Volume 1: Chapter 4

​The sea wind hit hard. It blew straight into the wet fabric of Kanata’s trousers. The mud froze fast against his shins.

​Every step down the shale slope took time. The stones slipped under his leather soles. They rolled away into the blackness below, hitting the lower ledges with faint, hollow clicks. He kept his right hand anchored around Lira's wrist. Her arm felt thin. Small. Frozen through. She didn't complain. She just stumbled behind his back, her oversized coat gathering the mountain rain. The wool went heavy and dead under the water weight.

​They didn't look back at the valley. The light from the burning guard barracks stayed behind them. A dull red smudge bounced off the low clouds. The distance grew with every breath. The raw shriek of tearing iron softened into a distant, wet crackle.

​The silence was gone. The emptiness that took its place felt wider. Colder.

​Kanata pulled up near a flat shelf of black granite. His chest heaved. His ribs rose tight against the wet lining of his canvas coat. The soot smudge over his heart felt stiff, dried into the fabric by his own sweat. He let go of Lira's wrist for a second. His fingers were stiff. They locked into tight, clumsy hooks. He couldn't straighten them out right away.

​Lira dropped straight to her knees on the stone. She didn't look up at the burning spire. Her head stayed low, her face hidden behind the wet string of her hair. Her hand went into her coat pocket, moving slow under the heavy cloth. She pulled the brass whistle out.

​It didn't look like a key down here. In the gray sea-light, it was just a dull, scratched tube of metal. A piece of garbage stolen from a dead man's belt.

​She held it out. Her palm shook. The water in the grooves of her skin spilled over the brass frame.

​Kanata looked down at her hand. He didn't take the metal. Words still didn't form in his throat. His tongue felt dry, coated in that zinc grease from the lower turbine room. He reached down with his left hand. His bad shoulder gave a sharp, hot pull as he lifted her by the shoulder of her coat. He forced her back onto her feet.

​The path didn't get easier. The granite gave way to raw mud. The runoff from the high mines cut deep trenches into the slope.

​An hour passed in complete silence. No words dropped between them. Only the clay made a wet sucking sound around their leather soles. The sulfur smell from the boilers was completely gone now. The salt and rot of the lower bay took its place. The water was close. Kanata heard the flat thud of the tide hitting the limestone rocks below. A slow rhythm. It didn't care about the broken tower on the cliff.

​He stopped where the clay met the black sand.

​The lower bay was an empty slot between two high cliffs. No boats sat in the dark water. The King's men didn't keep guards down here. The cliffs were too steep for a slave to climb. The water led nowhere but the open gray sea. An old iron crane stood near the water's edge. Its heavy chain dangled straight into the foam. Long ago, mine carts dumped useless stone from this ledge into the deep water.

​Lira walked to the edge of the foam. Black grit caught her boots as they sank an inch. She stared at the dark water. Her shoulders went down under the wool shirt.

​"The tide shifts," she whispered. Her voice was weak, barely cutting through the surf noise. "The fog moves out."

​Kanata stayed five paces behind her. His wide frame caught the brunt of the sea wind. He reached into his coat. His fingers touched his chest where the watch used to rest. The skin remained hot. The heat from the broken casing had left a dark red mark. His hand came out empty.

​He looked up at the high ridge. The spire was a black stump now. Its jagged top line barely showed against the glowing red clouds. The smoke drifted south, trailing over the slave shacks like a dirty cloth. The people down there would be awake. The wardens would have the hounds out by dawn, tracking the mud lines along the perimeter wires.

​They couldn't stay on the sand. The tide would rise, but the footprints in the black grit would stay deep enough for a pointer to smell.

​He walked toward the base of the crane. Red rust scales covered the iron frame, breaking off under his palms. At the bottom of the mount, a small wooden tool box sat in the shale. It was half-buried. The leather links were rotted away. He kicked the lid off with his boot.

​The tools inside were gone. Only an old iron file remained, its teeth choked with gray rust. A short length of hemp rope sat next to it. Salt water had soaked the fibers through.

​Kanata picked up the file. His fingers closed around the rough metal. It wasn't a weapon. It wasn't a key. But it had weight. He tucked it into his belt line, right against his hip.

​He looked back at Lira. She remained by the water line, face turned straight toward the open sea. The wind ripped her coat layers open. She didn't seem to notice the cold. The panic from the boiler pit was entirely gone. Her stare stayed wide, vacant, and dry.

​The real road was ahead of them. The dark water was the only path left.

​Freezing foam hit the black sand. Kanata walked right through the edge. He stepped deep into the surf. Three paces in, salt water filled his heavy boots completely. The cold bit straight through his wool socks. His face stayed dead. No expression came across his skin.

​Lira came behind. She pressed the roped file against her ribs. No noise came from her steps. Dark waves smashed her knees, dragging the heavy coat hem down into the brine. A sudden current pulled the cloth. She tripped. Kanata caught her collar and hauled her straight up before the water took her.

​No boat sat there. Just a low timber sled half-sunk by the crane base. Miners used to haul chains with it. That was before the spire quit. The wood was full of water, green with rot. It barely cleared the black waves.

​Kanata threw the hemp rope around the frame. No clean knot. He looped the fibers twice. He jammed the slack inside his fist.

​"Get on." His jaw stayed stiff from the sulfur air. The words came out flat.

​Lira crawled onto the wet wood. She laid her belly flat against the planks. Her fingers went deep into the gaps between beams. The brass whistle hit the rot-wood with a dry click.

​Kanata stayed in the water. The wood couldn't take two bodies. Dark waves rose straight to his chest. He shoved the sled away from the limestone cliff. His right shoulder took the weight. The left side stayed numb, burning. The dry resin had split completely open. Red lines leaked out of his coat sleeve, turning pale in the white foam.

​The tide caught them fast. Low fog sat three feet over the water. The open channel disappeared. Behind their backs, the cliff went small. Granite lines melted into gray mist. The burning barracks shrank to a dull orange dot. Sea wind blew smoke across it, killing the glow.

​Kanata swam with his good arm. His fingers locked into the rope loop. The water felt thick. Heavy. Every swell pushed the wood up. Then it dropped down with a flat slam, throwing water over Lira's spine.

​Time went blank in the dark. The cold quit hurting after an hour. His legs turned into heavy wood, moving by habit alone. Salt washed the sulfur taste off his tongue.

​Dawn hit the eastern ridge, cutting the mist open. The open water went on forever. A flat sheet of slate-gray ran south. The spire was completely gone. No bell hum came through the air. The wind grew loud. The outer reefs let out a constant roar.

​Kanata’s boots hit solid rock. He stopped swimming. His knees shook as he hauled his frame out of the surf. A low coral shelf sat at the mouth of the bay. The stone was dead white. Sharp. Salt scales covered the surface, cutting his leather soles.

​He pulled the wooden sled onto the ledge. Lira stayed still. Her skin looked like the gray fog. Spray had cracked her lips blue. She let go of the beams slow, fingers stuck in bent claws from the freezing air.

​Her head turned up. The stare stayed vacant. Dry.

​"The wardens won't follow here," her voice came out low. "Not across deep water."

​Kanata said nothing. He reached down and took the rusted file from her frozen fingers. It went right back into his belt line. His eyes turned toward the southern horizon. Gray sea ran straight into empty sky. The tower stayed behind their backs. The land ahead had no maps. The cold was just starting.