Phoenix Overture

tries, I finally managed to land a stone sort of near the sign. It clanged against the enormous metal pole that had once held the numbered sign high above the road.

“Well done!” Fayden clapped my back, making me stagger forward. He wore a wide grin. “Soon you’ll be out hunting for supper with me.”

I doubted that. Not if they wanted to actually catch supper. But I smiled, too, because I was improving.

“Once more.” He glanced over his shoulder at the caravan where everyone was waking and beginning to prepare for departure. “Then we’ll grab some breakfast.”

“Okay.” Rock waiting in the sling pouch, I sucked in a deep breath, let it drop back and around. I stepped forward and released, and a whine sounded from air cutting across the ridges.

The rock smacked against the sign, a small thunderclap echoing around the caravan. A number five fell to the ground.

I laughed and threw my hands into the air. The sling cord dangled in my face. Fayden was laughing, too.

“Now,” he said, “you may practice your music. We’ll work on this more when we stop tonight.”

Buoyed by his praise and pride, I helped with breakfast and soon the caravan was on the move.

We trundled past decaying wooden shacks, fallen metal towers, and miles and miles of half-buried black wires. Earthquakes and storms during the Cataclysm had claimed so much of the previous civilization. Was there anyone else out there? Other children of the survivors?

Or were we all alone in the world?

After my morning duties were taken care of, I climbed onto the roof of the wagon with my flute. I knew only the basics of the instrument—how to blow across the hole, where to put my fingers, and to keep my posture straight to achieve a better sound—but I hadn’t had the opportunity to learn much more.

Now, I pinned my music book open with a pair of rocks, studied the fingering charts, and began with simple scales. One octave. Two. I learned how to adjust my mouth and throat to the pitch, where to turn the flute in or out to stay in tune, and how to make my breath last as long as possible.

Stef popped his head out from inside the wagon and rested his elbows on the roof. “Didn’t you just start learning that?”

My sling arm ached as I lowered the flute. “I know. I have a lot of work to do.”

He rolled his eyes. “No, I mean, you’re really good at it already. It’s a little scary.”

I inspected the flute, how the silver shone in the hot sunlight. “I wouldn’t say really good, but I guess . . . it just makes sense to me. Music just makes sense. Like you understand machines and”—I waved a hand—“stuff I don’t.”

Stef nodded. “Well, play a song.”

“Songs have words.” But I turned a few pages in the music book and found something that looked simple enough. I studied it for a few minutes, silently finding the notes on my flute before I risked playing it aloud. On the tops of the neighboring wagons, people peered over curiously. More people than there usually were.

Stef followed my glances. “You can do this,” he muttered. “You’ve played for Fay and me a million times. Just forget they’re there.”

“Then I was playing an instrument I had more experience with.”

“Only one way to get experience with this one.” Stef winked and pulled himself the rest of the way onto the roof. When he was reclining against the edge, he motioned toward the flute. “If you please.”

Annoyed and grateful to him at once, I lifted my flute.

A long, silver sound poured across the landscape as I began to play. Knots of worry and uncertainty untangled in my heart, and the whole world faded until all I could hear was the flute’s piercing voice, the bass of wheels rumbling over the crumbling road, and the percussion of Stef thumping his palm on the wagon roof.

Music lifted and carried me. It wasn’t great; I could hear all the imperfections and the limitations imposed by my own lack of skill—but I’d practice. I’d practice for the rest of my life if it meant I could feel like this.

When I finished, people atop the neighboring wagons clapped. “Play it again!” someone called, and I felt my face pull into an awe-filled grin.

People did like music. And maybe now, more than ever, they needed it.

I wasn’t so useless after all.

The caravan moved slowly. We traveled alongside the range of immense mountains for over a month before we reached an enormous, fast-moving river, and were forced to trust ancient, pre-Cataclysm bridges to allow us safe passage. It took three days for the entire group to cross, made more miserable because of a sudden rainstorm.

The weather stayed humid and hot for days, and the looming mountains in the west seemed like an impenetrable wall, but sometimes I spotted ruined roads winding around the sharp curves. Night came earlier and earlier as the weeks turned into months and the weather cooled. Autumn browned the trees and land, and it seemed our lives had always been this: rising early, preparing the wagon, gathering fresh water and food before the call to push off.

Our days had always been bartering with others—with Stef fixing wagons, Fayden running errands for anyone who could pay with food, and me standing atop the wagon in constant search of danger. Sunlight baked my shoulders and arms, faded my black hair to brown, and made my eyes water every time we neared a river or lake; the reflection of sunlight on water made it hard to see.

Dust was the worst. It crept into everything, especially my clothes. My skin itched from the moment I awoke to the second I finally fell to sleep. Nothing helped.

Several times, I spotted crumbling cities, most smaller than the one we’d left. One thing they all had in common, however, was the slow creeping of nature, trees and brush and grass steadily destroying what humans had built centuries ago. It was a constant reminder that nothing was permanent, least of all us.

We were all temporary.

I lost track of days.

There’d been several more attacks after that first one, most too far ahead of this end of the caravan for us to have time to help; the centaurs—it was usually centaurs—had too few numbers to engage us in a battle that lasted longer than a half hour. But we heard about the skirmishes, the small raids and attempts to creep in during the night. Security around the caravan grew tighter as the months passed us by.

Then, quite suddenly, the world grew cold, and the caravan shifted, moving not alongside the mountains, but aiming through them. The caravan fore curved ahead of us, moving up and over crumbling roads. And high above them, the mountaintops turned bare and white.

I had no clue how Meuric knew where to go, but he must have, because every day we set out with a purpose. Though here at the end of the line, our purpose was mostly keeping up with the rest of the travelers. And not freezing to death.

The cold snaked into everything, like a living force. My throat and eyes ached from the frigid, dry air, and when I took off the cloth protecting my mouth and nose from dust, I could see my breath misting before me.

“Do you think Janan is worth all this?” I asked Fayden as the wagons rumbled through the mountains. The road here was treacherous and narrow—too narrow for him to ride his horse next to us. Below, Stef cursed at whatever he was building. Some kind of defensive device.

“All this what? Ages of travel?” Fayden sat opposite me, his voice not quite lost beneath the wind and grumble of our passage. Other voices echoed above and around us.

I nodded. “Yes. That. But also the Community burning. Abandoning the old city, and the plague victims quarantined inside.” A blast of frigid wind sent us both shivering, and I wrapped my arms around my middle. I already wore almost all the clothes I owned—plus new wool items we’d traded for—but even so, I’d never been so cold in my life. “Being here, too. In this place.” I gestured around, toward the mountains rising all around us. With so much strength and height, it seemed they were holding up the sky. “This place is alien. We don’t belong here. It’s so cold and different. Do any of us even know how to survive here?”

Fayden shrugged and pulled his jacket tighter over his shoulders. Like everyone else, he wore a cloth over his nose and mouth, and a knitted hat drawn down to his eyebrows. Only his eyes were uncovered, and they were narrowed against the stinging cold.

It was hard to believe we’d ever been warm, or longed for a day of cooler weather.