The Crimson Skew (The Mapmakers Trilogy) by S. E. Grove (38)

37

The Iron Cage

BIRKE’S PASSENGERS WERE mute as the southward-running streams took them through the woods of New Occident. They had all looked through the mirrorscope, each for only seconds, but the visions had stayed in their minds, leaving them shaken.

Overhead, the sky darkened. Beneath them, the rippling water had become inaudible—it seemed to rise and fall and splash without so much as a murmur. The birds had fallen silent. Then a high, distant keening sound began. At first Sophia could not place it, and then she knew: it was the mounting of a weirwind.

The tree branches murmured uneasily in the gathering wind. Sophia felt fear in her stomach: tense and coiled and trembling. She was afraid of what she had seen, and she was afraid of what the gathering storm might mean, and she was afraid that they would arrive too late. What if they reached the grove only to find the kind of horrors she had seen in the mirrorscope actually happening?

The fear made her mind turn in panicked circles, racing from one thought to the next, until they all ran together: memories from the birch bark; visions from the garnets; sights and sounds from the woods around her; and scenes of what might already be happening in the grove. Sophia could not open her eyes. As the howling wind grew sharper, she thought she heard voices. Who was crying out in the distance? Were they human? Where were they?

Birke plummeted down a short waterfall, and the icy spray made them all gasp. Sophia’s eyes flew open. A flash of lightning cut through the dark clouds. Thunder crashed, drowning out the keening wind. Rain began to fall in heavy sheets, and the forward motion of the canoe made the droplets bite.

“Here!” Casanova shouted, holding out one of the rubber tarps that Smokey had packed. “Get down into the hull and cover yourselves.”

Thunder crashed around them once more. Sophia and Theo huddled down, pulling the tarp over them and peering out uselessly into the driving rain. They could not see where they were going—yet Birke shuttled onward as steadily as ever, coursing along the turbulent waters, circling boulders that appeared suddenly out of the gray, wavering storm. The howling weirwind seemed more remote now, but now there was something else—an uneven sound more like a whistle than a howl.

“Do you hear that?” she said loudly in Theo’s ear.

He nodded. “It’s Fen Carver’s men. It’s the call.”

Sophia shook her head under the tarp, signaling that she did not understand.

“They whistle before they attack,” Theo said.

Sophia listened again, and now she heard the difference between the howl of the weirwind and the piercing call of the troops: a haunting rise and fall like the whistle of a dying fire.

• • •

THE RAIN DROVE down, and they drove forward. Finally, the tree canopy diminished, and as the rain drew back from downpour to shower, Turtleback Valley came into view. Sophia and Theo pushed the tarp aside. It was difficult to see what lay below them on the floor of the valley. The grove appeared to stand intact, the tall trees swaying with the force of the winds. Beyond the grove, two great patches discolored the slopes on either side of the river: to the east, Fen Carver’s troops, a meandering brown stain punctuated by patches of blue and green and yellow; and to the west, the New Occident troops, a rectangle of red and white. In a flash of lightning, Sophia saw the river that ran between them, a long, uneasy serpent of gray.

Just as she had standing at the edge of the valley with Bittersweet days earlier, Sophia perceived clearly the old one’s fear, concentrated around the grove. The Clime’s intentions had hardened. There was desperation in the howling wind and the crashing thunder, but the desperation was controlled. Now there was also determination in the relentless wail of the weirwind that waited at the crest of the western hills, ready at a moment’s notice to raze the ground before it. Sophia looked toward it apprehensively, and as the hilltop crackled with light, she realized that this was no ordinary weirwind. So tall that it merged with the clouds overhead, the weirwind carried lightning inside it. It was just as Borage had said: Keep firing that pistol and you’re going to hit someone. And make them very, very angry.

With horror, Sophia saw what would happen. When the troops moved forward and launched into battle, the weirwind would descend to protect the grove, and the men would be obliterated, destroyed—killed. She half stood in the canoe, and it rocked dangerously. How can they not see it? she asked herself. How can they not see what will happen?

