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By day six on the road, I’ve stopped believing Ash’s home even exists.
I’m also not entirely sure clean clothes and food that didn’t start the day fuzzy and breathing aren’t a figment of my imagination. In particular, I would very much rather not have had a front row seat to where Ash was sourcing dinner, but then it turns out travel is mostly a chain of unpleasantness spaced unevenly between where you started and where you intended to finish.
And then our poor, battered, sporadically powered bike grinds up one last hill and dies, and this time it doesn’t matter because a glittering mirage rises in the distance. Only it turns out to be real. Our journey is at an end.
“Welcome to Nine Peaks.” Ash twists to watch me, probably hoping for a spark of recognition.
I try. I really do. But any warmth I feel isn’t from long-lost memories of a childhood home.
Six days in the wilderness with Ash, and only Ash has changed things. He’s no longer a phantom from a dream, as I first knew of him, or the impervious hero I imagined him to be when I wanted someone to solve all my problems for me, or even the heartless, unyielding kidnapper who dragged me away from my home and my purpose.
He’s Ash: strong and determined, funny—at times, even silly—and competent, careful to give me space but relentless in never, ever letting me run away, and so infuriatingly calm when I’m not that it drives me crazy. I notice everything about him without meaning to, the same way I can tell what Cadence is thinking just from the feeling in the air.
Well, maybe not quite the same way.
But he believes everything I need is on the other side of these walls, so I can’t help a tiny shiver of excitement as he rolls the much-abused bike toward a massive ring of what looks like packed earth under a serrated crown of wood and weathered metal.
Not having the words is far from a new experience for me. But this—this is on a completely different scale.
I crane my neck so far I nearly topple over backward. Whatever that is on the other side is tall. I know trees. It feels like I’ve seen nothing but trees for days. These, whatever they are, are much, much more.
“Not bad, huh?” His voice is hushed with awe and pride.
I nod in mute amazement. I count nine structures spearing the sky. Some actually do seem to be gigantic trees, airy ornamentation spiraling around the trunks and draped between massive, sprawling branches.
But then the impossible size of it all clicks into focus. Those carved and painted things are swaying bridges linking open platforms and an assortment of partially-and-fully enclosed man-made things. It’s like a whole building—dozens of buildings, even—has been taken apart and scattered throughout the treetops.
The other structures are more like the kind of towers I’m familiar with, but smothered in growing things. Amidst all that greenery is the glitter of glass in the sunlight. The outer skin of the tall columns is lacy with the perforations and ridges of balconies and windows and gardens and what seem like purely decorative features channeling light and shadow into a shifting, organic display.
It’s awe-inspiring from the ground. I can’t even being to imagine how stunning the view must be from one of the upper levels.
The crumbling road grows smooth under my feet as we near a broad ramp. It climbs to a pair of heavy gates, and beyond—
He stops. “Maybe you should wait here.”
It’s the only warning I get before the gates swing open and a crowd spills out in a roaring, many-headed surge.
Ash slings an arm around my shoulders and drags me forward to meet the mob, accurately predicting my first instinct, which was to run for cover in the opposite direction. The strangers engulf us in an onslaught of questions, demands, complaints, and orders.
“Where have you been?”
“You’ve been missing for weeks!”
“Who’s that?”
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“Your unit came back without you. We thought you were dead.”
“We had to tie Banshee down to keep her from going after you. Rei too.”
“You’re in so much trouble!”
“What did you do to your bike?”
“Did you fight lots of monsters?”
“Get back inside!” The order comes from a hard-faced woman with deep scars, deeper eyes, and a sleeveless tunic showcasing arms that look as if she could strangle a sea monster.
The crowd certainly seems to take her seriously, stampeding through the gates and sweeping us along in their midst.
I stay glued to Ash’s side, though it’s more than a little embarrassing. He obligingly turns out his elbows, holding back the tide to give me space to take it all in.
I don’t know what I expected, but it wasn’t this. A massive, rolling meadow fills much of the land between the walls. Pathways weave amongst the low hills. Some lead to what seem to be doors set into sides of the raised earth. Flowers compete with tall grasses and clusters of small trees overshadow orderly rows of plantings. Around the perimeter are the gigantic columns of the towers, though they’re not like any towers I know.
Inside the city walls, I can see the roots of the exotic towers—not the heavy blocks of crumbling concrete and steel I’m familiar with, but light, airy forms that seem to float above the earth, draped with vegetation and perforated to show glimpses of the sky and mountains beyond. And, of course, some of the giant structures really are trees, rooted and spreading and glittering with elegant structures, as if a tower has been carved into dozens of pieces and strung between the branches and trunks. Tidy lower buildings cluster around their feet in heavy piles of warm honey-toned or silvered-grey wood.
But all that’s nothing compared to the diversity of the people milling about.
After the visual excesses of Freedom, perhaps I shouldn’t find it so surprising. But here, the bright and varied forms of dress aren’t the only things that stand out. Not a single person has the bony, grey-hued look of a Refuge drone. Some seem to have hair so long it hangs all the way down their backs—real hair, not ribbons or feathers! There are not only a vast array of hair shades and styles, but also more skin textures and hues, bodies, and ages than I’ve ever seen. The smallest child barely comes up to my knees. The elderly are marvels to see—how is it possible for them to survive so long out here? I’ve never seen so many women in one place before, either.
