Chasing the Valley (31 page)

 

CHASING THE VALLEY 2: BORDERLANDS

The action-packed adventure continues in the second book of the Chasing the Valley trilogy!

Danika and her crew of escaped refugees are seeking the safety of the Magnetic Valley – and trying to evade Sharr Morrigan, the king's most lethal hunter. But the borderlands they must cross to reach the Valley are smugglers' territory: lawless, wild and steeped in ancient magic. When one of the crew is badly wounded, Danika turns to the smugglers for help – and accepts a bargain that might prove deadly.

It is Lukas, however, who hides the most dangerous secret. What has he seen through the eagle's eyes? The answer can be found in an alchemy charm and a smuggler's tale, and will lead Danika and her friends to an electrifying, unputdownable showdown.

PRAISE FOR
CHASING THE VALLEY

‘Unpredictable and exciting, keeping the reader enchanted and wanting to hear more of this struggle for freedom and justice.'
readplus.com.au

‘Every page leaves you on a cliffhanger, literally.'
Sunday Mail Adelaide

 

THE HUSH

In a world where music is power, one boy's discovery that he can hear the song will change everything …

Chester is on the road, searching every town for clues about his father's disappearance. But when he's caught accidentally – and illegally – connecting with the Song as he plays his beloved fiddle, Chester is sentenced to death. Only a licensed Songshaper can bend music to their will. The axe is about to fall …

But there is someone else watching Chester. Someone who needs his special talents. Who can use him for their own ends. And who is hiding in the Hush, where Music can be deadly and Echoes can kill you with a touch.

Susannah is that someone. The young captain of the infamous Nightfall Gang has plans for Chester. Finally, she will have her revenge.

Skye's latest book,
The Hush
, is available now!

Read on for a sneak peek …

From this angle, the world looked like a treble clef. A hill curved high on the horizon. A swirl of ink. A symbol on a song sheet.

‘Head down, boy,' said the sheriff. ‘Head on the block, and we'll keep it quick.'

Chester twisted his neck, eyes fixed on the hill. If he focused, he could almost ignore the shake of his limbs. The churn of his stomach. The choke of his throat.

The glint of the axe.

The prisoner before him had wet his pants, and the stage stank of urine and blood. Even now, red liquid pooled around Chester's knees. Would this be the last thing he felt, the last thing he smelt?

His fingers trembled. He swallowed hard and fought to keep them still.
No.
He would not let them see his fear. He would grit his teeth, and clench his fists, and never let them see it. If only his damned fingers would stop shaking …

‘Any last words?'

The voice was oddly distorted. Almost from a distance. As though Chester heard the words through liquid, or
from the bottom of a well. His breath fluttered. He tried to move his tongue, to form words, to say something, anything. But the words stuck like toffee in his throat, and all he heard was the roar of the townspeople, like the distant jeer of a thunderstorm.

‘Chester Hays,' said the voice. ‘You are found guilty of illegal Music. You are found guilty of connecting to the Song without a licence. Your sentence is death.'

The crowd roared even louder.

Chester knew that sound. He knew it in the depth of his lungs, in the tightness of his bones. He had heard those cheers a hundred times before, in saloons, in markets, in fairgrounds. As soon as he picked up his bow, and his fingers pressed the fiddle strings …

Just another performance
, he told himself.
Just another crowd.

The people cheered. His fingers shook.

The axe crashed down.

It was a good-sized town. The road rolled in like a brace between fields of corn. With every step, dust puffed around Chester's boots. He was small and lean, his black hair a rumpled mess, his features tan. He ran a hand through sweaty hair then used it to shade his eyes.

A lone sign greeted him, rusting tin on a wooden post.

Welcome to Hamelin.

High above the town, a pair of figures rode pegasi. The horses' wings arched long: crescent moons in the sky. Right now, Chester would trade his tongue for a horse. Even a common galloper, without the wings of the pegasus breed. Hell, he'd settle for a donkey. Anything to keep his feet off the ground and his weight off the blisters.

He plodded on.

Chester's shirt clung to his chest, his armpits. It had been a long day's trek from the railway track. He'd ridden overnight in a cargo train after sneaking aboard in another little no-hope town. Taminor, had it been called? Something like that. Hard to remember, nowadays. Another night, another town, another saloon. Hopefully
the locals here would like his music and throw enough coins to fill his belly.

And hopefully they would know something about the vanishings. About the people who had started disappearing, just over a year ago. People who vanished from their beds during the night, leaving their families behind.

People like his father.

Chester's knees ached and his palms burned. He'd jumped when the train had slowed at a bridge, tumbling in a rush by the side of the track. Now he nursed his hands as he walked, dribbling drops from his waterskin onto the grazes. His throat ached, but his hands came first. If his hands were injured, he couldn't play fiddle, and if he couldn't play fiddle, he couldn't eat.