The whistling of Fen Carver’s troops and the howling of the weirwind were interrupted by a long roll of thunder, and when it rumbled into silence, the whistling had stopped.

“Are we too late?” Sophia cried.

“They are negotiating,” shouted Casanova. “Look!”

Halfway between the two armies, on the western bank of the river, was a small cluster of men on horseback. “Negotiating what? Surrender?”

“The terms of battle,” Casanova replied. He gestured to the east and west. “Fen Carver’s troops are in a defensive position. They would gladly walk away from this if they could. It is General Griggs who will attack. Carver is likely trying to ensure the safety of any troops who survive. We still have time,” he decided, “but not much.”

As if in response, Birke picked up speed, taking the short waterfalls with greater abandon. Water splashed into the canoe. Sophia stared so hard at the dark cluster between the two armies that her eyes hurt, and her hands ached from clinging to the sides of the craft.

Finally, Birke reached the base of the valley. As they surged along the winding river, Sophia lost sight of the negotiators, only to spot them again at the next bend.

The grove was before them now, on the right bank, so much larger than Sophia had imagined. Red trunks towered overhead, and the long branches tossed this way and that like frantic arms. Sophia thought of Tree-Eater, and for a moment it seemed she could see the great monster, standing at the edge of the grove in anticipation of the destruction he would cause. His great jaws and antlers were made of men, and his golden eyes were made of fire. In the dense clouds of the storm, the figure wavered, and then it was gone.

Birke moved onward. The grove was behind them, and the axis of the battlefield came into view. A group of boulders formed a natural bridge across the river, and water stormed through its crooked archway. Caught at the mouth of the funnel it rose rapidly, swamping the banks. Theo clutched Sophia’s hand.

But before they reached it, the waters governed by the three sisters launched Birke onto the eastern bank. Theo and Sophia stumbled out into the mud. Casanova dragged the canoe away from the river, along the stony ground.

Sophia rushed forward with the mirrorscope; then she slowed her steps, confused. Several hundred feet away, the armies were waiting on the slopes to either side. The front lines of each stood in apparent stillness, the individual faces obscured by the rain. But there were no negotiators. The horses and men she had seen from the hilltop were gone. In their place was something else: a large square frame—as tall and wide as a man.

As she walked on toward it, Sophia squinted. What was it? A house? A wagon? She moved closer.

“Sophia! Stop,” Casanova shouted as he caught up to her, seizing her arm.

“What is it?” she asked, looking at the strange box.

“I am not sure.” He frowned. “Let me go first.”

Theo joined them. “I know what it is,” he said, with faint surprise. “It’s harmless.”

After a moment, Casanova continued onward, with Theo and Sophia close on his heels. Only when she had nearly reached the motionless object did Sophia realize what it was: an iron cage with long carrying poles, like a palanquin, rested on the ground by the banks of the river.

There was someone inside. As they drew closer, Sophia realized that it was a girl. She could not have been more than ten or eleven. Her long, black hair hung loose and wild, and she was weeping. The sobs were inaudible in the thunderstorm, but they were visible in how they wracked her body. The girl clenched the iron bars and leaned slowly forward against them, as if exhausted, sinking into a pile of her own skirts.

Their hems were charred.

In a moment, Casanova was at the cage, working upon the lock. Theo watched his futile efforts. “It’s the Weatherer,” he said in Sophia’s ear. “The one I saw in the memory map.”

And then, in a rush, she understood. It was Datura—the sister Bittersweet had sought so desperately for so long. She is just a child, Sophia thought, shocked. She found it hard to believe that the small, wretched creature before her was the cause of so much catastrophe. “Datura,” she called out over the rainstorm, reaching to touch the small fingers that gripped the iron bars.

