He turns and joins his brother and sister in the group meant for the palace. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t care that I’m left standing alone in the sun. Why should he? I’m just one sixteen-year-old girl. I wouldn’t believe in me either. I don’t believe in me. But as Nessa starts up the road with her group, she looks back, her eyes flashing with hope.
Maybe this is what Angra wanted. For me to instill false hope in them, to raise them up and shatter them even further. To taunt them with escape, then kill me in front of them.
But it doesn’t matter what Angra wants. Conall was right—it doesn’t even matter what I want anymore. All that matters now is surviving.
Soldiers lead us to the southern edge of Abril and out of the city via a small gate. As it groans over us, we’re shoved into such a harshly different world that I pause for a breath.
The wall is a jagged protrusion of black rock that shoots away from Abril into fields of slaughtered forest. Stumps of cherry trees litter the landscape, making way for the newest addition to Angra’s city. This field of stumps, dirt, and piles of black rock is even more barren and hopeless than Abril itself. A testament to what it takes to spread Angra’s kingdom—nothing must remain, no plants, no sign of life. Everything must be dead to make way for Spring.
I approach one of the black rock piles, leather straps sitting in a mound next to it. They’re holsters that a few Winterians latch around their shoulders, and then others load chunks of rock into the cradles against their spines.
“Get to work!” a soldier shouts, and cracks a whip above our heads. I grab a holster and slide it on. As soon as I do, a heavy chunk of black rock is nestled against my back.
“Up the ramps,” the rock-giver whispers. His aged eyes have the same flicker of curious hope as Nessa’s, but he bends to lift another rock from the pile and load up the next in line.
I shift the rock against my back and march for the ramps. Eight stories of platforms stretch into the air, linked by zigzagging ramps that take lines of Winterians up and down the wall-in-progress. The platforms are all made of the same questionable wood as the slums, the kind that could snap in a strong breeze. But if they do break, a few Spring soldiers will be dragged down with us. Some small justice.
I almost laugh at the thought. Justice would be the Winterians hurling these lumps of black rock at the Spring soldiers. Justice would be us sprinting for the field up ahead, the section of Spring that isn’t yet closed off from Abril.
The rock grates against my shoulder blades when I pause on a ramp, hovering far above the ground. That field is close. Vibrant green crops billow in the wind, nearly ready for harvest. Proof that Angra uses his conduit for something other than evil, however small that is. The wall’s purpose is to stretch around this barren section of earth and widen Abril to that field’s edge. Soldiers stand between us and it, but for now, for this moment—there is one way out of Abril.
Conall’s words bounce through my mind. We’ve tried escaping. Climbing the fences, fighting off guards, digging under walls. All it results in is more death.
I hesitate. If they’ve tried . . . then I shouldn’t? No. I have to, if not for them, then for me. I’m trapped here as much as they are.
If I can get out beyond the soldiers, I can sneak out of Spring and talk to Hannah again. Or I can go back to Cordell and find Mather and Dendera and the others.
The man in front of me shifts the rock against his back as he takes one more step up. But something in his step, or his weight, or the way he jostles the rock makes him teeter forward, his thin boot snagging on a jagged plank of wood. The wood tears through fabric and flesh, cutting apart a section of his foot and spilling blood in a dark pool on the platform.
The man pauses. Half a heartbeat, half a breath. Barely long enough to even absorb what happened, but in that moment his face spasms in a wince of pain. In its wake, he flicks his eyes to the nearest soldier up on the platform, and just when I realize I’m holding my breath . . .
The soldier whips his head to the man. His eyes drop to the blood trail, to the man’s still-twisted face of pain. “The work too much for you?” the soldier asks, a dare in his voice.
I open my mouth to speak, to do something that might let the man fade into the background. As he turns and heads up the next ramp, the soldier yanks the man around, spinning him on the dry wood. The man swings out, caught off balance by the black stone, arms flailing to regain his balance. But it’s too late, the movement too sporadic, the rock too large.
The man wavers on the edge of the platform, five stories in the air. His hands claw in empty desperation, looking for purchase as the black rock in his holster shifts, moves, drags him back. The closest thing to him, the only thing he can grab, is the soldier.
