I stalk off in the opposite direction of the assembling guards and away from the outer wall. A voice like sandpaper shouts. A whistle blows. I have the instinct to run, but remain calm and continue walking, keeping my head down and my eyes open for Soren.
I start up the hill to the Roost. It makes sense that we’d reconvene here if separated. When I near the top of the hill, guards sack Soren’s house, shouting angrily. My pulse picks up. As a red-faced patrolman smashes the spindly chair against the hard ground, I smoothly swerve in the other direction.
The patrol from last night must have realized we tricked them and are searching for us. Stupid cider. My only choice is to go back down the lane to the gate and look for Soren in the Flats. Or maybe he went to Battersea, though that’s nearly as far as we could get from the path we’d planned to take out of Raven’s Landing. My breath quickens. Stay calm.
Patrols, with blades in hand, guard the lower gate, exiting the Roost. I pull my hat lower. I hear Henry’s name and the mention of a girl under the pier followed by laughter. I’d have imagined the bloated egos of the guards would have kept our deception under their helmets out of embarrassment or fear of consequences for not apprehending us immediately, but I misjudged them.
I took the risk in weaving the tale after having a dream about a guard named Henry. Those same two guards, Moss and Heath, were hassling him. However, he got the last laugh when he riffled through their things and discovered one slept with a straw doll and the other had a secret stash of food stolen from the kitchens. It was just a dream, but it felt real and strange because I’d never seen them before our encounter in Bearsden. But I have a lot of odd dreams that don’t seem to be my own.
As for Tinkerbell? That was just the first name that sprang to mind.
I stall by a scattering of small dwellings, windows and doors askew as though tossed like the tiles in the game Soren played last night. I clutch the rough wood, peering around, slowing my breath, and trying to figure out how and where to go when someone grips my empty hand.
My startle gives way to a shot of relief. A little boy with a smudge of dirt on his cheek smiles at me. His wide, lavender eyes, like my mother’s, brighten when I smile back. Tufts of light hair escape from his knit cap. I imagine Soren as a little boy, though his eyes are dark blue. This little boy tugs my hand and leads me around the corner and into a ramshackle house. I have to duck to get inside. The aromatic scent of sweet spices makes me instantly feel at home.
The woman who’d almost been possessed by the demon at the foot of the Roost greets me. She puts her finger to her lips. The swirls of ink lacing her wrists explain why she’s not inclined to speak. She stirs a pot of amber liquid warming on the hearth.
The little boy pulls me to the corner of the shack, lifts a curtain hanging on the wall, and then slides a plank over. “Through here and keep going straight,” he whispers.
The woman taps me on the shoulder before I crawl into the tunnel hewn into the earth and passes me a warm flask.
The little boy says, “Drink this. It’ll keep you strong.”
Unlike the cider, it’s soothing when it goes down, and tastes exactly like something my mother used to make when I wasn’t feeling well, had a big test, or needed a boost. “Thank you.”
She shakes her head and mouths No, thank you and ushers me into the tunnel.
Progress is slow as I move through the rough-cut escape tunnel. Dirt finds its way into my mouth, my eyes, and ears. I creep on all fours and then on my belly in some places. Jagged rock skins my knuckles, but the sip of the warm drink, still flavorful on my tongue, keeps me moving forward. I press on, forcing away the sense that the mountain could collapse on me as I move beneath the Roost.
The tunnel gets narrower the farther I go. Heights? No prob. Small spaces? Not so good. Don’t panic. Don’t panic. I couldn’t turn around if I wanted to. The walls press close against me.
The only thing that would be worse than there not being an opening at the other end would be if the patrol stood guard, waiting. I picture Soren standing there. Torsuld the giant king. The ravens greeting me with loud kraas. Anything other than a dead end.
The musty, dank air in the tunnel warms slightly as I continue. I open my eyes, blinking away the dirt to see a sliver of light ahead. Hope hastens my crawl.
A large rock blocks the end of the tunnel, but there’s enough room for me to turn around and push it out of my way with my feet, revealing a copse of thick brambles and bushes. I inhale the air, slow my racing heart, and listen. Stillness. Silence. I glance up to the sky, through the browning bushes, and spot the golden bird circling overhead.
Relief washes through me.
Still hunched, I brush off the dirt and exit the bushes. The side of a dumpy mountain rises behind me giving way to hill after hill after hill, bumping their way toward the faint outline of the Morgorthian Mountains. In the other direction, the corner of Fjallhold is barely visible where the Raven’s Landing peninsula curves away. Guards line the rim of the wall, and I cross to the other side of the bushes and start down.
The sun, with