The girl’s sobs stopped abruptly, and she looked up. Her face, green at the edges where it met her dark hair, was white and strained. She looked half-starved, her cheeks gaunt and her green fingers bony. Her lips were scabbed from old cracks and red from new ones. With eyes wild and despairing, she looked from Sophia, to Theo, to Casanova, and back again.

Sophia leaned in close to make herself heard without shouting. She covered the girl’s fingers with her own. “Datura,” she said gently. “I’m a friend of your brother’s. Bittersweet is looking for you, searching everywhere. He will be so glad to know we’ve found you.”

Tears filled Datura’s eyes once more, and she pulled her fingers away. “He will not be glad. I have done terrible things.” Her trembling voice was not the voice of a child; she sounded to Sophia like a woman who had lived long enough to regret decades of her life—a woman who had lived enough to grow bitter and weary. She dropped her head again, covering her face and renewing her sobs. “Terrible things,” she cried.

Sophia reached through the bars and took Datura’s bright green hands in her own, drawing them away from her face. They were small and terribly cold. “You had no choice.”

“I did have a choice,” the girl said, looking up, her expression agonized. “I do. And every time, I choose my gift. Every time, I choose Mother and Grandfather over everyone else. It is unforgivable,” she whispered. “But I love them too much.” Her words were almost inaudible.

Sophia felt tears in her eyes as she pressed the girl’s hands. Suddenly, a muffled bugle call sounded from the direction of the New Occident troops. Datura started. She scrambled to her feet and stood in the center of the cage, her arms rigid. “That means I have to begin,” she said, her voice trembling. “You must run as far as you can. The vapors will spread in seconds.”

Sophia glanced at Theo, who looked tired and wet, and Casanova, who looked stricken and uncertain. He had given up on the lock. Sophia could see him calculating the weight of the palanquin, wondering if he could lift the front while Theo and Sophia raised the poles at the rear. She had briefly considered the same thing, but with Theo’s injury it was out of the question. Looking meaningly at Casanova, she shook her head. “Go,” she said. “I will stay with Datura.”

“All of you must go,” Datura insisted. The bugle sounded again, and she jumped. “Please, please, I beg you!”

Theo and Casanova had not moved, but Sophia could see, taking in every sight and sound around them, how the circumstances of the present would unfold. The roaring of the storm seemed to recede, and she felt time slow around her. The New Occident troops in the distance were a blur of red and white. Behind them, the weirwind waited, enraged and hungry. Casanova was shielding his eyes from the rain, and the water ran down over the bandages of Sage’s poultice. Both his arms were trembling. Sophia realized that he had overexerted himself yet again—had he tried to lift the palanquin alone? No—it must have been earlier, while steering the canoe. She noticed that Theo’s boots had sunk into the mud, and he was frowning fiercely, squinting at Sophia with a look that was one part exasperation and two parts agony. He would not leave her with Datura. He would not leave her here, the way he had in the driving rain outside of Nochtland the year before, because if he could help it, he would never leave her again.

That was when she knew: Theo had changed. He was no longer happy to save only his own skin; he no longer counted himself lucky when he slipped away unnoticed. He was tied to people and places now, and he wanted to be. He was tied to her—to Sophia. It was in every line of his furious, loving scowl. Sophia wondered how she could have missed it. I’m weathering, she realized. I’m making space so that I can see everything. This is what Bittersweet described to me, what seemed so hard to imagine when he did.

And a chain of events unreeled before her. The terrified child in the cage would open her hands, and red flowers would bloom from her palms—Datura’s gift would blossom once more. The scent of the flowers would drift, carried by the powerful winds, and the tension of the waiting armies would collapse in the chaos, confusion, and carnage of the crimson fog. The weirwind would descend the slope, and the troops from both sides would be battered into death. When the storm passed, there would be little more than the wreckage of an iron cage.

Sophia could see no way to prevent these things from happening that did not begin and end with persuasion. She had to persuade Datura to wait. She had to persuade the commanders to wait. She had to convince the armies to wait.

But though it was Sophia’s gift to have all the time in the world, she had run out of time.

