Chapter 38

The cliffside path was narrow but dry, which was the only reason they lived.

They ran down into the yawning dark, the trembling light of Zenzele’s lantern revealing a thin stripe of the grounds ahead as they tried to outrun the tide of falling stone. When the path abruptly turned to the right, tucked into the mountainside, the Malani noble almost toppled off the edge – Cozme yanked him back, almost falling off himself when Ferranda ran into his back. If the stone path had been even slightly slippery all three would have tumbled into the void.

“Careful,” Angharad shouted, dragging the infanzona back by the collar. “We need to-”

Dust exploded a dozen feet above them in a tall plume, rocks going flying. The eleven of them had clustered at the corner, forced together by momentum, and it took a moment to extricate themselves. Tupoc pushed to the fore, ripping Zenzele’s lantern out of his hands, and deftly led the way down. Angharad flicked a glance back as the others began moving again, picking up speed on the narrow path, and grimaced as she saw that Shalini was still carrying Ishaan’s corpse on her back.

The Pereduri did not bother to suggest she should put it down: the look on the other woman’s face was not one to be argued with.

“Come on,” she said instead. “The landslide is catching up.”

They set out down the cliffside again. The same turn that had near kill them was likely the only reason they lived, Angharad realized as she heard a rolling thunder in the distance and a tide of death rushed past the path they had been running down not minutes ago. Most of the landslide was facing the slope where the sanctuary had been waiting, and they’d just given it the slip. Not that they were out of danger: most was not all.

The first rock was the size of a fist, and it bounced off Yaretzi’s shoulder as she let out a grunt of pain. Angharad glimpsed ahead, feeling her blood run hot – she had used a vision earlier, there was only so much more she could borrow of the Fisher’s power before it killed her – and moved before the glimpse was even finished. She seized Song by the shoulder and pressed the two of them against the mountainside just before a boulder the size of a horse tumbled right past them.

A heartbeat later and all that would have been left of Song was red paste and screaming.

“Ahead,” Tupoc shouted, voice without a hint of mockery for once. “I see shelter.”

He spoke true, for the cliffside path there ate into the mountain as a short tunnel – the peak’s slope served as a wall and ceiling, and under that cover they huddled together as death rumbled above. They waited, pressed tight under the shelter as stone and dust spilled past them in spurts. How long they waited without speaking a word Angharad could not be sure. Eventually, though, the last of the falling ended and their breaths began to ring loudly in the silence that followed.

“I think that was the worst of it,” Lord Zenzele finally said. “My lantern, Xical.”

“Try not to walk it off another cliff,” Tupoc helpfully advised. “It makes it harder for the rest of us to see.”

“Enough,” Angharad tiredly said. “Peril has not passed; another landslide could begin at any moment.”

“And parts of the path down could now be blocked with stone,” Song grimly said. “Let us not be caught with our trousers down.”

Zenzele Duma snatched his lantern back a little more strongly than was warranted, but they all pretended not to see. His hatred of Tupoc was entirely deserved. Their company began heading down again, far from slowly but short of the reckless pace from earlier. As Song had predicted, the spill had touched the path. Small chunks, mostly, and piled of dust. They stepped carefully around sharpened shards, the trouble coming when they found a rock taller and broader than a man balancing precariously in the middle of the path.

“It’s too narrow a space to squeeze through,” Lan said.

“Agreed,” Song replied.

Angharad did not argue. Instead she turned to Tupoc, drawing the Izcalli’s eyes.

“Assemble your spear,” she said. “We’ll push it off the edge together.”

The man’s pale eyes assessed the stone.

“Could work,” he agreed.

It was more difficult than it sounded, largely because the path was narrow and they were many – the others had to withdraw so the pair would have enough room to push. Angharad’s hands were slick with sweat and twice her grip slipped against the cool metal, but they bent their knees and pushed until the stone slowly began to tip forward. Gravity did the rest of the work.

“Nothing like a spot of exercise with death hanging over your head,” Tupoc cheerfully said afterwards.

Angharad ignored him, brushing past his shoulder. She held no lantern, but Zenzele helpfully passed his and she took the vanguard for the rest of the way down. There were more small stones the further down they got, but no more large ones. It had been stark odds for one to land across the path as it had in the first place. Half an hour of brisk descent led them at the bottom of the mountain, the tall silhouette of it looming in the distance as thick woods spread out before them.

She waited at the tree line with the lantern in hand until the others caught up, spilling down the path one after another. Shalini, Angharad saw, was last by a wide margin. Ishaan’s corpse was heavy and she had slowed down with exhaustion from carrying it.

