Page 14 of The Garnet Daughter
“To me,” I correct. “And there are families here. They do not want to send mothers and fathers to war when they have settled here for peace.”
“They were about as welcoming as I remember.”
“Selene would have gotten further with them.”
“Yes, I noticed that.” He rolls his eyes to the side.
“You should not have spoken.”
“Would it have changed their decision if I didn’t?”
The answer is no. We both realize it.
Although the day’s heat is rising, a chill runs over my skin as dark clouds blow in with the promise of another storm. But even that possibility is so peaceful here, so calm and silent. The air is crisp and so satisfying compared to the grainy breaths of Cosima, now thick with violence.
We walk until the path grows thin, only a line of dirt in the lush grass around it. Berries, which only grow here for a short time, line the beacon plateau, and seeing them makesme instantly reach out to pluck some from the thorny leaves. I continue to pick them as we walk and pass some to August. At first, he is cautious of the taste, but then collects his own in rough handfuls.
“The beacon, do you think you will be able to repair it?”
“I’m sure I can, but we will need to see what’s wrong with it first.” He throws me a grin and stands a little straighter, walking more confidently in the open air where the insects and animals of the deep wood are not present. He even strides ahead as I follow, filling my empty stomach with the sweet orange berries.
The bushes near our destination are larger, the thorns bigger, but it doesn’t stop me. As soon as August finishes repairs, we can call out for a rescue ship and return to our friends. The sooner we are off Frith, the better. I cannot stand knowing our friends are fighting across the space between and may need our help. The sudden reminder of what the failed ritual cost Ferren sickens me, so I drop the last of my berries to meet August in the open field where they house the beacon.
“This is more than damage,” he notes, defeated.
Every part of the tower is in ruin, the wreckage spread out across the meadow. The structure that was our means to getting home has fallen to the Frithian ground in a useless heap.
My heart settles in my stomach as if the entire plateau is free-falling, taking me and our chance to return with it.
“What could cause this?” I weave through a tangle of thick hairlike wires.
“A lot of power. Do you think someone destroyed it?” August’s eyes dance around at the clutter of metal spreading across the flat plateau, large enough for one of Viathan’s fleet ships to land with room to spare.
“No, look.” I point. “Trees have fallen as well. It must have been a tremor and a tree knocked the tower down.” Even if the only damage were to the tower, it is unlikely a Frithian would dosuch a thing when the outside world is shut off by disabling it. What reason would someone have to tear down the only means to communicate with the other two worlds?
“The tower split as it fell. A crew would take days to repair this.”
I hop over a few of the fallen pieces until I reach a sizable platform where the base of the beacon once stood. “We can’t do it ourselves?”
He hovers his hands over a massive metal box, charred and dented with damage. “I could possibly send a message from here. The planets are so close right now, it may go through without the tower.”
I breathe out a sigh and watch as he tries to open the misshapen box.
August’s knowledge of Viathan technology fascinates me. I don’t view it with the same forbidden eyes Ferren once had, as I have always seen it as a means to freedom. To conjure a metal bird to fly to any world you command it is a luxury my gift has never offered.
Until now.
August smacks the side of it when the door does not give way. “Jammed.”
Hope drains from both of us as we inspect the once proudly standing beacon as if the answers are just waiting to be found. And then as if brought back to life, August looks around the debris field, searching for something in the grass.
“Perfect.” He withdraws his answer, a thick branch with leaves still attached as if it snapped off the main offending tree.
“A stick?”
“A wedge,” he says with glee and slides the broken tip of the limb into the seam of the beacon box.
I step back as he pushes into the chard metal, the tapered end buckling it with the force he applies. He huffs and strains withpurpose until the branch wedges fully into the door, as if it grew from the metal box itself.