I fly forward, air stuck in my dry throat, one hand leaving my holster to reach out like I might be able to stop this. But as gravity takes hold, the soldier smiles, lifts one foot, and plants a firm kick in the center of the man’s chest.
A soundless scream boils in my mouth as the man topples from the platform. His body plummets through the air, the black rock dragging him down and down, soaring past the bottom five platforms in painfully slow motion. He smacks into the dry earth below, a puff of dust and debris obscuring his crippled corpse from view.
I’m frozen there, trapped against the platform. But no one else flinches. No one cries out that their husband or brother or son just fell to his death. They just keep moving around me, trudging up the platforms and ramps, walking like they can erase the man’s memory with each footfall.
Someone bumps into me as they pass and I’m dragged back into the current of mindless work, pulling me past the soldier, his eyes flashing at the body so far below.
The field in the distance thrashes in a breeze I can’t feel from here. No one would follow if I tried to escape. They’d just fall through the air, resigned to the fact that they never had a chance of winning. Or they’d be slaughtered in the wake of my feeble escape.
My vision blurs, but I keep walking. I keep the image of the man’s face in my mind, hold it against my impulse to run as fast as I can, to kill as many of the soldiers as possible.
I glance at the ground below, at the dust clearing to reveal the man’s body morphed into a disturbing, haphazard splotch on the dirt. Something wells up in me. Something dangerous and crippling and deadly, something rising from the part of me that flinches whenever Winter’s conduit is mentioned and no one asks the questions I’m always thinking:
What if it isn’t enough? What if nothing we do is enough?
But there is no other option—either we keep trying or our kingdom ceases to exist.
As the day drags on, the temperature rises to the point where my eyes start to swim around in my head, sweat making everything slick. Stretches of time flash past in which I swear I’m back in the Rania Plains, traipsing behind Sir as we make our way toward Cordell.
Damn my intolerance to heat. I will not give Angra the satisfaction of fainting. He will not get to see me die so soon.
The work too much for you today?
I bite away the memory. Everyone around me seems to react to the heat the same way I do, stumbling, gasping in the stuffy air. They don’t do more than that, though; there’s no complaining or collapsing. No matter how it goes against our Winterian blood, they’ve almost gotten used to the heat of Spring.
By noon, I’m relieved to see that we get a break.
Almost relieved.
The gate leading into Abril creaks open. The Winterians standing in the rock line around me drop their holsters; the rest file off the ramps to stand around us. I follow suit, eyes darting toward whatever is coming at us from Abril.
Winterian children. Some barely old enough to speak let alone work, all hobbling into the work site with jugs of sloshing water. They spread out among the workers and offer up their burdens, wide blue eyes gleaming from hollow faces, thin arms trembling under the thick clay jugs.
A boy not much older than four or five approaches my line of workers and sets his jug on the ground. He dips a ladle in and lifts it to the person closest to him, a man Sir’s age who slurps down mouthfuls of water. The boy repeats the process for each person in line until he gets to me.
“No water for her—Angra’s orders!” a soldier behind us shouts, cracking his whip beside the boy’s feet. The boy jumps, water splattering over his hands and splashing onto the dirt. His blue eyes dart up to mine as he braces for the impact of the soldier’s next blow.
I fly back, more from instinct than rational thought. Rational thought vanished the moment I saw water, and desperate thirst reared up instead. All I can see is that jug, but I take another step back. I don’t need water. I don’t need to draw attention to anyone else.
“No,” I croak. “He’s right. None for me.”
The soldier, whip held at the ready, frowns at my retreat. But I turn, grab my holster, and close my eyes when another chunk of black rock is loaded against my spine. The boy moves back to work, water spilling over the brim of his jug. No pain, no repercussions. No water either. As long as I bow my head and take it, there won’t be trouble.
That’s all I can do. Stay out of the way, make sure I don’t bring trouble to people who have already suffered so much until I can do—what?
Soldiers tossed the dead man’s body away hours ago, leaving a bloody splotch of dirt next to the platform entrance. I walk through it, staring at the dried blood, feeling the boy’s eyes on me, just another body in Spring’s arsenal of workers—like the man who fell to his death, a vessel the soldiers destroy for sport.
Dizzy thirst makes me trip, but I keep walking. Just one more step, Meira. Just one more.