting in front of the mountain.”

*   *   *

Filled with hope, they scrambled south along the edges of the crag, finding goat trails, then losing them again. At times they were forced to climb up over sheer rock faces. In these moments Armand was terrified he would slide and fall. Images rose in his mind of his tumbling body striking rock and snow. The valley seemed another world, so far below. By the time night drew near, they had only made slow progress. They were compelled to camp on a slope, only steps from a terrifying cliff. The goat meat sizzled over their small fire, which brought at least some comfort.

Through the night Armand listened to the wind flapping against the canvas. He was sure they would slide away and over the edge. The others were sound asleep, but his body was rigid with anxiety, and his mind raced through the long hours of darkness, from their precarious place on the mountain to his uncertain place in the world. He thought of Valentin's betrayals, of Boris Autec and his former spy, Kata, of Dumas in the Collegia—everything seemed treacherous and insecure, just like his place on the mountain. His arm burned like a log in the fire, but he pushed all thought of it away. He was good at repressing things. He always had been.

The next day a thick fog hung in the valley, like a gray sea beneath them. If there was indeed a bridge to the south, it was lost in the fog. As he stumbled after the other two, the goat trail widened. For a while it stayed that way, clinging to the side of the mountain precariously, so that they made better progress. At midday they sat on the cold ground, chewing dried fruit and nuts that Giselle had brought, and looked out over the hovering gray.

“It seems we might even walk across that spectral carpet ahead of us,” said Irik.

“Right across to the facing mountain,” said Giselle.

“Come on, then.” Irik smiled at Armand. “It's the shortest route.”

Armand looked toward the edge of the wide trail, noticing absentmindedly that little square markers ran along the edge of the precipice. He peered at them for a moment, then blurted out, “This isn't a trail. It's a road.”

As they continued, the road's form, clinging impossibly to the mountainside, became obvious. It was ancient, and whole sections of it had crumbled down into the valley below.

They came to a spot where they had to press themselves to the cliff and shuffle sideways, palms against the rock face, the terrifying precipice behind them. Armand's legs felt like they might give way, but he forced himself on, reaching a wider section where the road had given way completely, leaving only empty air. Another section stood farther on, a pinnacle of rock jutting up alone in the fog. With a mixture of excitement and terror, Armand looked higher up above it, seeing the image of some child's fancy, where a straight and strong bridge hovered in the air. They had reached their destination.

Joy rushed through them; Irik's head fell back in relief, and Giselle smiled and ran her hands through her thick red hair. They stood for a while, staring up at the bridge, their path to freedom.

“We'll have to jump.” Giselle's eyes flicked from the lone pillar standing in empty space to the bridge farther on and higher up. “We'll jump over the first gap, then I can use my grappling hook to get us up to the bridge.”

She strode back along the road, turned, and raced toward the void. With a graceful leap she flew through the air like a dancer, taking two graceful steps on the small section of road as she landed, and looked back.

Armand stared at the vast abyss. “I can't.”

Irik patted him on the shoulder. “Imagine there is no cliff. The road there, it's just a patch of grass surrounded by dirt. See how easy it is? See?”

Armand's legs would not stop shaking. He looked back in the direction from which they had come. Only ghostly clouds lay that way. They had to continue on, and yet he thought he might vomit with fear. He turned, ran toward the abyss without thinking. Rushes of panic ran through him as he came to the edge, leaped high and long, and crashed onto the surface of the lone column of road. He slid toward the far edge. Giselle's hand closed around his foot, and he came to a stop, shivering and trembling.

He didn't see Irik make the leap, but he felt the man's hand on his arm a moment later. “See, that wasn't too hard.”

Giselle was already on to the next task. The grappling hook struck and held. “We must swing out and climb up.”

Armand looked at his feet, the rough boots that had belonged to some dead man long ago. He had come to know their bends and dents, their patches of gray discoloring, the wiry shoelaces.

A little while later Giselle's voice came from above. “See, not hard at all.”

Irik held his shoulder. “You first, Armand.”

“I can't.”

“Here. I'll tie the rope around your leg so you can't fall,” said Irik calmly. “There, safe as can be. Giselle is bracing the hook up on the road. All right, let me help you up now. Hold high up here, and we'll sit you on the edge so you don't swing out too far. There, ready? All right, here we go.”

Irik pushed, and Armand felt the earth disappear from underneath him. He seemed to have no feeling in his hands as he swung out over the abyss like a pendulum. He tried to climb, but his arms were weak. He pulled, wrapped his lower legs around the rope, but instead of climbing, he slipped down. He clung to the rope in desperation. Beneath him lay a vast expanse of nothingness, the valley far, far below lost in a sea of gray.

“I can't pull him up. I'm not strong enough,” said Giselle.

They waited there for a moment, no one sure what to do.

“We can pull him up together,” said Irik.

“And how do you plan to get up here? Float?” asked Giselle.

Irik eyed the rope, judging the distance.

“No!” yelled Armand. “No!”

But Irik had already taken several steps back. He launched himself into the air. Armand felt the rope shudder. A whipping motion rolled down it. Irik slipped down toward Armand. One foot crushed Armand's hand, and a second struck Armand's shoulder.

