Starfinder: A Novel of the Skylords (8 page)

“Don’t think about it,” he whispered, crossing into the shadow of the barn. He would check on them quickly, he decided, give them the things he had brought, and then be off. If he was lucky he’d be back to work by the time the cooks started slopping out breakfast.

As he rounded the west side of the building, Skyhigh put the lantern handle between his teeth, letting it swing from his jaw to free up his hands so he could open the doors. But the doors, he discovered, had already been opened. He bit down miserably on the handle of the lantern.

“Oh, no . . .”

At once he peered inside, listening carefully, The vast interior of the place stood silent. He stepped into the dark hangar.

“Moth?” he chanced. “Fiona?”

No answer. Skyhigh pushed on deeper, his mind racing with awful possibilities. His eyes scanned the blackness as he made his way toward the loft, but when he came to a disheveled pile of clothing and boots, he paused. The coats had been picked through, thrown aside in a hurry. The barrel of boots was the same.

“No!” he shouted. Angrily he tossed the lantern to the ground. The glass enclosure shattered to bits. “Moth!” he growled. “Don’t you ever listen?”

He thought of going after them, but doubted he’d find them. Calio was a small city but full of good hiding places. All they had to do was wait long enough to hop on the train.

“I don’t have time for this,” groaned Skyhigh.

He went back toward the doors, slipping outside again into the cool air. He’d have to look for them later, he decided. Right now there were escorts to fly.

As he headed for the barracks, Skyhigh’s gaze fell upon the distant Reach. He paused, staring at the endless sea of fog, sickened by a sudden sense of alarm.

“No,” he whispered. “They couldn’t have . . .”

Yet in his heart he knew the truth. Moth. Fiona. Bull-headed teenagers, both of them.

“Oh, you stupid, harebrained kids!”

 

Skyhigh made it back to his barracks just as the sun peeked over the city. His fellow Skyknights were already out of their bunks and making their way to the dining house for breakfast. Skyhigh, who had already dressed for duty, hoped to melt quietly into the group. Young squires dashed through the throngs, carrying messages or machine parts for the dragonflies. Two airships remained moored at the docking platforms, while the big, black
Avatar
stood apart from the rest, tied down with metal cables and surrounded by guards. Skyhigh avoided everyone as he slipped into the crowd.

Until he saw Major Hark.

A trio of men in dark suits were with him, listening as he spoke with wild, angry gestures. Skyhigh cursed his bad luck and turned away, heading toward the barracks instead.

“Coralin!”

Skyhigh froze, afraid to look back.
Rotten, bloody. . . .

When he turned around again Major Hark was coming toward him. The dark suited men fanned out around him. Skyhigh ran through his story in his head, just the way he’d practiced. He hadn’t seen Moth in days, he told himself. And Fiona? No idea.

“Something wrong, Major?” Skyhigh asked. An awkward smile swam on his face.

Major Hark looked him over. “Where you been?”

“Just going to get something to eat . . .”

“Skyhigh, these men work for the Governor,” said Hark. “They’ve been looking for you.”

“Yeah?” Skyhigh considered the men. Each had the air of Capital City about them, a kind of well-bred, well-dressed corruption. They were the men who’d searched Leroux’s apartment, he was sure.

“Captain Coralin, you need to come with us,” said one of them, stepping forward. He was a tall, serious fellow, brawny beneath his tailored suit. His eyes locked on Skyhigh like manacles.

“Skyhigh, it’s about the Governor’s granddaughter,” said Hark. “She’s gone missing. These men seem to think you know something about that.”

Skyhigh made his decision in an instant. “Well that’s just fine,” he drawled. “I’ve got a few things to say to the Governor myself.” Without a word to Hark, Skyhigh spun toward the center of the city, gesturing for the men to follow. “Hurry up. Let’s not keep the old man waiting.”

FOR TWO HOURS MOTH and Fiona camped at the bottom of the mountain, huddled in their oversized coats and nibbling at the meat pies in their pockets as they waited for the sunrise. The trek from Calio had exhausted them both, slogging down a seldom traveled road to the foot of the mountain where the Reach lapped at the world like a giant ocean. There, in the shelter of an old oak tree, they rested and tried to keep warm, watching Lady Esme as she hopped along the rocks.

