Beneath Ceaseless Skies #137 by Beth Cato & A.E. Decker

Author:Beth Cato & A.E. Decker [Cato, Beth]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: _Beneath Ceaseless Skies_ Online Magazine

Copyright © 2013 Beth Cato

Read Comments on this Story on the BCS Website

Beth Cato’s debut steampunk novel will be released by HarperCollins Voyager in late 2014. Her short fiction can be found in InterGalactic Medicine Show, Nature, and many other magazines. Follow her at www.BethCato.com and on Twitter at @BethCato.

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WHISTLER’S GROVE

by A.E. Decker

One of the four of us shall die today. If all goes as intended, it will be me.

Die, here, today. I paint the words across the landscape of my mind and they evaporate, leaving not a trace behind.

“Could one of these be Hangman’s Tree?” asks Arrel.

I open my eyes. Arrel stands a distance away, shielding his face with one hand. Pale sepia sky, and earth the color of rot. My breath fans out in wisps of white mist, and my toes, cold as stones, ache inside my soft boots. There’s no marker at the boundary into Whistler’s Grove, but we knew when we crossed it all the same.

A few feet from Arrel, Tam grimaces at the seemingly endless sweep of black leafless trees, all sprouting from hillocks spaced a couple hundred feet apart. “Any of them would do for hanging, in a pinch.”

Celina turns a look of quiet reproach on him then moves to Arrel’s side, curling her hand around his. “The records say it’s the tallest tree in the grove. One branch crooks at a perfect angle.”

“As if beckoning,” quips Tam.

We resume our journey. The icy light pouring down from all reaches of the sky hurts my eyes. A layer of coarse, bleached stuff, like shards of broken seashells, covers the ground, crunching beneath the others’ tread. My own footfall is silent; my breathing, less so. Once, I have to stop, overwhelmed by a fit of coughing. Wiping my mouth, I examine the back of my wrist for flecks of blood.

I did not notice Celina drop back, but she’s here, at my side, her braids wound in a golden coronet about her head. “How are you holding up, Miro?” she asks. She smells of clean water and crushed grass. I envision reaching out and tracing the silken arch of her lower lip with the pad of my thumb. And what might happen then?

“Miro?” she repeats. Tam glances over his shoulder. His smile is meant to be encouraging, I believe. Arrel’s pace never slackens.

I do not reach, and the vision dissipates. Drawing a painful breath, I nod. Celina walks beside me a minute then squeezes my shoulder and quickens her step to rejoin Arrel.

The poison eating away at my innards laid me low some days ago. My companions broke off our journey to allow me to rest at an inn. I do have value. I cannot be allowed to expire before my life is used to purchase our lord’s victory.

I recall between periods of aching, bleary sleep Celina tending to me. She would come to my sickroom, tap-tap up the stairs, the floor creaking under her light step, to bathe my temples with cool water, hold spoonfuls of broth to my lips, open the shuttered windows to let in fresh air.

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