“The landslide didn’t reach this far,” Lan observed, one of the last to catch up. “I’d say this is as safe as we’re going to get outside a sanctuary.”

“Agreed,” Lady Ferranda said. “This is where we make our plan, if we are to stick together.”

“Is there a plan to make?” Tupoc shrugged. “There will be no rest. We take the Trial of Weeds, or we die in the dark. It is a simple thing.”

He sounded almost pleased, further proof the man was half mad and half jackal. Worse, Angharad was not convinced he was wrong.

“I have no intention of joining the Watch,” Isabel sharply cut in. “The blackcloaks must recognize that a natural disaster undid their trials and prevented us from seeking the promised sanctuary. Surely there is a way to reach the garrison.”

“You could climb back up and start digging out the fort,” Song drily replied. “By all means have at it, Ruesta.”

Cozme snorted. It had not escaped Angharad’s attention that since Augusto’s demise the mustachioed man had taken open pleasure in any backtalk directed at the infanzona.

“Helpful as always, Song,” Isabel bit back. “Do you think I am alone in not wanting to take the third trial? Lady Ferranda-”

“Can speak for herself,” the other infanzona said.

Ferranda’s plain, lean face was smudged with dust and her bun had spit out strands of hair but her eyes were sharp and she stood straight. Isabel, still red in the face with sweaty locks pressed against her forehead, was not faring so well. The two noblewomen matched gazes.

“So speak,” Isabel said, sounding confident. “Should we not find the Watch, Lady Villazur? Your family will be awaiting your return, as mine does.”

The other woman’s jaw clenched. Ferranda did not answer for a long time, looking for all the world like a woman standing on the edge of a precipice.

“I am thinking,” she finally said, “of taking the third trial.”

Surprise rippled through half of them, Angharad not the least. Had Ferranda not come to the island to gild her family’s name? And win the right to keep a lover, she recalled. Now that Sanale had passed, it seemed that Ferranda Villazur was not eager to return to her house without him. The dark-skinned noble kept her disapproval off her face. To serve your house only on your own terms was not true service, but it was not her place to comment.

“I will be doing the same,” Cozme Aflor casually added, rolling his shoulder with a wince. “It seems to me that I am in a need of a change of careers.”

Angharad cocked an eyebrow and Tupoc let out a small, nasty laugh. Brun looked amused as well, though as was his wont he kept quiet.

“You’ve run out of Cerdans to lose, so I suppose you might as well,” Tupoc grinned.

Cozme’s eyes on him were cold, the same way they had been when he pulled a knife on the champion of the vermin god. What kind of a man had he been, before House Cerdan took him in? Not the kind to take insults lying down when he had no master to protect, Angharad thought, so she cleared her throat to command attention before matters could get out of hand.

“Is there any among us who does not desire to take the Trial of Weeds?” she asked. “Save for Lady Isabel, I mean.”

There was no answer and she realized a heratbeat too late that she had blundered. Even if there were such individuals, they would hesitate when being put on the spot like this – it was clear that most of their group wanted to press forward, and who would want to be left alone in the woods? She cleared her throat again, faintly embarrassed at the misstep.

“It seems to me,” she tried, “that there will be a Watch garrison at the northern tip of the island, the port town called Three Pines. I imagine that given the circumstances the Watch would not press into service those who reach that safety.”

Isabel smiled at her, pretty in her visible relief.

“That seems a compromise all can live with,” she said.

“It’s a pretty plan,” Shalini broke in, Ishaan’s corpse yet on her back, “but you’re forgetting something. When that mountainside fort got buried, we lost more than a sanctuary: we lost the watchmen that would tell us what the Trial of Weeds actually is.”

There was a moment of damning silence as the truth of her words sunk in. That was, admittedly, something of a hindrance. Song was the one to end the paralysis, reaching for her bag and dragging a scroll out.

“We cannot know the details,” the Tianxi acknowledged, “but neither are we entirely in the dark. Here, come closer.”

Her map, Angharad realized. Song unfolded it in the light of the lantern, everyone crowding around the paper.

“We should be somewhere around here,” Song said.

Her finger was resting on a small, marked place on the northern side of the mountains splitting the island – the very same they had crossed by beating the maze. And not far from where they were, Angahrad saw a slender grey line going through the woods that made up most of the northern third of the Dominion of Lost Things.

“A road?” she asked.

“I do not know for sure,” Song replied, “but I believe so. More importantly, it goes through here.”

