He fell back onto a flat boulder, worn smooth and round by the water. She straddled his chest and pinned back his arms, the flowing water behind her like a wall that cut them off from the rest of the world, a glowing, undulating curtain that echoed in the dim chamber. The only sound was the rush of water and the ring of droplets falling from half-formed stalactites above.
She raised her eyebrows triumphantly, and then, as Fletcher began to heave her off him, she leaned down … and the room darkened. Othello emerged through the waterfalls, shaking his head like a wet dog.
“Hey, Sheldon’s on the move,” he said, sprinkling them with water from his long hair and beard.
Sylva sat up.
And just like that, the moment was gone.
CHAPTER
13
IT WAS NIGHT NOW, and they sat, miserable on the center of the shell, wrapped in the Catoblepas’s pelt. Their clothes were still damp from their swim, for the light of day had not been long enough to dry them. The only sounds were the gentle splashes as Sheldon swam through the lagoon. It was a slow, lazy pace, with no clear direction. He was waiting for something.
With no sign of a volcano, the mood had turned somber, even if they were clean once again. Even his mother was fresh faced—Cress had discreetly bathed her in the dim light of the evening while the others surveyed the landscape.
In the distance ahead of them, the jungles dwindled, revealing the deadlands, a desert wasteland of reddish sand. Beyond, the land fell away into darkness over the curved rim, where the disk that was the ether ended, and the abyss began.
“I’m leaving with Lysander,” Sylva said, breaking the subdued calm. “If I fly far enough I may spot a column of smoke from a volcano.”
She pushed her way out from the cloak of the pelt and stood, stretching. Lysander looked up as he heard his name and cawed mournfully. He had sensed Sylva’s intentions and didn’t want to leave the group.
“What … now?” Cress asked, alarmed at the sudden decision. “Right this minute?”
“We know the orcs don’t travel at night. It’s the best time to move. I’ll hide below the tree line when day breaks.”
“How will you navigate in the dark?” Othello asked. “Griffins have poor night vision. You’ll never be able to find it, let alone make your way back to us.”
“Fletcher…” Sylva paused, as if she wasn’t sure anymore. “Fletcher will come with me. Lysander can carry the two of us, and we’ll use Athena to see through the darkness. Her night vision is better than any of the other demons, even your Pyrausta.”
“We’ll find you by following the mountain range until we see the lagoon again,” Fletcher added. “Sheldon won’t be leaving anytime soon. It looks like he’s waiting for something.”
As the others mulled over their words, Fletcher couldn’t help wonder: Why had Sylva hesitated? Surely she wouldn’t want to go out alone. Was it about what had happened in the waterfall? Or rather, what hadn’t happened? Fletcher felt a pang of regret in his chest.
Whatever the reason, she was already taking her share of petals from their dwindling supply, dividing it into equal piles of five. Fletcher stuffed handfuls of jerky into his backpack and refilled his flask from the lagoon.
Having secured his sword, bow and guns, he hugged his mother tightly, wishing the limp arms at her sides would wrap around him.
“We’ll get you home, Mum,” he whispered, kissing her on her forehead.
An awkward handshake with Othello turned into a bear hug. Cress bussed him on both cheeks, and he felt the wet of tears on her face. It was all too quick, a decision made without warning. Their time was running out.
He brushed Athena with his scrying crystal and affixed it to his eye, his view tingeing purple as she scampered onto his shoulder. After a moment’s hesitation, he pointed his palm at Ignatius, and the Salamander dissolved into his palm in a flush of white light.
Then Fletcher was hauling himself up Lysander’s side, the ridged spine and feathered fur sliding uncomfortably beneath his thighs as the Griffin’s musculature shifted and flexed.
“Petals, water, food, weapons,” Sylva muttered under her breath. She ran her fingers along the bow and falx scabbarded on her back. The sword’s handle blocked Fletcher’s view, so Athena leaped into Sylva’s lap, jarring with pain as her wing splint knocked against the elf’s shoulder. Her vision was bright in the pink-tinged crystal, as if the world were lit by the light of a dozen moons.
“We’ll be back,” Sylva said, though she spoke so quietly that Fletcher wasn’t sure if she was speaking to herself.
Then, as Othello began to speak, Lysander leaped. The dwarf’s words were lost as they hurled themselves into the sky, ascending in great thrusts from his powerful wings.
Fletcher’s hands were wrapped around Sylva’s midriff, but it did little to anchor him; she was balanced as precariously as he was. He tilted left and right with every wing beat, and his thigh muscles ached as he desperately gripped Lysander’s sides. It was only when he glided on the wind, high above the jungle, that Fletcher’s heart left his mouth.
Beneath, the lagoon had shrunk to the size of a silver shilling, with a thin line denoting the wending river that poured into the vast ocean to their west. The mountain range behind them curled in a quarter circle, with the dark stain to the south where the swamplands began. Fletcher knew that the orc’s territory lay somewhere beyond, and there was likely a source of Euryale flowers there. Even though the Wyverns had already gone past them, it felt wrong to backtrack so far and enter a territory where other shamans may still be searching for them.
“We head east,” Sylva said, her voice barely discernible against the gusting wind.
So Lysander turned, his wings tilting and they with them in a stomach-churning swoop. Soon they were following the rough arc of the sierra, the world beneath rolling away in a rough carpet of treetops.
Fletcher scanned the horizon, desperate for the telltale pinnacle of rock in the distance. He even watched the mountain range, hoping against hope that a column of smoke would appear. Instead, they flew on into the night, the range curving away behind them until it faded into the distance. Below, the jungles seemed endless, broken only by the red-sanded desert of the deadlands on their left and the abyss looming on the far side of it.
Fletcher shuddered at the sight of the endless dark in the distance, remembering the tortured, tentacled creatures that lurked there. The Ceteans.
“Anything at all?” Sylva shouted, her words whipping over Fletcher’s shoulder.
Nothing. Nothing but the steady brightening of the sky above. He yelled his answer in her ear and he half heard her growl with frustration.
On they went, with Lysander climbing higher and higher in a bid to see farther afield. The temperature fell until the air misted with every breath, puffs of white that were snatched away by the wind. Still they flew, shivering together as they scanned the landscape. Fletcher wished he had Cress’s pocket watch—only the light above told him how long they had searched. Two hours? Three?