Sky. Sarah Driver

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СКАЧАТЬ the girl thoughtfully, when the turret stops rattling.

      I swallow. ‘Aye. There’s something making the world wild—’ I stop myself cos I don’t know a thing about this girl.

      She lunges close and grabs my wrist. ‘Yes. Every beat that the draggles’ wings brought you closer, the weather raged fiercer. Something is stirring.’ Her light brown face is covered in splodgy rust-coloured freckles and she’s got the same gold bull-ring through her nose as the others. ‘Where did you fly?’ she asks urgently. ‘What did you see? What is it like ?’

      I stay silent, watching her. Part of me wants to tell her how it’s like there’s two of me – the me in this world, and the me in the world of shadows. She stares back and takes a breath to say something more but I cut her off, a whip-stroke of defence burning my insides. ‘Don’t know what you’re babbling about.’

      The girl cocks her head and looks at me like I’m denying the tide will come in. Then she shrugs and plucks a moonsprite from her pocket.

      I curl my lip, remembering the heart-sore sprites held prisoner in the passageway lanterns. But the girl’s long fingers are gentle as she drops the sprite into a cracked glass jar.

      Lamp-snoozings, it gargles, throbbing a silvery glow into the cell that shows the girl more clearly.

      She’s oak-tall – might’ve gathered about sixteen birth-moons – all knees and elbows, garbed in a long scarlet dress stitched with stars and moons, and draped in the feather cloak. A bright half-band of gold circles her neck and stripes of gold paint flash on her face, from the middle of each lower eyelid down to her jaw.

      ‘What’s that paint on you?’ I ask.

      ‘It means I am a sawbones; a curer. I can only wear it when my mother isn’t watching, mind.’ She gives a low chuckle.

      I flood my eyes with scorn. ‘Don’t need no healer.’

      ‘Would you prefer to let the rot hunker down in that wound, and eat away half your face?’ She shudders. ‘Trust me – I’ve seen it happen. Though lately, injured prisoners disappear before I can even sneak a check of their wounds.’

      A flurry of arrowheads storms my blood. ‘Wait – if you’re a healer, have you been helping my brother, too?’ I blurt. ‘Did the guards tell you about his shaking fits, like I asked?’

      Her smile gutters out. ‘I have not been allowed near him. But I listened at the pipes – your message was delivered. He has a broken arm, and a fever.’ She holds up a hand and signals for me to wait. ‘He may not wake for some time, but they are treating him with success. He is safe, for now. In fact, his sickness is what protects him. She wants all her prisoners well enough to be tried.’ She gabs it all in a rush, like she’s been waiting moons and moons for someone to talk to.

      ‘What? I ent letting some loon woman put him on trial!’

      ‘Be quiet!’ she hisses, fright tightening her face. ‘Hackles has ears. The Protector of the Mountain is not some woman. And all three of you will be judged. If she finds you guilty, the punishment will be – severe.’ She looks away and stands up.

      I don’t wanna think too hard on what severe might mean. ‘But we ent done nothing!’ Then I fall forwards and put out a hand to catch myself on the stone floor, bile rushing into the back of my throat. When I’ve finished retching I look up and the girl’s watching me with a face full of sorrow.

      ‘I don’t need your pity,’ I bite out, wiping my mouth.

      She chinks a tiny smile. ‘I have something better than pity.’ She rummages in her pocket and pulls out some yellow petals. ‘You have the mountain-sickness. These will help calm it.’

      I twist my mouth and don’t move, but she holds them closer to me. One of her hands is sprinkled with fine white scars, and the knuckles are bloody. On the other she’s wearing a dark grey glove. ‘Take them,’ she says gently. ‘They will make it better.’

      I blow the air out through tight lips and reach for the flowers. The petals are cool and smooth between my fingers. When I crunch them a bitter, earthy taste fills my mouth.

      ‘Heart-thanks,’ I stutter, mouth ash-dry. Then a thought squirms in my belly. She’s gifted me kindness. Maybe I can get her to help me escape.

      ‘Oh!’ she exclaims, making me startle. Then she winces at her own noise. ‘I almost forgot your milk,’ she whispers. ‘Hope it’s not bone-cold.’ She searches the floor behind her, then presses a steaming clay mug into my hands. A delicious warmth spreads through my fingers, all the way up my arms.

      ‘Wait, it’s better with this mixed in.’ She takes a vial from her pocket and pinches some rust-red powder into the cup before I can snatch it away. ‘Don’t worry,’ she says quickly. ‘It’s nutmeg and cinnamon – I’m not in the business of poisoning! You should be glad of a little flavour. These days it’s just goat’s milk, goat’s cheese, tough old goat’s meat and bog myrtle.’ She ticks them off on her fingers. ‘We’re on lock-down. No trade, because of the war.’ She speaks fast and tight, like she’s afraid someone’s gonna spring out of the shadows and gag her.

      ‘Ent never met someone before that can babble faster than me.’ I take a sip of the drink. It warms me from chest to toes, and the spices tingle on my tongue.

      ‘Suppose I have many trapped words to spill.’ She turns again and places a dented silver platter by me. There are two fat lumps of dough on it.

      I raise my eyes to her face. ‘Will you help me, for real? Can you—’

      ‘Eat,’ she says, cutting me off. ‘The food will give you wondrous fire-in-the-belly.’

      My hope fades painfully, just as one of the pipes in the wall starts to rattle and clank like a crazed thing. I scuttle backwards and my foot skids out in front of me, kicking the food platter across the floor. The noise spreads through the pipe to a small chute that enters the turret from a hole in the roof and ends in a rusty metal door.

      ‘Ah, here he comes, at long last,’ the girl says grimly. She turns towards the chute, skirts swirling. Her hem is fire-licked, like she’s too close to the hearth.

      ‘Who?’ I ask, filled with dread. ‘And who are you?’

      She stares down at me, a mix of emotions that I can’t read swirling behind her eyes. ‘I’m Kestrel.’ The way she says it fills me with a fresh burst of hope that I cling onto with all my might. I can feel the heart-strength she had to summon just to tell me her name.

      The chute rumbles and clangs, gives a thud, then falls silent. Kestrel scowls at it, fiddling with a chain hooked to her belt, then steps towards the chute and starts wrenching her key back and forth in a keyhole set in the door.

      The chute flies open and a small, fat shape gushes out, trilling latelatelate! Latequickhelpcarryoooooooosnacks!

      The creature darts for the plate of food on the floor, but Kestrel gives it a sour look, ducks low and grabs it in cupped hands. ‘Squidges don’t eat pancakes!’

      They do! it chatters desperately, oozing a puddle of black stuff – like ink – into Kestrel’s hands.

      ‘Oh, СКАЧАТЬ