Her finger followed along the grey line until it reached a drawing in the midst of the woods that looked like a small fortress.

“Is that a Watch outpost?” Zenzele frowned.

It might be, Angharad thought. The road went through it and continued all the way to the norther tip of the island, to Three Pines.

“I don’t know,” the silver-eyed sharpshooter admitted. “But it is something, and even if it is empty we can use the grounds to rest with some safety.”

“We won’t make it there tonight,” Ferranda said.

“Not unless we march through the night,” Tupoc agreed. “I do not hate the notion, but I’ve no doubt there will be whining.”

He snuck a look at Shalini, who glared back.

“We should at least push forward for another hour,” Angharad said. “I do not know if there are cultists on this side of the island, but if there are then the commotion of the landslide is sure to have drawn them out.”

She flicked a glance at Tupoc, who shrugged.

“I only dealt with the one war party and its bishop,” the Izcalli said. “I gathered from them the island has rival tribes, but not where they might dwell.”

“Hollows are one thing,” Lan easily said, “but there will be lemures in the woods and a bunch of us are bleeding.”

“Then we keep going until we find defensible shelter,” Angharad suggested. “We’ll keep a watch through the night.”

Nods all around. She would have preferred to press on to the possible outpost, but it was true that might take hours yet and much of their party was either wounded, exhausted or both.

“That will be most interesting,” Tupoc noted.

She frowned at him, reluctant to indulge him and ask. He answered anyway.

“Have you forgotten,” the Izcalli said, “that the murderer is still among us? I do wonder if we’ll be waking up to another corpse.”

The mood had been turning hopeful but that reminder skewered it thoroughly, which only amused the man all the more. It was with that dark truth hanging over them that they headed into the woods, taste for conversation snuffed out like an errant candle. Now every leaf shivering in the wind loomed like a hungry lupine and every time one of them came to close to another backs tensed for fear of a knife. Dangers within and dangers without, Angharad thought.

She was not sure which she should be wariest about.

—

Within fifteen minutes of starting, Angharad was quite done with traipsing through the woods.

Back home the rest of the kingdom often spoke of Peredur as a pristine land spared the scars of industry, unmarred by blast furnaces and smelt mills. Izinduna visited the High Isle for hunting trips and private retreats. That talk was about the heartlands of the duchy, however, the old Brenhinoedd – the ‘Kingsland’. Her own Llanw Hall was of the coast, and the rocky shorelands were simply unsuited to such sport. Like most seaside nobles, the closest Mother had ever come to chasing a stag was shipping venison sausages south to Port Cadwyn.

Her father had been skilled hunter, as was fashionable in high society, but regrettably Angharad had never taken him up on his offers to learn the pursuit. Perhaps if she had she might have developed a fondness for the woods instead of a rising, deep-seated hatred. She was getting tired of walking about tripping on roots and getting whipped in the face by branches when Tupoc – reliable in his bastardry – waited until the last moment to release them. After getting smacked most indecorously in the breast by a branch, Angharad surrendered her place to Ferranda lest she be tempted to run the Izcalli through. Why, he would gasp out. Why, Tredegar? And she would look him in the eyes and say: my tit, you utter animal, you branch-whipped my tit.

Deciding that vivid fantasies of murder were perhaps a sign that her patience might be running out, Angharad drew back by slowing her steps and let Ferranda pass her by. Cozme too, as she did not care to keep the man company. That left her by Lord Zenzele, who did not much talk and often glanced back worriedly at Shalini. She was still trailing at their back, though Brun was making it a point to slow his steps so she would always have someone in sight. A good man, Brun.

It both helped and hurt when they reached the road Song had shown them on the map, a small path of beaten earth that was in disrepair but still usable. It was easier for Shalini to walk on the road, but their overall pace quickened as well. By the time the turn of the hour neared, the gunslinger looked fit to drop and Angharad was sharing the worried looks with Zenzele.

“I do not know anything of Ramayan funeral customs,” she said in a whisper. “Would she be offended if I offered help?”

“She’s Someshwari, Tredegar,” Zenzele grunted back. “They get offended at each other’s accents.”

Which was true, if somewhat impolite to speak out loud. It was an old jest in Malan that while all Someshwari agreed they were an empire no two had ever agreed on who should rule it.

“She cannot take much more of this,” Angharad said. “See how her legs are shaking.”

“We could make a stretcher with sticks and blankets,” Zenzele suggested. “We would not be saying anything, it simply happens to be impossible to use one of those alone.”

She side-eyed him.

“Hold up only the front and drag the back on the ground after tying the body up,” she countered.