Armand felt a terrible pressure on his hands and where the rope was tied around his ankle. Then the hold on his ankle was gone: the knot had come apart. Armand slid down. His palms burned terribly; his legs swung in midair. He grasped harder, and for a moment the two of them held still.

Irik began to climb. Armand could not tell how long it was before the rope shuddered again softly. Then again. He was being pulled up.

“Remember to keep your body pressed against the hook,” he heard Giselle say. “Yes, like that.”

Armand's fingers struck the edge of the bridge. He held tightly as they were scraped badly. An arm grabbed him, and he clutched the bridge's railing. With a heave, he lurched over the barrier and collapsed to the ground, where he shivered uncontrollably. Irik placed his hand on Armand's head, a soft touch.

*   *   *

A single rail ran along the center of the bridge, though in places it was half buried by snow. They began their march into the fog, a vast and spectral world that seemed never to end. Finally a vast rock face appeared, patches of dark-green moss and lichen clinging to it. The road plunged into a wide dark tunnel. Giselle lit a small torch, and they continued into it.

So the day continued, through tunnels and out into valleys, until they camped on the road, the tent unsecured to the ground. As he lay against Irik's warmth, Armand felt a hand reach out to him. He held it softly. The hand moved slowly up to his stomach, gently caressing, leaving trails of fire and energy.

Armand rolled toward Irik, his lips close to the other man's ears. “You are … I have never met anyone like you.”

Irik reached over to Armand's arm, which burned now with unnatural heat. The oppositionist ran his hand over the arm, up and down, a soft caressing touch.

“Your arm is like fire,” said Irik.

“It is.” Armand's voice was matter-of-fact.

“You didn't want to tell me you have the bloodstone disease?”

“What is there to tell? We have to reach the Eyries.”

Irik sighed. “And after the Augurers—then what?”

“I will return to Varenis, avenge myself. I have people waiting for me in Caeli-Amur, building their forces.” He hesitated for a moment, but he trusted this man. “And I have maps of the passages beneath the city. With these, my army can slip in past the walls, where the seditionists will focus their forces. The city will be mine before they know it. Then I can reinstate order.”

“This will drive us apart.” Irik took Armand's hands and clenched them tightly, as if he might slip away. They lay like this, dozing, waking occasionally to reach out to the other in the night.

In the morning Irik pulled Armand's shirt sleeve away, baring his forearm. A gleaming hot spidery redness splayed out along his veins. Armand looked down at the bloodstone cancer. Soon enough it would take his shoulder, and then, once it hit his internal organs, the thing would run wild inside him.

Armand pulled the shirt sleeve down. “Ignore it. That's what I've been doing.”

So the days passed on that long road, curling around cliffs, cutting across expanses, diving through tunnels. Each day was the same; there seemed no end to the vast mountains.

Over a week after their escape, the three travelers entered a black tunnel that opened out into gleaming sunlight. They stopped in amazement at where the road joined a wide valley. Rising high between the mountains were clusters of thin rocky pillars. Terrifying stairs climbed each one, all the way up to their sharp peaks. Into the pinnacles were chiseled doors and windows; dozens of little roofs angled off the many-leveled towers. They had reached the Needles: the Eyries of the Augurers.

Around the Needles circled flocks of birds. Other, larger creatures rose on the winds higher up.

“What are they?” Armand asked.

“I don't know,” said Giselle.

“Griffins,” said Irik. “They're the Augurers' griffins.”

 

THIRTY-FOUR

Afternoon came to a slow end as the three travelers reached the first cluster of pinnacles marking the Eyries. The low sunlight bathed the spires in gold and orange and threw shadows across the many high windows.

With slow deliberation, they climbed the nearest staircase. Another vertiginous fall lay to one side, but Armand's vertigo had been crushed out of him by the incident on the bridge. He had been through too much to be afraid.

They stopped periodically, catching their breaths. At these times Armand looked out over the magnificent landscape. The nearby spires—part of the same cluster as this one—were pictures of surreal beauty. The last of the sunlight turned the rocks yellow and red so they burned like fiery embers.

The pinnacles widened as they reached the apex, where the stone citadel was built. Here the staircase curled out and around into a small forecourt. In front of its three walls ran crumbling white pillars; between these stood purple-veined marble statues of the ancients. In each of these walls were ornate doors, carved with baroque inscriptions and painted in reds, blues, and ochers. A fount stood in the center of the peristyle, like a giant chalice made from inscribed stone.

While the others wandered toward the doors, Armand peered over the edge of the fountain at the water, which looked clear and fresh. A moment later it changed, becoming milky and thick. Intense eyes appeared in the liquid, and then the face of an old woman filled out the image, hair wild and matted, nose hooked and proud. One look at her eyes—one black, the other green—and Armand sensed her fierce and ancient power.

Legends said the Augurers had once been normal women, but they sacrificed their humanity for the ability to see the future. Alien powers were spliced into them, and they were forced to retreat from the world to these rocky sanctuaries. Some said they demanded visitors mate with them, to produce a new generation—always of women. They always required payment.

Armand was fixed to the spot, drawn into those eyes, sucked in closer and closer.