Exile. Part 13

Chapter Eleven.

THE GATE.

THE SWORD IN ROBERT'S SCABBARD BURNED AGAINST his hip the next morning. He had reached for the hilt. Last night. And there had been no check within his brain. Nothing holding him back. A fact that haunted. Oozed. Penetrated his skin and seeped into his mind, mingling with the blood of former actions. He needed to go home, to return that weapon to his father and rid himself permanently of the option of ever using it again. He had known this, somewhere in the back of his mind, since Chris's death, but never before had the need felt so urgent.

"I don't see why you're in such a foul mood," Aurelia said, dragging her riding partner out of his memories and into the final stretch of what had once been the Transcontina Valley, now only a narrow strip between the steep slope of the Quartian Shelf and the churning waters of the Fallchutes. A chilly wind gusted down the Crevice, and her hands were cold where they clasped his chest as she rode behind him on Horizon.

They had left the roan behind. The old horse had little chance of making it over the Gate, so Robert had pa.s.sed the mare into the hands of Stella May. His failure to return the roan to Thomas needled in Robert's gut, but the risks in sending the mare back to Transcontina with a written note were too high.

"We are almost to the Gate," Aurelia pointed out. "I would have thought you would be thrilled."

Thrilled. Her naivete pierced through him. True, they had presented their pa.s.ses to the riders blocking the trail a mile back. And done so without hindrance. But even if he could have dismissed the threat from behind-let himself forget the old woman's comments from the night before-nothing would allow him to trivialize the danger ahead.

He knew people who talked, even bragged, about the number of times they had been through the Gate. But far more swore they would never set foot on it again. Nothing he said could prepare Aurelia for the treacherous climb. Still, he should attempt to explain. "We will walk most of the way," he said. "It's steep, and the path is rough. I won't risk Horizon's soundness."

She nodded, waiting to hear more.

"The wagons only travel north," he continued. "There's no room for them to pa.s.s."

"Then what about goods coming south from the frontier?" She leaned up against his shoulder.

"Everything goes down the river and is s.h.i.+pped out at the Port of Darzai. Only people, and sometimes news, come south through the Gate."

"What does it look like?"

Horizon's hooves curved around a jutting rock, and the resulting view spared Robert the effort of description. "There."

The southern entrance to the Gate rose up in front of them, a thin, gray, hideous path etched into the side of the Quartian Shelf. Rugged. Blunt. Built by weather, desire, gunpowder, and human intractability. A feat that paled against the path's soaring, jagged backdrop: the cliff. And its mirror image.

Between the two cliffs, at their base, was the powerful Fallchutes River, the only force strong enough to divide the heights of the Quartian Shelf. The river swept, not gracefully or patiently, but with waters roiling in preparation for the drop ahead. Eighteen times they would plunge downward over the course of fifty miles before emerging again, then flowing east, all the way to the ocean.

Robert turned to see Aurelia's reaction. Her teeth were clenched, the muscles in her jaw tight, her eyes locked on that trail of insanity.

She didn't gasp. Or cringe. Or shudder.

Which only meant she did not yet know what she faced.

Aurelia did not care for heights-a discovery that came at a most inopportune time, as they were less than a hundred feet up the narrow, winding path of the Gate, which, she could see, continued to climb for at least a hundred more.

She closed her eyes and willed herself forward, but her legs refused to move. In fact, they desperately wanted to bend and lower her center of balance. The path seemed somehow to have shrunk from six feet wide to three.

Robert had already moved ahead. If she didn't call out, he was liable to keep traveling without her. She whispered his name, which didn't work.

I can't do this. How am I going to tell him? "Robert!" she called and left it at that. He was bound to think something was wrong.

Something was wrong. She was standing on a trail at the edge of a cliff that plunged in a sheer drop down to a series of cras.h.i.+ng waterfalls, their roar riding the wind and a.s.saulting her on her fragile perch. This was not frightening. This was harrowing. "Robert!" She called his name again and plastered her backside against the jagged wall, her eyes staring out at the almost identical rock face on the opposite side of the gap. The wide, empty gap with only the river below.

"Yes?" His voice.

She realized then that she should have invented a logical reason she could not continue and needed to go back down. But she hadn't, and she could not think of one now because she could not think.

Robert stepped in front of her, blocking out that awful empty s.p.a.ce. His eyes, those calm blue eyes, met hers. And then he held out his hand, as if waiting for her to take it.

Could she? Was that even possible?

She kept her left hand planted firmly on the cliff face and reached out with her right. Her fingers locked with his.

His grip was firm. Like the rest of him. And she simply didn't have the mental freedom at the moment to sort that out.

Then it occurred to her that he had the wrong hand, the one that, if he was to stay on the outer side of the path, would require her to ascend.

She tried to pull back, but Robert refused to give up his grip. "It gets better," he said.

Liar.

"It does," he continued, "once you get past the sense of climbing."

Well, that was nice of him to say, but this fear was immediate, and personal, and he could not possibly know how she would react when they went higher. She was not going higher.

"I can walk on the outer side," he said.

Yes, well, that was the plan, but for going down.

Though the trail was slightly less horrible with him standing in front of her, blocking her view of that gruesome drop. He tugged on the stallion's reins and brought Horizon around so the horse was below her, a few feet from the cliff wall, which also helped block her view.

"Now, Aurelia, you tell me when you're ready," Robert whispered. "It's the only way," he said as if he actually believed a.s.sa.s.sins might be insane enough to follow her here. "It will be all right."

Would it? Would that haunted, concerned look he kept sending over his shoulder disappear if they climbed higher?