Then, like fireworks on a holiday, fingers of sunlight crawled through the Reach. Moth and Fiona gave their city one last look before entering the churning wall of fog.

Instantly, they vanished.

After barely three paces, Calio and the rest of the world disappeared behind them. Moth and Fiona gazed at their surroundings, wide-eyed at the white cloak that descended over them. Moth stretched out his hand, trying to catch a sparkling pinpoint of light. Like fireflies they swirled in the mists, blinking out of existence at the touch of his fingers. Lady Esme jumped up onto Moth’s shoulder.

Fiona raised her face to the sky, but the sky was gone. The canteens at her belt clanged like cowbells. They had taken everything they could carry with them, filling their pockets with matches and candles and food. Their long, rumpled coats trailed along the ground. Each wore a pair of boots too large for their feet.

“Which way?” asked Fiona, her head swiveling. “I can’t see anything at all.”

Moth searched the landscape, unable to see even a few yards ahead. Already he felt lost. “Just keep going,” he said, trying to sound confident. “As long as we keep heading straight we’ll make it through.”

He pictured the Reach as it looked from Calio, stretching on forever and ever, all the way to the horizon. But the Reach was a trickster, Leroux had told him.

“You just keep on walking,” he whispered, “right into another world.”

“I can’t even tell where I’m going,” said Fiona.

Moth summoned a picture of Leroux in his mind.
Just keep walking . . .

Lady Esme was silent on his shoulder, ruffling her feathers against the dewy fog. Her sharp eyes strayed upward, searching for the sky. Fiona was right—it was hard to walk even a straight line. Moth’s heart began to pound. Already he felt lost.

“Moth?” said Fiona. “What about that star-thingy?”

Moth tried to remember exactly what Leroux had told him. “Leroux said it would help me find the wizard.”

“Take it out,” said Fiona. “Let’s try.”

They paused while Moth fished the strange gift from his pocket. He had wrapped the instrument carefully in a soft, brown cloth he’d found in the hangar, the kind used for polishing aircraft. Gingerly he unwrapped it, pleased to see it intact. There were no scratches, no fingerprints, not even a smudge on its flawless mirror.

“What now?” asked Fiona. She looked at Moth as if she actually expected an answer.

Just as he had done back in Calio, Moth held the instrument to his eye and peered through the scope. Through the lens he saw the fog and the bright, mysterious lights, but nothing more. He lowered the instrument and saw Fiona’s disappointed face in its mirror.

“Nothing.”

Fiona reached out. “Let me try.” She held the object high above her head and loudly commanded, “Show us Merceron!”

“Fiona, that’s not going to work.”

“Why not? If it’s really magical it should work that way.”

Moth snatched the thing back from her. “C’mon! This isn’t a fairy tale. We have to figure out how it
really
works. No magic words, no three wishes, none of that applesauce.”

“How do you know? I mean, Leroux didn’t tell you how to use it, right?”

Moth grimaced, toying with the thing’s mysterious levers.

“Okay, right. But I’m not gonna talk to it. Maybe we just have to get out of here, wait for the stars to come back. Then maybe it’ll work.”

Fiona glanced around. “Moth?”

“Yeah?”

“Which way were we heading?”

“Huh? This way . . .” Moth spun about, realizing that everything looked the same. “I think.”

“Oh . . .”

“No, don’t panic,” said Moth. His chest tightened, but he refused to look afraid. He looked down at his feet and the way his boots had disturbed the ground. “That way,” he pointed.

“You sure?”

Moth wasn’t sure. “No,” he admitted, but when he looked at Esme he noticed her sharp eyes looking straight ahead. “Look at her,” he said. “Esme knows the way!”

The kestrel’s gaze was full of certainty. Moth wrapped the instrument carefully in its cloth and settled it back in his pocket.

“Go on, Esme,” he told the bird. “Lead us through.”

Without a moment’s hesitation Esme started out, hopping confidently through the fog.

“Stay close,” Moth warned Fiona. He put out his hand for her. “Let’s keep together.”

Fiona took his hand. “Just don’t let go, okay?”

 

They continued for an hour, hand in hand, neither of them speaking. Moth held faithfully to what Leroux had told him—the Reach simply didn’t go on forever. All they had to do was keep on walking.

