The Crown of Embers(108)

I have as much right to walk through our campsite as anyone, but it feels as though every eye is on me as I return to my tent. From my pack, I grab my water skin, which I hook through the loop in my utility belt; pouches of dried jerky and dates, which go into the pocket of my pants; and my knife, which I shove down into my boot. I grab my crown too. It’s made of Godstones, after all. Maybe it will prove useful. No place to hide it, though. Reluctantly I put it back into my pack.

I feel bulgy and obvious as I make my way to the stream.

Mara sits on the edge atop a rocky outcropping. She holds a smooth gray stone in one hand and is grinding away at a thick brown root. Something spicy-sweet pricks at my nose. She looks up at me and says, “Ginger! A whole patch of it across the stream. I’m going to dry it out and take some home with us.”

“It will be a wonderful addition to your satchel,” I say.

Something about my tone sobers her. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I’m quick to say. “But I haven’t spent much time praying lately, so I’m going upstream a ways for privacy. I’ll keep the camp in sight.”

“I’ll come find you when lunch is ready.”

“No! I mean, I might be longer than that. I have a lot on my mind.” Truly, I am the worst liar in all of Joya d’Arena.

But she just shrugs. “In that case, I’ll save some for you.”

“Thank you.” I wish I could lean down and hug her, but I dare not arouse suspicion by making a big deal out of what should be a very small good-bye. As I turn my back, I hear the scrape-scrape of her grinding stone.

I’m barely out of sight of the camp when Storm melts from the trees to join me. Wordlessly we clamber upstream, and we navigate the jungle trash with agonizing slowness because of our need for stealth. Eventually we pass the pool where Mara and I bathed, and the terrain grows rocky and steep until we are scrambling over moss-covered boulders, using palm trees for leverage that have found stubborn rootholds in deep crevices and patches of mud.

The zafira calls to me; I feel it as surely as a lasso around the waist, pulling tighter and more agonizingly with every step. I pray as I walk, and soothing warmth spreads through my abdomen to take the edge off the pain.

The stream dead-ends at a small lake shadowed at the base of one of the mountains. A waterfall rushes down the side of the mountain and crashes into the lake, a faint rainbow shimmering in its white spray. I look up, up, up—but the source of the waterfall is hidden in the clouds.

I stare at the cliffs ahead of us, dismayed, for there is nowhere to go. Yet the zafira continues to tug at me.

“Another test,” Storm says.

“I’ve climbed cliffs before, but those are impossible. Too slick and steep. Too high.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he says.

I open my mouth to insult him right back, but hesitate. He’s right. I need to think differently.

I take a deep breath and focus hard on the tug. It leads straight across the lake to the cliffs. The base is blurred by mist. Just maybe, a ledge lurks behind the water fog. Or boulders. Something we can use to get a better look.

“We need to go around the lake,” I say. “Get to the other side.”

“Yes,” he says, his eyes distant. “I think so too.” Surrounded by jungle foliage, his eyes are greener than ever, like the sun shining through emeralds. I shudder as I turn to lead the way.

The boulders edging the lake are black and porous and sharp, and as I use my hands to climb, the soft pads of my fingers are scraped raw. Movement catches my eye. I peer into the crystal water—it’s deep and shadowy, but something swims down there, something large.

I lean closer. It darts away and disappears beneath an underwater overhang. I stare at the spot it vacated, puzzled, as the silt it churned up diffuses to the bottom. The creature was larger than a tuna, but I could have sworn I saw stubby legs and a long, whipping tail. Maybe I imagined it.

“Something wrong?” Storm asks.

“This is a very strange place,” I say as I continue on. But I keep a close eye on the water’s edge.

Mist from the waterfall settles in my hair, on my clothes, on my skin. As we approach, the mist turns to spray, then stinging needles of water, and the air is so drenched that I can’t see but a few hand spans in front of me. The waterfall booms around us, whipping up a fierce wind. I’m careful to place my hands and feet just so on the slippery rocks, testing each step, each handhold, before taking another.

And finally we can go no farther. We stand on a slight lip between the cliff and the lake, the waterfall before us. There are not enough handholds. No way to climb. Storm yells something, but his voice is whisked away by the merciless water.