My eyes widened. “You have known this all along, and said nothing?” It was not truly surprising—the Academy had been unaware of Fyrril’s importance until recently, and the clansmen offered nothing freely to the Kingsland. But I could not help thinking how different my life might have been if Fyrril’s secrets had been revealed before I had ever thought to search the Old Garden.
Revik glared at me. “We do not share our knowledge without reason,” he said. “But even if we did, it is not remembered what Fyrril hid, or why. He did not say, and we did not ask. We allowed him and his men to go alone into the mountains.”
“Then you do not know where the books are?” Bryndine asked.
“No,” the Storyteller answered. “I can tell you where your Prince Willyn was last seen. That is all.”
Bryndine nodded respectfully. “Thank you, Teller Revik. That is all we ask.”
“Then listen, Kingslanders, and I will tell you this story as it was told to me,” Revik began in his tremulous voice. “As it has been remembered from the moment it happened and will be remembered until the Dragon’s seas swallow the world once more.”
Chapter Twenty-six
I often wish that I had not brought these women with me. Too many have given their lives already. But when I stop to think about it, it is clear that without them, I would be dead ten times over, and certainly no closer to finding Fyrril’s books.
If there is any justice in the world, Bryndine’s company will be recognized for their service when we return.
— From the personal journals of Dennon Lark
Five days later, watching the clansmen ride away on their surefooted mules, I had to wonder if we were making a mistake.
There was nothing remarkable about the place where Willyn had last been seen. A flat stretch of ground beside a mountain stream, it was a fine place to make camp for a night or two, and nothing more. Apparently, Willyn and his men had been doing just that when the Stonewater Clan had come upon them.
The story Revik had told us after his unnecessarily ceremonial introduction was short and simple: Willyn had told the clansmen that he intended to forge north from this campsite, leaving the established trails; they warned him that to do so was unwise, that the northern slopes were prone to rockslides and prowled by hungry snowcats. The Prince had not heeded their advice.
Nor did we. The clansmen who had guided us there made it very clear that they would go no further if we meant to follow Willyn’s trail, not with winter fast approaching. If we were still in the mountains when the snows came, death would be almost a certainty. But we had no choice. The Lost Prince was our last hope to find Fyrril’s books.
Over the next few days, Willyn’s campsite became a base for our search. Bryndine divided us into two groups to better cover the area—she, Sylla, Rylene, Deanyn, Leste, and Ivyla ranged to the northwest, while Tenille led Debra, Kaelyn, Orya, Wynne, and myself through the northeastern wilderness. The mounts could manage the mountain trails, but the terrain off the beaten path was too rough for them, so we were forced to walk. Each morning, we set out to search while Selvi and Elene stayed behind to watch the tents and tend the horses. Each night, we regrouped at the camp with nothing to show for our efforts.
There were no trails where we searched, only cliffs and ledges, ravines and barren valleys. From afar, the Salt Mountains looked like waves made solid, but this close, they only looked like what they were: cold, desolate rocks. None of us knew exactly what we were looking for—some sign of Willyn’s passage, some cave or crevasse where Fyrril might have hidden the books from the Archives. We spent most of our days seeking safe passage through the treacherous terrain, finding nothing of particular note.
After a week of meandering through the mountains with no results, I began to despair. We knew too little to search with any accuracy, and there was no time left to wander blindly with the icy Salt Mountain winter threatening to arrive any day. In fact, on the morning of our seventh day of searching, snow had begun to fall lightly on the higher slopes. That same afternoon, hiking up a thin ridge at the edge of a long canyon, we found our path blocked by fallen rocks—the remnant of some past rockslide. I threw my hands up in disgust at the sight. We could not afford the time it would take to clear the way.
“We may as well see how much we can clear before nightfall,” Tenille said with a sigh. “Debra, Kaelyn, with me. We’ll work in shifts—the path isn’t wide enough for more than three of us.”
“What does it matter?” I asked, holding a hand out to catch a light dusting of snowflakes. “We have at most a week before the snowfall stops our search entirely, and it will take most of that time to move those rocks.”
“We have come this far, and at your insistence, if I recall,” said Tenille, tapping at the golden pin on her collar. “You and I are sworn to see this through. We cannot give up now.”
