All the kind and dangerous things of the world.
“And then,” said Otter, because that was how the story went. “And then we must — When we come to the scaffolds, we must —” She swallowed again, hurt again, shook. But she said it: “You must tie me to a burial tree.”
It was as if she had thrust a spear into her friends.
Kestrel leapt to her feet, snatching Otter’s arms, dragging her up too. “No,” said Kestrel, “no,” even as Orca spoke over her, the word in his language — did it mean “yes” or “no”? Kestrel seized both of Otter’s hands. The yarn on Otter’s white wrist spun of its own accord, as if it would tangle the two girls together.
“Otter,” said Kestrel. “If you — if we cannot free you — if you need to die —”
“I need to die,” said Otter.
“There is …” stuttered the ranger. “I made a knife. There is a knife. But not — not like that.”
“Please,” said Otter. The scaffolds. It was something she’d seen in the translucent moment when the cord had passed through her like every light in the world. It was something she knew in her hands and her bones. But she did not have the courage to say it aloud. Not twice. “Please,” she said again. She broke free from Kestrel and pulled Orca’s coat tight around her.
“In my country,” said Orca slowly, “we say those who take death by the hand gain power in the dancing.”
“We’re not in your country!” Kestrel snapped.
“But she took death by the hand!” he flared back. Then he shook himself, like a wolf shaking off water, and his voice went back to calm. “Only: Think on it. The White Hands are caught, tied between death and life. What release is there for them, but to finish that journey?”
“You’re the one who said not to kill her.” Kestrel made no attempt to shake herself calm. “And now —” she sputtered. “Alive! Up a tree!”
“I saw a cord go through her hand. I think we need …” Orca swallowed. “I think we need more of those cords. I think we need to tie her … everywhere.”
“You’re a coward,” snarled Kestrel. A wild stab to a soft place. “You’re a runaway. You’re a fool.”
Orca rocked back. “Yes.” He dipped his head. “And yes. And yes.”
Kestrel suddenly dropped her hands to her sides and took three steps backward. “Oh, Otter,” she whispered, “are you sure?”
Otter tried to say yes, and failed. She took the three steps forward, to mingle breath with her friend.
“Otter …” Kestrel whispered. She reached up and touched Otter’s white temples. “Are you sure?”
Otter put her hands over Kestrel’s hands. Pressed her forehead to Kestrel’s forehead. Rested there. “I am sure.”
“You loved a storyteller, okishae, Kestrel,” said Orca. “Has this not the sound of a story?”
Otter turned to him. He stood face-to-face with her for a long moment, with the fire glowing through his hair. She thought he might kiss her, but he did not. “And look at her,” he said — to Kestrel, but his voice was soft, and his eyes were on Otter’s eyes. “Has she not the look of hope?”
Together, Otter and Kestrel and Orca left the holdfast and the lakeshore, and the island that had once been Eyrie, and climbed up to the rim of the caldera. The valley of the River Spearfish lay spread at their feet: black pine, thrusts of gray rock. The river itself was a dip and a thinning in the pines, a stitching of brilliant aspens, just budding out, and here and there a glimpse of water glittering like beads.
Far away, and yet surprisingly close, was the smudge of smoke that was Westmost. They were on the edge of the world. And yet they were nearly in sight of home.
They picked their way down the path of the waterfall. Otter had to lean on Orca and Kestrel. She was cold, dizzy, clumsy with fear.
Deciding to die is one thing. Walking to your death with your eyes open is another.
It was three days back to Westmost, two to the scaffolds. The first night, under the huge willow tree at the foot of the waterfall, Kestrel cast a small ward. It pushed at Otter; it clawed at her. She lost language; she could say nothing. She kept opening and closing her human hand.
Kestrel cooked, Orca fidgeted. And Otter tried to breathe.
She gulped air in and hiccupped it out. She held her breath until the world went dim. The new willow wands were a violent green. They hung like the cords of a ward, all around her. They seemed to stir inward. She thought she would die, right there.
And then Orca started to play his drum.