Chapter 14.
Twelve days isn’t a very long time in the scheme of things.
But then, time is relative. The few seconds it took to kill Ballard lasted quite a while. The entire year before that, on the other hand, has blurred together into a memory that might as well have only spanned a week or two. Our time on the road to Apolis lies somewhere between those extremes, though it definitely stretches beyond its implied length.
By the fourth day, Echo isn’t talking to me. She’s being childish. I try to tell her so, but the flare of anger in her eyes could burn holes through me, and then she’s not talking to me “even more,” if that makes sense. She talks to Byron and Jarvis though. Half the time I think she does it just to spite me. Jarvis, fine–he follows her like a puppy. But Byron? He can’t be that interesting. She refuses to hunt with me. She sets her own snares when we stop, and at night she uses a blanket she borrowed from the caravaners. Still, that’s okay. I just spend more time with Octavia.
There’s something sweet and pure about Octavia. She’s so … undamaged. Sometimes in abandoned villages, we’ll find one house still standing, miraculously untouched by the Fall. Octavia is like that house. Yet sometimes she’s empty-headed about the world around her. She says things that leave me staring in disbelief. She admires Cove, for instance. She thinks they’re working for the good of the world. She even wants to go there one day. I can’t resist telling her they burned my village. She thinks that’s terrible, but also adds:
“Oh, but you mustn’t blame Cove itself, Tristan. I’m sure those soldiers were acting against orders. Cove doesn’t do things like that.”
“It was their commander who lit the first torch!” I say. She gives me this pitying look like I’ve tragically misunderstood the murder of my friends and family. That leaves me sour for most of the day, but my anger cools when we stop again, and we form an unspoken agreement to avoid the subject. I can’t help but forgive her. She’s just so good to look at.
Ambrose contributes to our conversations and is frequently a topic himself. Octavia spends a lot of her time worrying over him. Occasionally, Ambrose is unintentionally rude. He asks awkward questions and brings up Cove when it’s inappropriate. Other times, he’s disarmingly childlike.
On the sixth day out from Hapsburg, the three of us wander into a patch of forest during a midday break. The land is particularly healthy here. You can feel it. Sunlight slants through the trees, illuminating small insects, suffusing the leaves until they positively drip with light. Bird-calls echo through the forest. Theoretically I’m hunting, but really I’m willing to starve if it means getting closer to Octavia.
Ambrose runs off laughing and insists Octavia has to find him. I should thank him for this, because immediately a whole range of possibilities open up. She pretends not to notice him for a while, but when he’s finally caught, he says it’s our turn to hide and starts counting by a boulder. I follow Octavia so that we hide together, and in the stillness of that moment, standing behind her as she peers around a tree, I can see the smooth, soft curve of her skin from shoulder to ear beneath her long golden hair; it’s as delicate as the gossamer wing of a butterfly. My desire is so palpable that it smothers everything else in my awareness.
Ambrose comes after us, and Octavia is laughing and running, and I let him catch me with feigned disappointment. They hide then while I count, and immediately Ambrose is snickering behind a bush. It’s Octavia I’m looking for though; we’re playing a game, just not the one Ambrose thinks. I surprise her behind a large tree. She yelps and starts to run, but I grab her around the midriff. She turns, laughing, out of breath, and all at once we’re inches apart with her back to a tree-trunk. My hands are lingering on her waist. I’ve never seen a look in a girl’s eyes quite like this. Even so, I feel I’ve seen it a thousand times before. The delicate tilt of her face, the half-lidded eyes, the sense of something hidden–it’s all oddly familiar, a thing in the genes, older and bigger than my sad little life.
And then I’m leaning in, and her lips are soft and wet against mine. Time is stretched to the breaking point, and I can hardly believe the world is willing to give me this moment. Things this good just don’t happen. When she draws back, I want more, but she smiles coyly and flits away, laughing.
The rest of our time in the forest is a blur. My heart floats on a breeze. My whole body is electrified. I don’t see half the things around me. I’m busy remembering her lips. Back at camp, a cooking fire is already blazing, bits of meat spitted above it. We have nothing to contribute, but I don’t care about eating. Everything is a bonus at this point. Jarvis offers me some of a wildcat leg, and it’s the best meal I’ve had in days.
“What are you so happy about?” Echo asks despite her non-talking policy.
“Hmm? Nothing,” I say.
Ambrose snickers. He’s been doing that for about ten minutes, in fact. It’s becoming increasingly obvious, something the group can’t ignore as they sit around the fire.
“Ambrose, what’s so funny?” Jarvis asks.
