I’m dead anyway. I’d rather die free. And so I pull myself up on to the stone ledge and push open the window.
It would be raining. Within minutes of lowering myself out of the window I’m soaked through, my shift plastered to my skin, my fingers turning to ice as they cling to the slippery rock surface.
Lodging the dagger in thin cracks provides me with precarious handholds, but they’re few and far between and my progress is slow. Still, down is the only direction I can go, and so I persevere, knowing it won’t be long before the whole kingdom is looking for me.
And yet I can’t shake the feeling I’m going the wrong way. Away from Torin. To save my own neck I’m abandoning him to his father’s questionable mercy. I swear that if we both live long enough, I will return for him, but it does nothing to assuage my guilt.
The wind is whipping up now, and I’m seriously regretting not taking the guard’s cloak as well as his blade. Chilled to the bone, I shiver as I struggle to grip the dagger, blinking away blinding raindrops.
It happens in a split second. My foot slips, and the dagger isn’t secure enough to take the sudden jolt of weight, and then I’m sliding, falling, falling fast, so fast that I gasp for breath. Desperately I try to find something to grab hold of, but the rain has left the rock like glass, and momentum is spinning me out of control. I’m dimly aware of pain shooting through me, as my skin is torn off, as my bones are battered against the rock face, but all I can think about is saving myself. I stab the rock with my blade, frantically searching for any gap I can take advantage of, but it’s too hard, too unyielding.
When the dagger eventually lodges in a crevice and abruptly stops my fall, I’m barely expecting it and only just manage to cling on, my recently dislocated shoulder practically torn again from its socket by the jolt. I hang there, one hand clutching the dagger, pain shooting through me, my feet dangling. For a moment I’m too shocked to do anything, but then I look down and panic grips me once more. I may have fallen a long way, but there’s still an enormous drop beneath me. I try to pull myself up, hoping to secure myself, but my strength isn’t what it was after rotting in that cell.
I don’t know what to do.
Exhausted, and wondering how much longer I can hold on, I allow my body to press close to the rock and for a moment I’m still, feeling its cold surface against my cheek. Despite everything, the very immediate peril I’m in, I close my eyes. How I’ve missed being outside, missed the smell of the air, and I breathe slowly in and out, allowing nature to soothe my soul until the fear starts to subside.
Through the howling storm I notice a softer noise. A gentle hum that’s coming directly from the mountain. I strain to listen, for the sound is sweet and familiar, like a friend calling out in greeting. It’s been so long it takes me a while to realise what I can hear – the fragile whisper of magic.
And as I drink in the buzzing warmth of the mountain, which nourishes me more than food ever could, I finally understand the dissatisfaction that’s been growing inside me since I left the West. Denying the part of me drawn to magic has created an emptiness within. A cold, dark void that has spread every day. I hadn’t known it until now, as the space refills and causes a glow of pure joy to swell inside, even here in the direst of circumstances.
The traces of magic in the East are all but gone, only forgotten fragments lurking in the deepest, darkest parts of the land, but now, somehow, I’m drawing it out of the stone. The problem is I don’t have the knowledge to harness it or utilise it in any way. Esther would know what to do. All I can do is be aware of it.
Or is it?
The last time I tried any kind of summoning it was in Western waters when desperation and a thirst for vengeance had enabled me to rouse water raptors from their slumber. Now my life is in jeopardy again, and if I don’t try something I won’t make it down this mountain alive.
‘Veitja.’ My lips brush the rock as I breathe the ancient word into the mountain. I wonder if the stone will remember this long dead language; certainly I recall very few words from the dusty tomes I read long ago in a dark room on the Sixth Isle. But I remember this one. Help. And, as this archaic tongue belonged to the Mages, I’m hoping it might work for me now.
Nothing happens. The rain runs down my face, melting my hair against my skin, and reminding me that if I don’t fall down the mountain, then I shall certainly freeze to death.
‘Veitja.’ This time I don’t just whisper the word with my mouth; I speak it with every fibre of my being, through every part of my flesh touching the mountain, willing the rock to answer the plea from my very core.
And I hear its reply.
The hum grows louder, a great roar spreading through the granite until it reaches my fingertips and vibrates through my bones. I am utterly connected to the mountain; it awaits my command. The thrill of this magical binding almost makes me forget the danger I’m in – almost – and cautiously I test the cliff face with my foot.
Immediately I find a foothold. Then another. Wherever I move my hands or feet, the rock seems to shift, allowing me enough ledge to grasp hold of, reshaping itself once I’ve passed. I’m able to move fast now, gliding as easily as a raindrop down glass. The moon is obscured by cloud, and so, under the cloak of darkness, I pass safely to the bottom of the ravine. I do not allow myself a moment to marvel at what is happening, not until my feet are firmly on the ground once more, at which point I laugh out loud with relief and astonishment, leaning against the staggeringly vast rock face and spreading my arms wide to embrace it.
‘Thank you.’ I do not know the ancient words of thanks, but hope the sentiment at least will be understood.
The connection is fading, the magic dying away, and I’m painfully aware of the loneliness that slips back in its place. For those brief, intense moments I’d felt oddly complete, a part of something immensely powerful. I can barely believe it just happened. The rock moved. For me. At my request.
I’ve felt the powerful seduction of magic before, but never like this, never without fear and anger tainting it, and as I sprint across the ravine floor, grateful for the cover of shadow, I wonder again if I made the wrong choice turning my back on magic. Given that I’m fleeing for my life, stripped of my title, and further than ever from restoring peace, the decision to become the Viper isn’t looking so much like the right one.
Once I reach the forest that lies west of the mountain, I allow myself a moment to catch my breath. Two weeks in a cell and my fitness is definitely not what it was. But soon this forest will be filled with guards searching for me, so I press on, weaving in and out of trees, their gnarled branches appearing to point the way to freedom.
I need to get to a harbour, need to get off this island, and then I need a plan. First things first, though. I’d better find some warm, dry clothes or I won’t make it at all.
The sound of horses storming in my direction reaches me before I find shelter. The King’s Guard are searching for me. There’s only one place to hide in a forest and so I scale the nearest snowbark tree, climbing the pale white trunk as high as possible to disappear among its dense copper leaves. Perching in a fairly precarious position, lying as flat as possible, I wait, hoping my pursuers will pass through the forest quickly, hardly daring to breathe in case I give myself away.