“No, I suppose not,” I admitted. “I’m sorry, it just seems so—”
“I know,” Tenille interrupted. “But we have to try.”
They set to work, and Wynne, Orya and I settled in to wait on the rocky ridge a short distance down from the blockage. To Orya’s great displeasure and boredom, I spent the time teaching Wynne what I knew of Elovian letters and sentence structure—I had been giving her lessons at night in the camp, and she was a quick student.
About a half-hour passed before Debra jogged down and called for us to take our turn. Grumbling, I stowed my papers and ink back in my pack and pushed myself to my feet.
And then the mountain began to fall.
The noise came first, a great rumble and crack from above. The others looked upwards in shock and confusion, but I knew that sound instantly. For just a moment, I was back beneath the Old Garden, watching as the ceiling fell.
But it was only for a moment, and then I threw myself into motion, grabbing Wynne and Orya and pulling them with me. “It’s a rockslide!” I yelled. “Down the ridge, quickly!”
A torrent of pebbles and dirt pelted against me as I sprinted down the narrow ledge with Wynne beside me and Orya—cursing loudly and furiously—at my back. Loud crashes shook the ground beneath my feet as stones tumbled down the mountainside. Sparing a quick glance over my shoulder, I saw Debra running not far back, Tenille and Kaelyn following close behind.
Kaelyn’s foot slipped in the powdery snow that dusted the ground and she stumbled, falling back a step. Just a step, but it was enough. A dark shadow spread over the pretty young soldier as the rocks rushed towards her. I heard myself scream her name, saw her hurl herself forward—but it was too late. A huge boulder slammed into her, smashing her off the ridge.
I put my head down and pushed my aching legs to their limit, narrowing my focus to only the ground at my feet. A single misstep could have killed me, just as surely as it had Kaelyn. My lungs burned and my heart beat loudly in my ears—so loudly that I barely noticed when the rumbling stopped.
“Scriber Dennon!” Wynne shouted from behind. “It’s over.”
I slowed, looked back, finally took note of the silence. Ironically, the violence of the rockslide had left the path almost entirely clear. The rubble that had blocked the way had been carried down into the ravine with the rest of the falling rocks.
“Sky and Earth, I thought that was the end,” I panted, bracing my hands against my knees. “Is anyone hurt?” I swept my eyes over the others in concern.
That was when I noticed Tenille was gone.
“Where is Tenille? Did she fall?” I searched the ridge again with my eyes, but there was no sign of her; no place her body might be hidden.
“Thought she was behind me.” Guilt contorted Debra’s face. “She was there when Kaelyn… I thought she was behind me.”
“I see her!” Orya shouted.
I turned to see Orya crouched over the edge of the ravine, and my heart fell into my stomach. Joining her at the cliff’s edge, I gathered my courage and peeked downwards. The ravine was more than a hundred feet deep, and the height made my vision spin. Falling to my knees, I gripped the earth with white-knuckled fingers, just barely mastering myself enough to keep my eyes open.
At the bottom of the ravine, a slim trickle of water ran through a riverbed filled with debris from the slide and a hundred slides before it. Directly below, a vast slope of fallen rocks piled against the cliff. There was no sign of poor Kaelyn, undoubtedly buried somewhere in the rubble, and I did not see Tenille at first either, until Orya pointed to a small ledge perhaps a third of the way down the cliff to my left.
Tenille lay upon the ledge, and even from this distance I could see the awkward angle of her leg, the bone jutting from beneath the skin. The light snow had all but stopped, but a slight powder coated her motionless form. It was impossible to tell if she was alive or dead—there was no obviously fatal wound, but the fall might easily have killed her, and I could not see if she was breathing.
“Bugger me,” Orya swore. “She looks bad. Think she’s alive, Scriber?”
“I can’t say from here,” I said. “She would look considerably worse if the larger rocks had struck her, I think. If it was only the fall… it is not so far that survival is out of the question. I don’t know.”
Wynne leaned over my shoulder to see. “We need to get her,” she said anxiously. “If she’s alive, you can help her, can’t you?”
“I don’t know!” Getting to my feet, I stepped away from the edge of the cliff and began to pace, rubbing my temple with two fingers. “I don’t know. I need to examine her.”
