as she was here on this lake of stones. What about the cave where the Arkera had gotten salt? Could it shelter her until rainy season? Food. What was salt without food?
Sweating, she stood and went clumsily on. After a long time she thought she could make out gray shapes against the horizon. Rocks? Trees? She balanced on one foot and prodded her sandal to dislodge a pebble.
Click. Someone or something was walking on the rocks behind her.
She stood stone-still. The clicking stopped.
Cautiously, she looked around. Nothing. Well, it couldnât sneak up on her. If she could be heard, she could also hear. She wobbled hastily on. When she could clearly see gray ghost trees ahead, she dropped all caution.
Rushing now. Forward on the tottering rocks. She leaped off the last one and began to run. Trees, even leafless, would give her some cover. Over her panting, she thought she could hear the clicking of stones.
All afternoon she traveled fast. Moving down, always going down. She didnât stop to eat, gulping a swallow or two of water as she walked. The silence was broken only by the rustling of creeping things and other sounds of small animals, but she felt sure something was still following.
Down.
Night began to come on. As the sun dropped, a breeze blew up. At least the half-moon was draped with a soft gray cloth of clouds.
Something sushed behind her. She whirled. Only leaves, lifted by a sudden gust.
The ground became uneven, pocked with holes. After she had fallen for the third time, she gave a despairing cry.
No banks. No exposed roots. These sleek trees were too thin to climb. Anyway, she didnât want to touch them. She looked up. The breeze kept trying to tug the clouds away. The moon. The moon. Forget the moon. It was the least of her worries. She curled in a small depression in the ground, wishing for a weapon.
Something big was still moving through the woods. She was sure of it.
Or was it only the wind in the noisy leaves?
C HAPTER
FOURTEEN
S HHH-SHHH-SHH . S HE MADE HERSELF TURTLE-SMALL under her blanket. Her legs quivered as if they belonged to some frightened animal and not to her. Calm. Manage your fear.
But she was absolutely sure she did hear soft footsteps. She threw back the blanket and jumped up. Better to face it standing up.
She stared into the darkness, waiting. Her arms tingled. Nothing. Nothing but the creaking of night insects. Then the thing was rushing out from the ghostly trees. It had hands, hands that reached for her.
She and the thing struggled, bending, turning, gripping, and grabbing at each other until Moralin got the hold she had used on the woman by the fire and flipped her enemy onto the ground. The cloud moved from the face of the moon as the thing groaned.
It was a girl whose eyes glittered and whose painted face she knew. Figt reached up and yanked Moralinâs wrist. âThis Delagua girl must come back with me.â
Fire-fierce rage roared in Moralinâs ears, but the other girl gave a hard tug, and she lost her footing. First she was on her knees, then spitting out dirt, then struggling to get free from the beast of a girl who was biting and scratching and trying to pin her to the ground.
All the hard work in the Arkera village had made Moralin stronger, but Figt surely had a knife. She tried not to imagine the stab, the pain sliding into her. Then Figt grabbed a handful of hair, and Moralin screeched and scratched.
They fell apart, panting. Moralin staggered upright, glaring down. Figtâs face twisted, and Moralin whirled to look behind her. But only the beastie appeared, loping through the leaves.
Moralin clamped her hands to her hips so Figt couldnât see them shaking. âYou canât make me go back.â She used the insulting lower form. Was it true? Figt could kill her with the knife. But could even a warrior girl drag a dead body over the lake of stones and up a cliff?
Perhaps Figt was thinking the same thing. She said nothing,
Sweating, she stood and went clumsily on. After a long time she thought she could make out gray shapes against the horizon. Rocks? Trees? She balanced on one foot and prodded her sandal to dislodge a pebble.
Click. Someone or something was walking on the rocks behind her.
She stood stone-still. The clicking stopped.
Cautiously, she looked around. Nothing. Well, it couldnât sneak up on her. If she could be heard, she could also hear. She wobbled hastily on. When she could clearly see gray ghost trees ahead, she dropped all caution.
Rushing now. Forward on the tottering rocks. She leaped off the last one and began to run. Trees, even leafless, would give her some cover. Over her panting, she thought she could hear the clicking of stones.
All afternoon she traveled fast. Moving down, always going down. She didnât stop to eat, gulping a swallow or two of water as she walked. The silence was broken only by the rustling of creeping things and other sounds of small animals, but she felt sure something was still following.
Down.
Night began to come on. As the sun dropped, a breeze blew up. At least the half-moon was draped with a soft gray cloth of clouds.
Something sushed behind her. She whirled. Only leaves, lifted by a sudden gust.
The ground became uneven, pocked with holes. After she had fallen for the third time, she gave a despairing cry.
No banks. No exposed roots. These sleek trees were too thin to climb. Anyway, she didnât want to touch them. She looked up. The breeze kept trying to tug the clouds away. The moon. The moon. Forget the moon. It was the least of her worries. She curled in a small depression in the ground, wishing for a weapon.
Something big was still moving through the woods. She was sure of it.
Or was it only the wind in the noisy leaves?
C HAPTER
FOURTEEN
S HHH-SHHH-SHH . S HE MADE HERSELF TURTLE-SMALL under her blanket. Her legs quivered as if they belonged to some frightened animal and not to her. Calm. Manage your fear.
But she was absolutely sure she did hear soft footsteps. She threw back the blanket and jumped up. Better to face it standing up.
She stared into the darkness, waiting. Her arms tingled. Nothing. Nothing but the creaking of night insects. Then the thing was rushing out from the ghostly trees. It had hands, hands that reached for her.
She and the thing struggled, bending, turning, gripping, and grabbing at each other until Moralin got the hold she had used on the woman by the fire and flipped her enemy onto the ground. The cloud moved from the face of the moon as the thing groaned.
It was a girl whose eyes glittered and whose painted face she knew. Figt reached up and yanked Moralinâs wrist. âThis Delagua girl must come back with me.â
Fire-fierce rage roared in Moralinâs ears, but the other girl gave a hard tug, and she lost her footing. First she was on her knees, then spitting out dirt, then struggling to get free from the beast of a girl who was biting and scratching and trying to pin her to the ground.
All the hard work in the Arkera village had made Moralin stronger, but Figt surely had a knife. She tried not to imagine the stab, the pain sliding into her. Then Figt grabbed a handful of hair, and Moralin screeched and scratched.
They fell apart, panting. Moralin staggered upright, glaring down. Figtâs face twisted, and Moralin whirled to look behind her. But only the beastie appeared, loping through the leaves.
Moralin clamped her hands to her hips so Figt couldnât see them shaking. âYou canât make me go back.â She used the insulting lower form. Was it true? Figt could kill her with the knife. But could even a warrior girl drag a dead body over the lake of stones and up a cliff?
Perhaps Figt was thinking the same thing. She said nothing,
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