Snow Like Ashes(82)

Maybe this is what Angra wanted. For me to instill false hope in them, to raise them up and shatter them even further. Taunt them with escape, then kill me in front of them.

But it doesn’t matter what Angra wants. Conall was right—it doesn’t even matter what I want anymore. All that matters now is surviving.

Soldiers lead us to the southern edge of Abril and out of the city via a small gate. As it groans over us, we’re shoved into such a harshly different world that I pause for a breath.

The wall is a jagged protrusion of black rock that shoots away from Abril into fields of slaughtered forest. Stumps of cherry blossom trees litter the landscape, making way for the newest addition to Angra’s city. This field of stumps, dirt, and piles of black rock is even more barren and hopeless than Abril itself. A testament to what it takes to spread Angra’s kingdom—nothing must remain, no plants, no sign of life. Everything must be dead to make way for Spring.

I approach one of the black rock piles, leather straps sitting in a mound next to it. They’re holsters that a few Winterians latch around their shoulders and let others load chunks of rock into the cradle against their spine.

“Get to work!” a soldier shouts, and cracks a whip above our heads. I grab a holster and slide it on. As soon as I do, a heavy chunk of black rock is nestled against my back.

“Up the ramps,” the rock-giver whispers. His aged eyes have the same flicker of curious hope as Nessa’s, but he bends to lift another rock from the pile and load up the next in line.

I shift the rock against my back and march for the ramps. Eight stories of platforms stretch into the air, linked by zigzagging ramps that take lines of Winterians up and down the wall-in-progress. The platforms are all made of the same questionable wood as the slums, the kind that could snap in a strong breeze. But if it does break, a few Spring soldiers will be dragged down with us. Some small justice.

I almost laugh at the thought. Justice would be the Winterians hurling these lumps of black rock at the Spring soldiers. Justice would be us sprinting for the field up ahead, the section of Spring that isn’t yet closed off from Abril.

The rock grates against my shoulder blades when I pause on a ramp, hovering far above the ground. That field is close. Vibrant green crops billow in the wind, nearly ready for harvest. Proof that Angra uses his conduit for something other than evil, however small that is. The wall’s purpose is to stretch around this barren section of earth and widen Abril to that field’s edge. Soldiers stand between us and it, but for now, for this moment—there is one way out of Abril.

Conall’s words bounce through my mind. We’ve tried escaping. Climbing the fences, fighting off guards, digging under walls. All it results in is more death.

I hesitate, biting the inside of my cheek. If they’ve tried … then I shouldn’t? No. I have to, if not for them, then for me. I’m trapped here as much as they are.

If I can get out beyond the soldiers, I can sneak out of Spring and talk to Hannah again. Or I can go back to Cordell and find Mather and Dendera and the rest.

The man in front of me shifts the rock against his back as he takes one more step up. But something in his step, or his weight, or the way he jostles the rock makes him teeter forward, his thin boot snagging on a jagged plank of wood. The wood tears through fabric and flesh, cutting apart a section of his foot and spilling blood in a dark pool on the platform.

The man pauses. Half a heartbeat, half a breath. Barely long enough to even absorb what happened, but in that moment his face spasms in a wince of pain. In its wake, he flicks his eyes to the nearest soldier up on the platform, and just when I realize I’m holding my breath …

The soldier whips his head to the man. His eyes drop to the blood trail, to the man’s still-twisted face of pain. “The work too much for you?” the soldier asks, his voice catching on a dare.

I open my mouth to speak, to do something that might let the man fade into the background. As he turns and heads up the next ramp, the soldier yanks the man around, spinning him on the dry wood. He swings out, caught off balance by the black stone, arms flailing to regain his balance. But it’s too late, the movement too sporadic, the rock too large.

The man wavers on the edge of the platform, five stories in the air. His hands claw in empty desperation, looking for purchase as the black rock in his holster shifts, moves, drags him back. The closest thing to him, the only thing he can grab, is the soldier.

I fly forward, air stuck in my dry throat, one hand leaving my holster to reach out like I might be able to stop this. But as gravity takes hold, the soldier smiles, lifts one foot, and plants a firm kick in the center of the man’s chest.