“I don’t want to say!” Ambrose says in an oddly high-pitched voice, but he’s still stifling some great amusement, shaking his head, and it’s obvious he does want to say; he’s bursting with the effort not to.
“Come on, what is it?” Jarvis asks.
“I saw them two in the trees–kissing!” he bursts out, pointing at us and laughing goofily.
“Ambrose,” Octavia mutters, eyes widening. She buries herself in an apple, though there’s a little smile at the corners of her mouth as she chews.
A flush is rising up my neck, but I can’t suppress a smile–until I glance at Echo. Something about the way she’s looking at me kills my joy and wipes my expression clean. She’s sitting stock-still with her blue eyes, a chunk of charred meat forgotten in her hand. She gives me this long look that says all kinds of things I can’t decipher. Then she stands and moves toward the forest, muttering about checking a snare. Things don’t feel the same after that. I remember Octavia’s lips, but Echo’s reaction stays on my mind.
Echo doesn’t return until it’s time to leave. She sits in the wagon and stares out the window in silence. Her face is blank, unreadable. She doesn’t speak until we’ve stopped for the night. As I lie down to sleep, her tone becomes uncharacteristically formal.
“When we reach Apolis, I’m going north to look for Haven. You can go where you want,” she says, her face a mask.
“Echo, I’m–I mean–we’re going together, aren’t we?” I say, sitting up straight.
“We made it out of the desert, Tristan. You’re free. I don’t need you. I can survive on my own.”
She goes away to lie down, leaving me staring after her in the dark. She’s right–I don’t have to go with her. I could stay in Apolis. Jarvis says it’s a guarded city-state, not as big as Cove or Foundry but with castle-like walls built from the ruins of an old armory. Jarvis’s family is well-off too. Maybe they’d help me find a place to stay. We could hunt the ruins together …
But I can’t imagine Echo not being there. The more I think about her, the more I miss her lying next to me. Apolis would feel empty without her. Octavia in the forest, with her soft lips and golden hair, was a unique joy, something separate from the world around us–but out in the wastes, between the pulse-mine and the sudden storms and the quiet nights beneath the stars, Echo became a part of me. She’s wrong. I do have to go with her. Not because she needs me but because…
No, I don’t need anyone.
I cut the thought off before it can come. It’s better not to depend on anyone; they disappear when you do. Still, I can’t imagine not going with her. Somehow, when I wasn’t paying attention, things got all tangled–like the electrical cords in my grandfather’s shop, which always seemed to tie themselves in knots when you weren’t paying attention.
Over the next few days, I’m less eager to spend time with Oct
avia. I’m subdued, especially on the wagon, and when she says more empty-headed things, it bothers me. Echo is on my mind a lot, but her manner is cool and distant. She remains so until the tenth day, when everything changes.
Jarvis spots the ruin first.
It’s near dusk on day nine, and the caravan has stopped for the night. Jarvis has eaten some bad meat. He’s running a light fever, vomiting frequently. Travelling doesn’t make it any easier on him. It’s not like a wagon has internal plumbing. We have to make extra stops.
The sky is a rich purple-blue fringed with dying pink embers, and we’re camping in a grassy field dotted with patches of trees–when Jarvis calls my name.
“You see that?” he asks, staring into the distance. There’s a cliff a mile or two away, topped with trees.
“See what?” I ask.
“That. There’s something up there. Where’s your spyglass?”
I don’t see anything, but the spyglass vindicates him. A half-standing stone building is hidden among the trees. I don’t know how he saw it from this distance. Other signs of the World Before lie elsewhere along the ridge. Still, I’ve seen plenty of ruins, so it’s not all that interesting.
“We’ve gotta check it out,” Jarvis says. His eyes are lit up, though he’s shivering and sweating from the fever.
“It’s just an old stone building or two. Probably picked clean,” I say.
“No way. Tristan, you don’t understand. I’ve been to all the major ruins around here. I’ve never seen this site! We’ve got to go.”
“I don’t think you’re going anywhere, Jarvis.”
He enlists Starbucks in the cause, but the big robot agrees with me.
“You’re staying here. Besides, it’s dark, and that cliff must be an hour away,” he says.
Jarvis is undiscouraged.
“In the morning then. We can wake up early and hit it before the caravan sets out. We’ve got to. For all we know, the place is a goldmine.”
Starbucks is doubtful, but there’s no dissuading the boy.