Please let her be alive,
I begged whatever god might be listening.
Kaelyn is already gone. Let just one more death on my conscience be enough.
“I can pull her up,” said Debra. “Need to get a rope around her though.”
“How in the depths are we supposed to do that?” I demanded, gesturing angrily at the sheer cliff walls.
Orya stood and shrugged off her pack, pulling out a length of rope. “Told you before, Scriber, I grew up climbin’ the cliffs in Highpass. Gettin’ to her won’t be a problem.” Uncoiling the rope, she tied the end around her waist and yanked at the knot a few times to test it. With a satisfied nod, she tossed the other end of the long cord to Debra.
“Should I lower you down?” the big woman asked uncertainly.
Orya knelt again, peering down into the ravine with no sign of fear in her wild blue eyes. “Faster doin’ it my way,” she said.
Then, without warning, she swung her legs over the cliff’s edge and dropped out of sight.
“Mother below!” I gasped, scrambling to the edge of the ridge. Behind me, I was vaguely conscious of a panicked Debra pulling back on the rope to arrest Orya’s fall.
I expected to see Orya dangling at the end of the rope far below, or crumpled against some ledge or outcropping. I did not. She clung to the cliffside several feet beneath the edge, searching for a foothold. As I watched, she began to descend, her hands and feet somehow finding purchase where I could have sworn there was none.
“Are you insane?” I shouted at her.
“Might be,” she replied with a grin, and flung herself sideways through the air.
My lungs stopped working; my stomach threatened to leap out of my throat. Forgetting for a moment the rope cinched tight about her waist, I was quite certain she would plummet to her death on the rocks below. Instead, she reached out and grasped some invisible handhold, lurching to a stop and laughing with exhilaration.
I could only shake my head in amazement as she scampered nimbly down the cliff in heart-stopping leaps and drops. In no time at all, she was lowering herself onto the small outcropping that held Tenille.
“Is she all right?” Wynne called down.
Orya leaned down over Tenille for a moment, then answered, “She’s breathin’. Hurt bad though.”
“Can you wake her?” I asked. I did not want Tenille bouncing against the cliff when we pulled her up—better if she could help control her own ascent somewhat.
It took several attempts, but eventually Orya’s prodding and slapping and yelling roused her.
“Tenille,” I shouted. “Can you tell me where your injuries are?”
“B-broken ribs.” Her voice was strained, and I could hear the wince in it; she had to yell to be heard from this distance, and with broken ribs that was no easy thing. “My right arm and leg.”
I nodded to myself. With one leg and arm, she could at least hold herself upright and keep from scraping against the cliffside too badly, though the pain would be substantial. “We’re going to pull you up. Orya, we’ll send the rope back down for you.”
“I’ll get myself back up, you just see to her,” Orya yelled back. She untied the rope from her waist and looped it under Tenille’s buttocks, forming a makeshift seat.
When the harness was secure, Debra began to heave, cords of muscle bulging along her thick arms. Slowly, Tenille rose, gripping the rope with her left hand and extending her good leg to push herself back from the cliff. She said something to Orya as she started to ascend, but I could not hear what it was.
When we pulled her onto the ridge a short while later, Tenille’s face was pale and drawn, and sweat beaded on her forehead. As we laid her on her back, she looked me in the eye and whispered in a strained voice, “Something is shining in the rocks.” Then her eyes rolled back and she fell unconscious again.
I did not let myself dwell on her strange words. Kneeling at her side, I examined her as thoroughly as I was able. She was breathing regularly—her broken ribs had not punctured the lungs—but there were bruises all along her right side. Below her knee a jagged shard of bone penetrated the skin; her right arm was broken as well, but less badly. The pain must have been incredible—I could not imagine how she stayed conscious even as long as it took for us to pull her up.
“Hold her,” I directed Wynne and Debra, gesturing to Tenille’s thigh.
With the two women anchoring her in place, I pulled on her injured leg until the bone drew back beneath the skin, setting the break as best I could. After bandaging the wounded flesh, I did the same with her arm. There was little I could do about her broken ribs, and we would have to find something to splint the broken limbs—but barring some internal injury I could not treat, she would live.