• • •

THERE WAS A crashing sound, and Sophia felt the ground shaking under her feet, as if from the impact of a horse’s hooves. The space she had created around herself collapsed; time ran on as usual. She looked desperately to either side of the valley. Had the weirwind descended? Had the troops begun their charge?

“Da-tu-ra!” came a distant shout. Sophia turned. She could see only a dark blur, racing toward them along the riverbank, but she knew that voice. Even though she had never heard it shout, she recognized it. The dark blur became a moose, charging toward them with its antlers lowered, moving at an incredible speed. “Datura!” came the cry once more.

“It is Bittersweet!” Sophia exclaimed, reaching through the bars once more to take Datura’s hands. “You see, he has come to find you.”

Datura stood staring, wide-eyed and wondering, as Nosh bulleted toward them. The bugle sounded again, but she ignored it.

Sophia saw, out of the corner of her eye, an uneasy stirring at the front line of the New Occident troops. She imagined how this would appear to General Griggs, who had now ordered Datura three times to release a fog that did not come: first, three figures in a canoe had appeared, and now another who knew the girl by name. Clearly, he was only waiting because he expected the fog to begin at any moment. How long would he wait? She willed Nosh to run faster.

He closed the distance, now fifty feet away, now twenty, and finally Bittersweet slid from Nosh’s back and ran to them, soaked to the skin, his face bright with exertion. He threw himself against the bars and pulled Datura toward him. They held each other close. “Little sister,” Bittersweet murmured, his hand on her head.

With effort, she pulled back, and her face was strained with grief. “You must go,” she said, trying to push him away.

Bittersweet was unmoved. “I am not going anywhere.”

“But Mother and Grandfather,” Datura said, dissolving into tears. “If I don’t—”

“They will understand,” Bittersweet reassured her.

“They will be dead! They are in winter sleep and will never wake unless I do everything the men ask!”

As Bittersweet and Datura spoke, Sophia felt a tremor of warning course through her. Perhaps, in the past, she would have pushed it aside as her own baseless anxiety. Or, if by chance she listened to it, she would have ascribed it to some mysterious better instinct. Now she knew that it was neither baseless anxiety nor sound instinct; the warning came from the old one, and she raised her head abruptly.

It was not the New Occident troops advancing toward them, as she had feared. It was the muddy river water, rising and falling in mutinous currents. A section of grassy earth disappeared beneath a swell of water; the riverbank was being eaten before their eyes. Sophia looked down, aghast, at the widening fissures in the soft ground underfoot.

“We must move!” she shouted, seizing one of the poles of the palanquin. The others looked at her, startled. “The riverbank!”

Bittersweet was the first to understand. He took up the pole beside Sophia and began straining to lift it.

Casanova followed suit, pushing Theo aside and attempting to lift both poles at the rear of the palanquin. Sophia could feel his exertion through the wood in her hands, but the iron cage did not move.

“It is too heavy,” Datura cried. “They use eight men—you will not be able to lift it!”

Sophia looked at Bittersweet in anguish. She could see in his face the same desperate, fruitless unreeling of what lay before them: the rush of the river, the muddy soil, the crumbling ground, and the heavy iron cage. Before long, the ground underfoot would give way, and Datura’s prison would fall into the water. Datura, trapped inside, would drown.

Sophia’s mind worked rapidly through one possibility, and then another, and another; she could see only one way forward, and it was precarious.

“Go!” she shouted to Casanova, pushing him away from Datura’s cage. “Get Fen Carver! Tell him Griggs has agreed to negotiate a truce!”

Casanova did not protest that this was a lie. He did not ask how the lie would be made true. Without a word, he ran toward the boulders that served as a bridge to the western riverbank.

Sophia turned to Bittersweet and Theo. “Keep her alive,” she said. Then she ran uphill, toward the soldiers who stood, unmoving, like rows upon rows of black teeth, preparing to devour the valley whole.