Apolis is two or three days away. When the campfire blazes that night, the caravaners are lighthearted. Byron is really pouring on the charm, talking to everyone, doing magic tricks, entertaining other travelers. Yet Echo is strangely reticent. I’m scowling outright. Byron gives me an ill feeling. When he talks to you, it’s like his eyes are laughing, only you’re never sure why–is it the joke he’s telling you, or are you the joke to him?
Nevertheless, he helps foster a party-like atmosphere around the fire. Kitra–the lead driver, synthetic flesh still smeared with makeup–breaks out a sitar. She’s joined by an older, round-bellied traveler with a guitar. They play old tunes together. The man’s wife even sings. There’s a happy tale of an Irish traveler, and sadder tales of the World Before. Byron claps along. Afterwards, he makes an announcement.
“I’ve been saving this for trade, but it’s been a marvelous trip, and I’d like to share some with you fine people–honeyed wine, from the Monks of Aversteen!”
He hefts a weighty jug to the delight of all–or almost all. I wave the wine away as it’s passed around.
“Come now, Tristan. If you can’t taste life’s sweetness now and then, why bother carrying on?” Byron asks, holding out the jug.
I pretend he’s not there. He shrugs and moves on. Echo, sitting a little ways from me, is reluctant at first, but she lifts the jug to her lips. Octavia asks me if I’ll be staying in Apolis. I’m vague, non-committal. Half an hour later, the jug is still hovering around Byron and Echo, considerably lighter.
One by one, the campers drift off. Octavia and Ambrose say goodnight. I’m tired, yet I linger, watching Echo. Byron has his arm around her. I’m seething. Her head lolls like it’s heavy on her neck. She starts to shrug his arm away but slumps lethargically against him instead. He whispers in her ear. She pushes at him, irritated. Her shoulders slump a second time, and she stares into the fire. Some of the smile has left Byron’s eyes. The orange flames make a devilish mask of his face. Rising, he encourages Kitra to play another song.
Minutes later, Echo struggles to her own feet. She’s looking at me, glassy-eyed, enwrapped in her borrowed blanket. She’s going to say something–but no, she mutters about peeing and walks away through the triangle of wagons.
Sighing, I lay my blanket in a patch of soft grass. My pack is arranged and my crossbow on the ground; I’m ready for bed … but Echo hasn’t returned. It has been long enough, hasn’t it? Definitely. She should’ve been back by now. What if something’s happened to her? Wait–Byron is gone too.
I can’t sleep now. I have to know. I head after Echo through a small patch of forest. Voices drift through the trees. Byron and Echo. They’re talking … alone in the woods. I’m angry, but I don’t want to barge in on something. Echo isn’t exactly happy with me right now. I keep going anyway. Maybe I do want to barge in.
In the dark, they’re hard to see. A sliver of moon helps. Echo is walking back toward the camp, swaying perilously, oblivious to my presence. It’s a straight path through the tall grass, yet she navigates it like a tightrope. Their talk is done–but Byron isn’t finished. He grabs her arm, saying something I can’t make out. All at once, he’s kissing her.
My body goes rigid. Echo doesn’t react right away–then she veers her head away. But Byron doesn’t let go. His lips move to her neck. She pushes against him. Harder. She starts making little jerking motions, squirming, trying to shove him away, but she can’t break free. She’s saying things in protest, quiet at first, then louder, angrier, almost frantic–and still he won’t stop, he’s stronger, and she’s only half-conscious. He backs her against a tree, holding her there, ripping at her shirt.
I’m not aware of moving. My hands are on the back of his shirt, yanking him away. He hits a tree and falls to the ground. He’s holding his head, down on one knee, turning, before he sees me. His eyes are wide. He flings up his hands in defense.
“Woah, woah–don’t kill me, man!” he manages. To my surprise, I’m holding the hand-axe. Last I knew it was in my belt loop. My hands are trembling, my face severe. Now that it’s in my awareness, the decision is there too: I could kill him. I could end his life right here, right now. Who would stop me? I could do this unspeakable thing (which I’ve already done to Ballard–but this feels different somehow, more like murder)…
Yet it’s not who I am. The decision is made beneath the level of words. A flip switches in my mind. The axe is lowered. Byron rises cautiously, swearing. His eyes aren’t smiling now.
“Now I see why you went after Octavia. This one’s just a frigid tease,” he says.
I lift the axe again, and he stumbles backwards, raising his hands.
“I’m going, I’m going. Enjoy her while it lasts,” he says. There’s an ugly smirk on his face. What does he mean by that? He’s on his way back to camp. I turn back to Echo.