"Are you sure?" she whispered. It was very, very important that he was sure.

"Positive."

She allowed herself to breathe.

He took a step back, which struck her as insane, but it did allow her s.p.a.ce. Maybe she could try this, as long as he let her return to the cliff if necessary. She stared at the ground, making certain it was there, where she wanted to place her foot. Then she eased forward.

It worked. She was standing perpendicular from the jagged wall.

And Robert was there, still firmly holding her hand. Without judgment.

Though she was appalled at herself for being afraid of something as non-threatening and mundane as height. Then again, there was nothing mundane about this particular trail. And it was plenty threatening with its jagged edges and steep drop.

Maybe if she thought of the trail as her enemy, she could conquer it.

She took a step. Robert moved with her, fluidly.

She took another step, staring at the ground.

That was two, two steps on the way to conquering this trail.

Another one-three.

She fixed her eyes on the surface and set out to make it thirty.

Aurelia's terror of heights did lessen, but nothing else about the trail eased. Robert continued to glance back as if their true foe might still come from behind. She knew better. The enemy was present. It ran up and down in a series of deceitful slopes that taxed every muscle in her body. Her thighs and calves ached, and her feet felt as though they had been shredded. By early dusk on the fifth day, she wanted nothing more than to collapse.

It was then they found the abandoned wagon. Wedged into the cliff, and at an angle. How that was possible on this narrow strip between two slopes, she did not know, but she suspected it had to do with the wheel, somehow rammed into a cleft between the trail and the rock face. And the broken axle. Unsalvageable.

The vehicle blocked the entire path, the tailgate sticking out over the ravine.

Robert walked up to the side of the wagon box, untied the canvas near the back, and peered beneath it, then swore. She had never heard him swear. "They left everything in it," he said, wrestling with another tie. "We'll have to empty the wagon."

"Nooo," she groaned, her body protesting.

"I can't budge it when it's full. All the weight is coming down on the axle." He flung back the canvas, swearing again.

"What about when the people come back for their wagon?"

"It won't be here when they come back," Robert said.

"But-"

"Aurelia, it's blocking the entire path. We can't take Horizon around it. And no one else will be able to drive another wagon past it. We're going to have to push it over the edge."

She stared at him, horrified.

"And we should throw the supplies over as well, or someone is bound to wreck upon them."

He was so concrete.

"But, Robert, we can't. How will the owners of the wagon manage to begin their lives on the frontier if they lose everything?"

He gave a tight shake of his head. And then she comprehended. That the owners would not manage. They must have known the wagon's fate when they had been forced to walk away, but had not had the emotional strength to destroy the vehicle themselves.

Instead, they had left that task for him. And for her.

Robert hefted a crate and heaved it into the ravine. There was a pause, then a terrible crack! as the contents splintered, no doubt on some jutting rock below.

Aurelia's soul cracked as well.

But Robert gave no sign of remorse. He scrambled up into the wagon and began struggling with a plough. The seven-foot frame with its iron fittings fought against him, as if to argue its merit. Robert shoved it over. There came a thud, then another crack!

This time she saw his torso shudder.

And then she understood-that he, also, was appalled by what he was doing but had steeled himself for the task, refusing to leave it for someone else. He had made the harder choice.

She moved up beside the box and peered into what was left of the canvas bonnet, then lost her heart on a single object. A rocking horse, crude and unstained, its simple head in the shape of a board. But still ...

For someone to pack such a thing-a toy-when the limited items in the wagon could determine whether a family might survive their first year on the frontier-that said something to her: that this family had thought enough of childhood to include joy. She could not see it destroyed. She scrambled up and reached for the horse.

"Aurelia."

"Just this." She looked back at Robert, pleading.

His eyes closed, but he moved to help her undo the toy's bindings. "We'll tie it on Horizon and leave it someplace where the trail is a little wider."

Nodding, she climbed back out of the wagon, then reached up. And he pa.s.sed her the precious object, its light frame settling in her hands. The wood felt smooth, well sanded. Carefully she placed the horse behind her. Logic told her the action was futile, that the child in the family would never see the horse again, but somehow the attempt to save something bolstered her strength.

She moved to help Robert unload the rest of the supplies.

They worked side by side as the thin evening gray darkened, tightening its grip on the canyon below, hugging the rocks and crevices and amplifying every crack and thud of a vanquished dream. Until nothing remained, other than the rocking horse, a crate Robert had set aside, and the wagon itself.

Aurelia's limbs crumpled beneath her.

But Robert proceeded to the fallen axle.

"Let it wait until morning," she said.

He attempted to shove the crate under the broken beam. For leverage, she realized. The wagon resisted.

"Robert, it's late. The people behind us must have already camped. Just leave-"

"No!" His voice was harsh. "No, Aurelia, I have to finish this. I can't"-he pounded the frame-"I can't leave it!"

She stood up to go to him, but at that moment, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted. Then a rustling. And to Aurelia's shock, a figure emerged from under the wagon-a man, rough-clad, with wild hair and a hard look in his eyes. His coat had caught on the edge of the wagon box.

Aurelia hastened to a.s.sist him.

"Sir," Robert said, "could you please help us?"

But the man wrenched his coat free, ignoring the rip of the fabric, then brushed past Aurelia and disappeared into the dusk.

She seethed. "How ... horrible!"

But Robert just lowered his forehead in his hands, then sank back against the cliff face. "Something happened."

"What do you mean?"

"To that man. He's going the wrong way. And traveling late."

"Maybe he intended to go south."

"No, not without a horse." Robert lifted his head from his hands. "Help me?"