The man looked faintly embarrassed, as well he should. It had been a shallow lie, a lie of ignorance or lack of forethought, and so not the same as willful mistruth. Yet even shallow lies were enough to tarnish one’s honor if regularly indulged in.

“To use one of those alone and well,” he corrected.

True enough. Angharad nodded her approval.

“I can surrender my bedroll to the work,” she offered, “but we will need-”

“Halt,” the call came from ahead.

Song’s voice. After one last look at Shalini the Pereduri moved to the front of the column, where the others were assembling. Song, raising her own lantern, had stopped by the side of the road and was casting light on a path to a small clearing. That would not have been worth a rest, had the edge of the clearing not been touched by a small hill from which rose a ruined tower revealed by cold starlight. A thick, stout octagon of stone that jutted upwards, its roof long gone and broad stairs leading to the yawning door halfway up its heights. A few good swords could hold stairs like that for an hour, Angharad thought.

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“A most suitable place to camp,” the noblewoman said. “It is a fine find, Song.”

“I have an eye for those things,” the Tianxi replied with the faintest hint of irony.

Some chuckling. It had been an open secret before that Song’s contract had to do with her silver eyes, but the way she had seen through illusions in the temple-fortress and later when helping Ferranda on the Toll Road had made it into open knowledge. In a way, Angharad thought, that was the finest safeguard to what the Tianxi’s contract could truly do. Why wonder if she could see contracts, when she could already see through illusions and past the veil of darkness?

“My thanks for your efforts, Mistress Ren,” Cozme Aflor said, affecting gallantry. “Shall we get to it? I expect we could all use the rest.”

Angharad might have disliked the man, but she would not argue with the truth.

—

Everyone pitched in their supplies without argument, which was a pleasant change from the Trial of Lines.

By the looks of it they had enough for two meals, including the one they were about to have. None of them had bothered to bring much food, as the expectation had been that the sanctuary on the other side of the maze would provide them with fresh supplies. Water should last longer than that, at least through the day tomorrow, and they would keep an eye out for streams in the forest.

Though it was a risk, they decided on having a fire: it was the surest way to keep away animals. The inside of the tower was dry and spacious enough that everyone would be able to fit around the flame, keeping them warm through the night, and they could use a warm meal after their trials of the day. Besides, several of them needed to rinse wounds and Angharad might be no physician but she knew in the absence of alcohol boiled water was the best substitute.

As tasks were settled on with rough efficiency, the Pereduri noblewoman volunteered to gather firewood. She knew the basics of woodcraft but little more than that, and was willing to leave such affairs in the hands of those more fitted to it. It was not demeaning work, even though Tupoc tried to imply as much with his smirk. Had she not been taught that the best blade should go the best hand? She was not so arrogant as to think that her hand would always be the finest.

Still, the man was irritating enough she walked out before hearing who else would take up the chore. It was a short walk down the stairs, which were set into the side of the hill, and from there to the clearing. The forest was dry and there was plenty to pick up from the ground, so Angharad rolled up her sleeves and got to work. It was a few minutes later, while adding to the respectable pile at the bottom of the stairs, that she got company. Turning as she heard footsteps, Angharad caught sight of a silhouette framed in moonlight.

In that ghostly glow Isabel Ruesta’s elegant curls and green eyes seemed almost unearthly, a spirit’s impossible beauty. And Isabel was very much a beauty, even visibly exhausted and on the verge of tears. The Pereduri straightened at the sight of her.

“What happened?” she asked.

Isabel shook her head, padding down the last of the stairs.

“It is nothing,” she said. “I came to help you, not-”

“Tears are not nothing,” Angharad gently said.

She laid a comforting hand on the infanzona’s arm. Isabel hesitated.

“Ferranda is being quite odious,” Isabel finally admitted. “And Cozme is all too happy to pile on.”

“There are limits to the allowances given by grief,” the noblewoman frowned. “Ferranda should mind her manners.”

“Who would make her?” Isabel wetly chuckled. “No one remains who cares for me in the slightest, Angharad. Kind Recardo never even reached the island, and my maids…”

She shivered, silver-touched tears trickling down her cheeks. Angharad pulled her close, Isabel fighting for half a heartbeat before sobbing against the Pereduri’s chest.

“They were as family to me,” the dark-haired beauty murmured. “I’ve known them since I was but a girl. Beatris looked so much like me back when we were children that we might as well have been twins, and Briceida… Gods, Briceida only came to the island so that I would be able to help her marry her sweetheart.”

Another sob as Angharad rubbed her back.