I don’t know where to look first. People crowd in, curious, peppering Ash with question after question. He smiles, and shrugs, and jostles them back when they get too close, all the while steering us through the winding pathways toward a long, dark structure made of massive, weathered boards. The doors that nearly span the width of its end are at least four times wider than any of us, and a good few feet taller than I am. They’re also painted to look like a staring face with gaping maw.
I shiver—it looks like it’s slavering to swallow us whole. The scarred woman from the gate follows us into the dark, cool interior, and for the first time, I realize she’s driving Ash in front of her like a Refuge enforcer marching a disobedient drone to Corrections.
Are we in trouble? I feel like someone probably should have told me if we’d been captured—
Ash catches me before I flatten my nose against a painted barrier. I hadn’t been paying close attention, and in the sudden darkness as we passed through the doors and out of reach of the bright outdoor light I’d just assumed the way would be clear. He nudges me to one side, and we step around the false wall and into an enormous open space, smelling of earth and shadows.
Sunlight filters down from narrow openings in the ceiling, emphasizing the darkness rather than illuminating the interior. Nine chairs at the far end hold eight figures. Beneath the softly glowing silver mists of a dreamwalker’s power, more than one head is bent under white or grey strands.
The scarred woman takes the last empty seat on the left. We’re left standing in the middle of the dimly lit hall.
“You’re late.” The speaker’s deep wrinkles and ropey silver hair are framed between a wide-brimmed hat and layers of scarves.
“Not just a little late. Weeks late. We thought you were dead.” A white-haired woman sewn into a whole garden’s worth of elaborate floral embroidery and beading adds.
“We were worried—” A tall woman, grey threaded through her dark braids, draped in heavy-looking woven fabric. Her brow furrows as her gaze flickers between Ash and I.
“We expect a full report,” the woman who met us at the gate interrupts, sharp-voiced and straight-backed. “Why did you abandon your squad? Where have you been? And who is that?”
There others rustle in mingled approval and discomfort, a ripple of searching glances, nervous fingers plucking, lips flattened in disapproval or parted in question. No two look alike—or seem to think alike.
I shift my weight. Blisters burn and itch, my hands aching only slightly more than everything else at this point. I rub one foot against the back of my other leg, dislodging a hail of grime. There’s a general tut of disapproval.
“Old farts,” snorts Cadence, not without warmth.
Their gasps shiver the air.
“What?” Cadence says. “I’m back, fogeys. Didn’t you miss me?”
The tall woman with the braids and blanket-cloak jolts like she’s been jabbed with a pin. She rustles over to peer into my face.
I flinch, but Ash is right behind me. There’s no escaping.
“Hi, gran,” says Cadence.
The woman’s hands are as soft as a breath. They flutter across my cheeks, sending more flecks of mud pattering to the floor.
“Cady . . .” Her fingertips tremble against my skin. She steps back, blinking fast over shining eyes.
I stare over her head, breathing almost as fast. Gran? I didn’t think—I mean, I know my parents had died in Refuge, so I just never expected—Ash never said there would be—
“It can’t be.” The first man to speak tips his head to glower more effectively under his hat’s brim, not at me, but at Ash. There’s something to the shape of his face under the wrinkles that makes me wonder. Those scarves, not unlike the one Ash keeps tucked under the collar of his jacket—Ash did say his grandfather was on the council . . . “You’re mistaken. That child died years ago.”
The woman—our grandmother?—brushes a finger along my left cheekbone, tracing dark stains that won’t wipe off with the mud. Birthmarks. Her hands knot at her sides.
She turns to face the seated council. “There’s no mistake. Cadence has returned to us.”
Ash makes a low, humming noise behind me.
I twist away to stand on my own. “Cole. It’s—it’s just Cole, actually. Or, kind of.”
They look at me, then, infuriatingly, past me.
“And how does “kind-of Cole” come to be with us today, Ash?” This from the scarred woman.
“Here it comes,” Cadence says.
“I found her.” He speaks in a soldier’s voice. Or a drone’s. Neutral. Expressionless. It makes my hair stand on end.
“Where?” The woman barks.
“Where do you think?” Cadence says. “Where you abandoned me, that’s where.”
They all look at me. I blink, stepping back until I bump into Ash.
“She’s had a long journey,” Ash says. “A lot has happened—”
Cadence snorts.
“Perhaps it would be better to offer the child a few moments to recover? Ghost will remain to make his report in full.” The “and in private” remains unspoken by the humourless elder—my top pick for Ash’s grandfather—but implicit at the end of his order.
For it is undoubtedly an order. Ghost must be Ash’s code name, like Banshee and Rei. They’re treating him like a soldier, and not one they’re particularly pleased with, either.
“No fear—the fogies know better than to let me out of their sight,” Cadence says. But there’s a hint of uncertainty in her sarcastic voice when she replies to them, “Is that really a good idea?”
There’s no way I want to be separated from Ash now, left to fend for myself. Besides, we’re in this together. I need the council to do whatever it takes to fix me up so we can head home before the Mara make sure there’s no one left to welcome us back.
But no one asks what I want.
Ash steers me back to the doors despite my protests and more or less shoves me through. His eyebrows pinch, lips shaping the word “sorry” with a silent lift of the shoulders. Then he slams the door in my face.