“Are you–”
Her arms around my neck cut me off. She pulls me into a silent embrace, staying like that an unnaturally long time. Her breath is deep and heavy. She pulls back slightly and grabs the front of my collar, bunching it in her fists. She stares at me with drunken, bleary eyes, licking her lips, and my heart kicks itself into overdrive, because for a moment I think she’s going to kiss me. There’s something open and vulnerable in her gaze. The alcohol has burned a hole through her outer psyche. Hidden things peek through.
“Tristan, I … I think I …” she slurs, shaking her head. She has some desperate message to convey. It’s in her eyes. She opens her mouth to speak … and vomits. I manage to avoid most of it at the last second. Some ends up on my shirt.
“Sorry,” she says between bouts of throwing up. I hold her hair back. When she’s done, she pulls big leaves off a tree to wipe her mouth–and my shirt. She looks sideways at me.
“You don’t always have to save me, Tristan. I
can handle myself, you know.”
“I know,” I say, though she wasn’t doing a particularly good job just now.
“I mean it,” she says, anger flaring in her eyes.
We walk toward the camp. Echo trips on a branch and loses her balance, cursing. She leans on my arm the rest of the way. Byron’s nowhere in sight. Must be sleeping in one of the wagons. I lead Echo to my blanket. We spoon like we did in the desert. She wraps her hand in mine, takes a shuddering breath and immediately falls sleep. I lay awake a short while, paranoid that Byron may return seeking vengeance, but he doesn’t reappear.
Jarvis wakes me. He’s still feverish, but a vast enthusiasm suffuses his visage.
“You ready? Come on, dude. We gotta go,” he says.
“Wha … ? Not time.”
“Yes, it is–time for the ruins, Tristan!”
Crom. The ruins. An expedition seems unlikely, but I get up anyway. I could always do with some extra goods to trade. We wake Starbucks. Immediately he shoots Jarvis down. Jarvis doesn’t give up.
“We’ve got to check it out. We may not be back this way before winter. Just a quick look,” Jarvis pleads. It takes more badgering, but in the end Starbucks sighs.
“I’ll go. Tristan can come if he wants. You will stay here and rest,” the big robot says.
Reluctantly, Jarvis agrees.
“Why not,” I say. Echo is still sleeping. I shake her until she mumbles. When I tell her what’s happening, she goes back to sleep. I try again with the same result. She might as well be a zombie.
“Looks like it’s me and you,” I tell Starbucks.
“I’ll try to contain my joy,” he says.
I have to make room for new goods in my pack. I’m storing some things in one of the wagons–when I run into Byron. He too is up before dawn.
“Tristan!” he exclaims, startled. “Listen. Sorry about last night, mate. The wine got to me, you know? I didn’t mean to–”
“You’re in the way.”
I store the items under my seat and heft my pack.
“You, uh … where are you going?” Byron asks, confused.
“Nowhere,” I say, though that’s obviously not true.
“You–you can’t leave now.”
I scowl at him.
“They’ll be prepping the horses soon. It’s almost dawn,” he says.
Ignoring him, I join Starbucks outside. Together, we set out for the ruins.
It takes less than an hour to reach the cliff. Finding our way up is another story. We walk along the base looking for a suitable incline. One promising path stops us cold only thirty feet from the peak. A sheer wall blocks further progress. Starbucks mutters something about Jarvis. We descend and head south along the base of the cliff for half a mile. The next potential path leads a third of the way up, then slants sideways in a gradual rise. My legs are tired. It takes longer than it should to reach the top.
“Great idea, Jarvis. Great idea,” I say.
“That boy will be the death of us all,” Starbucks says, his malleable face approximating a frown. We should already be on our way back. Starbucks knows it too, but we’ve invested too much now to turn around.
“We’ll just take a quick look,” he decides.
Jarvis’s stone building turns out to be an old fort. It doesn’t feel like most of the ruins I’ve been through. Older somehow. It’s not well picked over either. Among the bones are ragged leather wallets containing plastic money-cards and silver-colored coins. I find only one other item of interest: a small leather pouch with elaborate black dice inside. One die has twenty sides, one twelve, another only four. I’ve never seen anything like it. Someone’s bound to trade for it. We rob the dead and call it a day.
On the way back, Starbucks is angry. He doesn’t say much, but it’s in his face and movements. Would the caravan leave without us? We’ve taken far too long. We’re still making our way back down the cliff-face when a noise stops us in our tracks. The staccato burst of a big weapon echoes far and wide across the grassy plains below. Starbucks and I look at each other. My heart quails in fear.
“The turret,” I say.