Sarah Driver - Sky

My voice is the thing I could always make bigger and louder when I felt too small. Now the sky’s shrunk it.

When I’ve raked a breath the truth presses hard on my shoulders. My body ent safe when I dream-dance. That thing just tried to thieve my bones.

Crow warned me at Castle Whalesbane that things might get in while I’m dream-dancing, or I might not be able to get back. He said I needed a binding – some kind of spirit anchor.

I start to shudder, scanning the air for signs of a spirit, but nothing’s there that I can see. The Opal is still in my hand and my fingers are cramped from holding onto it so tightly. I fold into a ball, dragging the thin blanket over me.

I unlock each stiff, sore finger from around the Opal. The gem is warm against my palm and if I focus I can almost feel a pulse inside it. Then I snatch my breath. The Opal is casting swirling patterns of light on the grey blanket, a miniature dance of the fire spirits, just for me. My hair crackles with charge.

Golden flecks twist and flutter under the Opal’s skin. They settle my bones and help me remember. Rattlebones told me the merwraiths and my Tribe need my help.

But – you are his weakness. What did the old wraith mean?

There’s a sudden rustle and the sound of something scraping over the stone floor. I gasp and pull the blanket off my face. In the foggy moonlight my breath is a white cloud.

And near the far wall, another cloud steams.

Something is in here with me.

I scramble into a crouch, every muscle tensed. My pulse booms in my ears as I remember the thing that tried to steal my body, and I grip Bear’s amber amulet.

Something rushes towards me, so I whip a merwraith scale from my pocket and tuck it between my knuckles. I raise my fists. ‘Stay back!’

‘Noooo, shhh, oh the gods, no fretting,’ a girl husks. Her words have a sweet, songlike tilt to them. ‘I stole you a mug of hot goat’s milk, from the Protector’s own night-cauldron—’

‘Not that flaming Protector again!’ I splutter.

‘I’ll spice the milk,’ she begs. ‘And let you have the last cheese and garlic pancake on the mountain. But please be calm!’ Her breath has puffed closer, and the shadowy outline of a tall figure lurks behind it.

My head’s stuffed with confusion, and my wound throbs, dull- sharp- dull. Why is this shadow garbling on about pancakes? ‘Who are you?’ My lips bleed when I move them, and my teeth chatter. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘They left you with nothing to keep you warm – you could have frozen to death. I snuck in to watch over you. But what do I find?’ Her voice sharpens. ‘That you’ve been night-flying.’ She speaks like I’ve done the stupidest thing in the world, but her words are snagged with envy, too.

‘How do you know?’ I snap, before I can guard my tongue.

‘When you fly, the smell sticks to you. The memory of flight is tell-tale.’

She can smell my dream-dancing?

She strides closer. Her arms are full of shaggy white goat skins that she dumps next to me. I grab one and tuck myself into its musty folds. The warmth shocks tears of relief into my eyes.

The girl squats in front of me. She closes her eyes, a smile spreading over her face.

I shrink away from her. ‘What you doing?’ In the weak moonlight all I can see are snow-goggles and a headful of messy braids.

She lifts the goggles onto the top of her head. Her green eyes slant up and out like a cat’s. She’s the girl I saw when we landed – the one garbed in a cloak of feathers. ‘Remembering,’ she answers, weary sadness weighing down her voice.

Then comes another wrenching crack-crash-BOOM-roar-rush-splinter as Hackles spews more ice. I bury my face in the goat skin.

‘Our stronghold is more agitated than usual,’ says 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.’