Page 8 of Storm of Shadows
Chapter Four
Briony
I roll up onto my hands and knees and scrabble in the darkness for my bag. The mist is even thicker now, suffocatingly so, and along with the pain in my ribs, every breath is a struggle.
It takes five agonizingly long minutes to retrieve my bag, constantly peering over my shoulder – ears straining in the eerie silence – for another attacker. For that shadow weaver to come for me again.
Why did he leave me like that?
He could have beaten me to a pulp. Tortured me with his magic. Forced himself on me.
It’s what the shadow weavers do.
To them, we are nothing but dirt on the soles of their boots.
I snort. A girl from Slate Quarter. We’re even lower than dirt.
Why the hell did he let me go?
I push the thought from my mind.
What does it matter? I’m not safe yet.
Just because one self-entitled bastard chose to let me go, doesn’t mean the next one will. The night is far from over.
With my heart in my throat, I rummage through my bag, checking nothing was lost or damaged in my tumble. Finding everything still there, I sling my rucksack back onto my shoulders, cursing because, after my fall, my ribs sting even more than they did, and then I start walking again. As I do, I listen acutely for any sounds, and glare through the mist for any flicker of movement.
I have no idea where I am anymore, nor which direction I’m heading in. For all I know, I could be strolling straight into the midst of all those shadow weavers, lying in wait for a powerless girl like me.
My feet catch on a small rock in the earth and I crouch down and dig it out with my hands, my already short nails cracking and snapping off as I do. Then I clutch it in my hand as if it is precious. A weapon I can strike with if anyone does attack. It makes me feel a little better, even if it is most probably worthless.
I walk for what feels like an hour. There has never been enough money for anything as luxurious as a watch. Usually I’d look up at the sky and the passing stars and traveling moon would tell me how much time had passed. However, the muggy mist makes it impossible to tell. Finally though, I hit a crop of trees. This could be the edge of the forest that lay before the academy. Then again, it could be somewhere different entirely.
Cautiously, I venture under the branches, walking a little further until I find a tree I can climb. Its first branch hangs right above my head. With my bag still strapped to my back, I jump and grab the branch with both hands, kicking my feet upwards. It takes four attempts and then finally, I pincer the branch between my feet and swing myself up, climbing into the tree’s boughs, as high as I dare go, the limbs of the tree becoming younger and weaker the further up I go. Then I settle into the crook of a branch, and, despite the cold, shrug off my jacket anduse it to tie myself to the branch. Once I’m as secure as I’m going to be, I place my bag in my lap and hook my arms through the straps.
As carefully and silently as I can, I zip open my bag and peer inside, checking again that the contents have not been lost or broken. When I find it all safe and sound, I let out a sigh of relief and, zipping the bag closed, lean my head back against the tree.
I can’t sleep. It’s too risky up here in the tree. My precautions are probably not enough. If I drift off, I could drop my bag or fall to my death. Besides, I’m too wired.
I hope I’m safe up here, hidden and away from all the others. But I have no idea if I am.
Time passes and the mist drifts away. The sounds of the night are no longer muffled, they carry through the trees, bouncing off the trunks, amplified and echoing. Screams. So many goddamn screams. As well as sobbing and crying, yells and shouts, whoops of excitement, the crack of wood and the splintering of branches. Below me, I see magic flash through trees, sparking in the distance, shooting up into the sky.
I yank my rock from my pocket and grip it tightly in my fist.
If anyone comes for me, I will kill them. Better them than me.
More time passes. The noise fades. Replaced by the sounds of the forest. Creatures scurrying through the undergrowth, paws padding softly across the ground, the crack of wings.
I jerk awake. A pale light filters through the canopy of leafless branches and the birds that remain to weather the winter, call to each other weakly.
Morning.
My arms remain curled tightly around my bag. My fist is empty.
I peer through the branches below me and listen once again. Nothing, only the birds singing the arrival of the new day.
New day!
