The fever raged for days
My flesh burned, locked in an icy fist, and I huddled in the pathetic comfort of my blankets. When I closed my eyes, she was there — flyaway blonde hair, black-flecked amber eyes. It was like staring into the black ice that covered the spring in the deepest winter. And then she spoke — always, she spoke in that long-gone, soft tone she'd kept just for me.
"Sorcha, dearest. Erebus and Lila — you can't go with them. He's escorting Lila to the Training Post, just to get her settled. It's an honor to be sent so young, you know. She'll bring new life to this old Post in time — just wait and see." The black flecks in her eyes spread, devouring the amber. "Why don't we plan a picnic for all your friends?" Her arms fell to the ground, one after the other, and her innards cascaded to the floor like a gut-wounded deer. "Won't that be fun, Sorcha?"
I tried to run then — 'every time' — but my sickly, short limbs never let me outrun the rabbits that erupted from her flesh and bones.
That weak, Flightless body only served to carry me through the darkness to the place where the quarter-moon hung low and Flightless swarmed like rats. Then I stood before the fattest rat, with his receding hair and grease-stained robes. The rabbits, reduced to colorful furs, lay in a heap at my feet next to still-bloody venison.
"This is garbage! How dare you waste my time?"
The rats swarmed, snickering and pointing.
"I'll keep the fur." My voice, thin and hoarse, startled me. 'Every time. Why?' "Blades for the meat and be done."
"No." The fat merchant grew, looming over me, and his jowls wobbled. "All of it, and I'll give you a knife on credit. Bring twice as much to the next festival, or you'll not get another."
Darkness swallowed the rats, furs, and meat, leaving me and a gleaming blade under the moon. I picked it up, vowing never to return, but when my fingers closed around the hilt, the metal decayed like carrion abandoned in the woods.
I dragged my eyes open; it felt like sand grinding into them. Tears streamed down my icy cheeks. 'Stupid fever. Stupid tears. Stupid, weak Flit.'
A merruping warmth pressed against my side. I turned my face into the lynx's fur, and the cold ghosts were banished. Then he grew bored and left, and my eyes slipped shut to see flyaway blond hair and black-flecked amber eyes.
Finally, I woke to sweat-drenched lucidity. The night was chill, but no more so than any autumnal night. Shaking limbs pushed back the blankets of my nest, and I peered at the sliver of moon high above.
'It's late. Even leaving now, I might not make it. If the festival ends…' I sipped from the waterskin I'd filled days ago and my stomach roiled. The distant yipping of a coyote warned that the night grew old.
A shiver that had nothing to do with fever racked my body, and I struggled to my feet, winding down the ramp. When I reached the right shelf, I stared at two hilts — one with a broken nub of blade and one with a thin sliver of metal sharpened to a razor's edge. There were two places I knew of that had knives. One was the Quarter Moon Festival. The other…
"The Home Post." The words were harsh in my throat. 'If I can't get a knife from the Flightless, I'll have to go back.'
I collected the intact knife and continued downward. My knees threatened to give way, so I leaned on the bits of trunk I could reach through the shelves.
"I can't." My voice firmed. "I won't."
At the platform's end, I hopped to the ground, sprawling gracelessly and fumbling the knife. I crawled forward to collect the knife and dragged myself upright.
The distance to the tree with the still-spelled buck normally took heartbeats to cross. Today, it nearly broke me, and the birds began their dawn chorus before I finally reached the strung-up roasts. My fingers held no strength to untie the cords that held the meat aloft, but I'd expected it. The knife, thin as it was, sliced the roasts free, and I loaded each onto the half-tanned deer hide. The ruined cords still laced the hide into a makeshift pack, and the 17 hides I'd collected over the past year went on top before I tied the top shut.
Breathing too hard, I stared at the knife. I'd be on foot for this journey — I always was — and the blade would make so many things easier along the way.
'But I can't risk it.' I carried it into the stone-lined cellar and placed it on the highest shelf above a nest of fur-matted, unraveling blankets. The misshapen buckskin scraps on the middle shelf came with me, back into the open air. Trembling fingers laced the bits and pieces into an outfit that covered every bit of denim. The last bits wrapped my feet in crude pseudo-boots.
As disguises went, it was terrible. No one at the festival would think I was a farmer or merchant. But they would think I was a Flightless.
'They always do.'
Mist had condensed around me, wreathing the forest as I crawled through the thorn-bush's tunnel. The pack, dragging behind me, tried to snag, but I pulled it free. Fatigue turned my bones into lead as I settled the cobbled-together pack onto my back. The braided-leather straps bit into my shoulders already.
'No. I have to do this. Without a new knife, I might survive the winter, but I'll have nothing to trade in the fall.' I hefted the pack higher, and the deer roasts, still preserved with a twist from my quartz, dragged it down. The rough fur of the deerskin rubbed and caught on the patchwork hides of my outfit, and I knew I'd have blisters before midday.
'Get there. Get a knife. Get out.'
Focusing on the Plan, I turned my reluctant feet toward the stream and followed it until it joined the creek. I let my mind get lost in the tension of searching the woods, seeking any hint on the wind or ground that foreshadowed danger. I could not, however, take the time I wanted to obscure my path. The sliver of moon, now hidden by the trees, told me there were only two days before the quarter moon — the last day of the festival.
My mind darted to festivals-past — Mitry, rubbing his greasy hands together; Old Man Johnson, smiling and asking me to stop by. I shuddered. Mitry with his supply of knives was a necessary evil. Old Man Johnson… I couldn't figure out his angle. Every year, without fail, he sought me out, told me about his family, and extended an invitation. Every year, I tuned him out and refused, though I'd given up trying to avoid him.
'Bones! Was it three years before I spoke to him?' Distracted, I placed my foot wrong, and it twisted beneath me. Hissing and stepping with more care, I shoved the messy thoughts aside.
'Get there. Get a knife. Get out.' I exhaled and pulled in another long breath. 'Deal with the rest later.'
While I was distracted, the creek had grown wilder and deeper. Now at the edge of the forest, I stood at the fork where another creek, fully as big as mine, joined it to form a fast-flowing river. White foam frosted the jagged rocks that jutted from the water, and the mist that rose held an icy chill. A whisper, thin and weak, suggested I turn away from the river and follow that strange creek into the unknown.
Instead, I swallowed hard and gauged the sun's arch. It was past midday, but not by much, and I could still clear plenty of ground before it was too dark to traverse the rocky bank in safety. I turned my feet downstream and focused on placing my feet carefully.
By the time the sun was falling toward the horizon, my hair was plastered to my face and neck and sweat dripped down my spine. A glance over my shoulder confirmed what I knew — the forest was out of sight — and a glance ahead showed the earthen riverbank falling away into rough gravel. Despite my care, my hands were scraped, my shins were bruised, and my muscles wrenched. Panting, I braced my hands on my knees.
A rhythmic series of splashes, over and above the muted chortle of the water, drew my attention back to the river. There, a tiny boat, pointed at both ends and sealed over the top, floated. Its sole passenger wielded a double-ended paddle, dipping into the river on alternating sides and propelling the craft backward against the current. The passenger's form was obscured by long sleeves, with their face shielded by a floppy hat so that nothing above the nose was at all visible. But that nose was turned toward me, and it was much too late to take cover.