Soon
, he told himself.
In ten more steps we’ll see the end.

But ten steps later, the fog only seemed thicker. Moth expected Fiona to start complaining, but she didn’t. Instead, she began whispering to herself, her voice so low Moth could barely hear it. When he turned to look at her, her eyes were closed.

“What are you doing?” Moth asked.

Fiona’s fingers tightened around his hand. “Thinking about good things,” she said, and kept on walking, eyes shut, lips whispering.

“Huh?”

“It’s a game my mother taught me,” Fiona explained. “Whenever you’re scared you just close your eyes and try to remember the best times of your life. You call up the memories real clear, and it’s just like you’re there again.”

“Don’t be scared,” said Moth. “We’re not lost. We just gotta keep on walking.”

“Hush up,” said Fiona. Quickly she fell back into her trance, rifling through her treasure chest of memories. Moth led her on through the fog.

“What are you thinking about right now?” he asked.

A smile lit Fiona’s face. “Once when my parents were alive they took me on a train ride to Rivena. There was a man on the train doing card tricks with a monkey, and when we got to Rivena we all went on a balloon ride over the river.” Fiona gave a tiny moan, like she was tasting something delicious. “I was eight years old. I remember ’cause it was my birthday.” Fiona opened her eyes. “Now you try.”

“Fiona, I’m not scared,” Moth lied.

“Go on, toughie,” she goaded. “Close your eyes. What was the very best time of your life?”

Moth didn’t want to play her game. “Orphans don’t have memories like that.”

“Don’t be stupid. Everyone has good memories. You’ll see ’em when you close your eyes.”

So Moth did as Fiona asked, holding her hand and letting her guide him through the mists. Instantly his mother’s face popped up. Sometimes it was hard to remember her face, but not today. Today she came alive, so real Moth could smell her perfume.

“What are you remembering?” Fiona asked him.

Moth didn’t answer right away. To play the game right, he needed a
great
memory. He searched his brain, recalling the first time he’d seen an airship and the day he discovered a treehouse some of the squires had built. He’d spent the whole day in that tree pretending to be a Skyknight until the older boys chased him away.

“I remember one time a few years ago,” he began, “back when my mother was sick. We were in our old house on the square. I had just gotten my job at the aerodrome . . .” Moth took a deep breath, remembering the smell of that morning. “It was early and I was still in bed, and then I smelled my mother cooking breakfast. She’d gone out and bought us bacon from one of the farms. She walked all the way down there even though she was sick. When I asked her why, she said . . .”

Suddenly Moth opened his eyes. Fiona looked at him, eager for the rest of his story.

“Well?” she pressed. “What’d she say to you?”

The memory had taken Moth to a place he didn’t want to go. “She said it was because I had gotten a job,” he told her. “She said it was because she was proud of me. I guess that was the best time of my life.”

Fiona squeezed his hand. “You win.”

 

For hours they followed Lady Esme deeper and deeper into the mists, sometimes barely able to detect her in the thick fog. Moth’s feet hurt badly, roughed up by the oversized boots. He held Fiona’s hand tighter than ever. After a while they had both stopped speaking, until Fiona spoke the truly dreadful words.

“We’re lost,” she whispered. “We’re really lost.”

“No, we’re not,” Moth insisted. “Esme knows where she’s going.”

“She’s a bird, Moth!”

“She’s not a bird! She’s a person! And we’re not lost!” Fiona let go of his hand. “Stop. Just stop.”

Moth and Esme both halted, turning to look at her. “Fiona, listen, we have to keep going . . .”

“It’s getting dark,” said Fiona. She looked up where the sky belonged. “It’s almost night! We’ve been walking all day.”

“I know,” Moth admitted. “But we have to keep going. We have to
believe
, Fiona.”

She nodded desperately. “I want to believe. I . . .” She dropped to her haunches. “I want to rest.” Her eyes looked up hopefully. “Please can we rest?”

“Okay, yeah,” Moth relented. “Let’s rest.”

He called Esme back onto his shoulder, sitting down next to Fiona. All they could see was each other. Moth held back his panic, glad he wasn’t alone, because if he was he would have broken into tears.