If I’ve got a head start, I’d best hop to it before losing that slack. The farther I get, the more advantages it’ll yield when that prick catches up.
I scope out the signpost and its markers.
The Wayward Steps
The Black Nest
The Watch of Nightingales
The Horizon that Never Lies
The Night Aviary
I glance around, but there’s no chance of orientating myself. The stars don’t help, failing to act as a compass. Since I’ve never seen teal celestials before, much less the constellations of this land, I can’t figure out their arrangement.
I narrow my eyes at the choices. Cerulean mentioned that only one direction is reliable. That doesn’t mean it’s the correct route to the peak. Whereas the rest may not lead to where they say, one of them could still head where I need to end up.
Hidden behind the murkiness, the immediate environment refuses to show itself.
Refuses to show itself…
Curious, I step in a random direction, toward The Black Nest. The darkness clears and opens like a cackling mouth, exhibiting an incline bordered with trees and woven sacs dangling from the offshoots—a swarm of hives. Skidding backward causes the sight to vanish.
Ah-ha. The environments are only visible when I make a choice. I test this theory a few times, the murk spilling into diverse settings: a net bridge that emits steam; a fleet of intersecting bramble hedges; and a ladder propped against a craggy wall, the rungs slipping into an opaque blanket of mist.
Fear the wind. Follow the wind.
That note. The one that turned into a flying object and led me to the summit.
I press my fingers to my temple and think, think, think. What else did it say?
Don’t look down. Watch your step. Fear the wind. Follow the wind. Lose your path. Find your way.
So for me, the wind will either be a tool or a trap. I unspool my whip and give an outward thrust. The air snatches the weapon’s tail and swerves it toward The Wayward Steps.
Well, then. Wish myself luck or kiss my ass good-bye.
The nothingness slips away. A lane burrows into a stone channel that chips through the mountain like a shortcut, torch sconces burnishing the walls. The bower’s notched ceiling hints at a stairway directly above—or a series of stairways. I tread past them and then up a steep slope, emerging from the cavity and pausing to catch my breath. Ahead is an erratic path of flat stepping-stones disconnected by wide gaps and a fathomless pit beneath.
On either side, vapors mingle with slanted rowans leaning over the route. Hedges crowd around the trunks and emit the sickly-sweet putridness of decaying fruit. Berries droop from the branches, the sage orbs clustered in bunches and bloated with juice. They remind me of gooseberries, if gooseberries oozed mucus.
I peer over the side and flex my thighs to keep from pissing myself. Can’t see how far it drops and don’t need to, because the depth surges up my calves.
I close my eyes and remember the aviary at the back of my family’s cottage. I remember the rush of scaling those trees, my desire to climb until I hit the treetops. Every time I reached a new pinnacle, the victory taught me to love heights, wiping out the years I spent unclogging chimneys. I worked damn hard for that passion and won’t let this place steal it from me.
“Don’t look down,” I recap from the missive. “Watch your step.”
I reckon they’re not called The Wayward Steps for nothing. These slabs can’t be trusted, but I’ve got no choice. Because the scattered steps have no order, there are several options to start with. I’ll have to use trial and error.
I plant my foot on the first stone—and scream.
The plate plunges. The slab drops fast, plummeting into an abyss. My arm shoots out, my hand grasping the nearest plate, breaking my fall and yanking on my shoulder socket. I cry out, black dots of pain bursting behind my eyelids.
By some miracle, my joints and bones stay put. I dangle there, my legs flailing, my body shrieking. Pillars hold up the steps, the stems dropping down, down, down into a void.
My palms sweat, skating across the stone and about to lose purchase. I fumble for my whip, attempting to strike an overhanging branch, but the leaves block a clear shot, and my vision struggles against the darkness. It takes multiple attempts to snag a thick bough, the whip lassoing around the bark.
Planting my soles against the column, I rope climb. It’s not a far journey, but with my limbs on fire, it’s far enough. I belly flop over the step and wheeze into the chilled surface, my limbs reduced to jelly. My palms sting, flecks of red streaking my flesh, but at least I’m not bleeding.