Besides, there would be a saloon in town. Chester could refill his waterskin, and maybe wangle something stronger – though he couldn't prove he was of age yet. Had he turned seventeen by now, or was he still sixteen? Chester's father had never been sure of his son's birthday (‘Sometime around harvest,' he'd always said, with a careless wave of the hand). It was harvest time and Chester had been alone on the road for months. Perhaps he'd turned seventeen and didn't even know it.

It didn't matter, really. If he played a decent fiddle tonight, the barman would give him a drink. They always did, when the music was flowing. It might have been a while since a fiddler passed through this town. Chester could even be the first in months. Hamelin was a good-sized town, yes, but it wasn't well connected to the railway. It was a farming town, surrounded by cornfields, and mostly self-sufficient.

A fiddler would be a welcome distraction. A cheery little tune, a few well-chosen ditties, and he'd have them dancing past midnight. And tomorrow, when they'd decided Chester was a friend of Hamelin – not a thief, or a member of the notorious Nightfall Gang – he could fish for information. The same routine he'd performed in countless other towns.

Has anyone around here
…
gone missing?

Maybe this time he would find out something useful. Something concrete. Someone might have seen one of the victims vanish, or heard a ruckus in the night. An intruder in the shadows, or a scream beneath the moon. Something. Anything. Even if it was just a rumour, Chester would take it. Anything to find his father.

Chester passed the outmost buildings: wooden shacks and shopfronts, with dusty curtains blowing in the wind.

He paused to fish his fiddle case from his travel sack. Then he stepped onward, carrying it separately in his grazed left hand. If anyone saw him approaching, they would know he wasn't here to shoot or rob them. He was here to play for them.

‘Boy!'

Chester spun, startled by the voice. It was mid-afternoon, and harvest season – surely most locals would be out in the fields? But he squinted, adjusting his eyes for the sunlight and dust.

A man sat on a nearby porch, rocking quietly in a wooden chair. He wore heavy trousers and a dull white shirt, stained with dust and sweat. A pistol rested on his knees, and a bronze badge gleamed on his chest.
Sheriff.

Chester forced a smile and waved. He exaggerated the motion, holding his fiddle case aloft. ‘Good afternoon, sir. How's the day treating you?'

The sheriff's gaze flicked from the fiddle case to Chester. ‘You looking to play for the folks tonight?'

‘That's the plan, sir.'

A gust of wind blustered down the street, stirring the dust into eddies. Chester tried to maintain his smile. There was nothing illegal about regular folk music. He was just a boy – the sheriff could see that – and clearly he couldn't play real Music. Not the kind of Music that came with a capital ‘M'. Not Music that teased sorcery from the hidden melody of earth and air.

Finally, the sheriff nodded. ‘Been a while since we had a fiddler in these parts. Couple of the boys like to strum a bit, but they couldn't hold a tune to save their lives. You any good, boy?'

‘Hope so, sir,' Chester said, ‘or I won't be eating tonight.'

The sheriff laughed. ‘Truth enough in that.' He pointed down the street. ‘You'll be wanting the Barrel o' Gold, then. Keep heading straight, and you'll see her on your left.'

‘Thank you, sir.'

Chester gave a little nod of respect then hoisted his fiddle case back up under his arm. It pressed against the sweat of his shirt. He took a deep breath, unclenched his fingers, and trudged on down the street.

He felt the sheriff's gaze on the back of his neck, following him.

The Barrel o' Gold was a two-storey saloon, painted in whitewash and grime. When Chester swung its bat-wing doors, a bell jangled overhead. He inhaled a whiff of bourbon and old curtains. Tables dotted the room inside, streaked by shadow and backed by a long wooden bar.

‘Comin', comin'!' called a voice.

Behind the bar, a redwood cabinet held shelves of alcohol. Whiskey, brandy, cactus wine. The bottles gleamed dark against the wood, tinted by a crimson sorcery lamp that hung from the rafters. An old woman bustled through a doorway behind the bar, a glass in one hand, a polishing cloth in the other. She wore a sweep of heavy skirts, and grey hair fell in ringlets across her shoulders.

‘You'll be wantin' a room?'

Chester held up his fiddle case. ‘I've got no money, ma'am. But I've got music for your customers.'

The old woman placed the glass and cloth on the bar, studying him. Then she nodded. ‘Play from the dinner bell till midnight, and I'll give you a room.'

‘And a meal?'

‘Well, that goes without sayin'. Can't have you fiddlin' all night on an empty belly.' She gave him a long look. ‘Picked a good night for it, boy. Got a big crowd into town, you see – Execution Day tomorrow.'

Chester frowned. Could it already be the last day of the month? Surely he'd just witnessed an Execution Day a few days ago, back in Jubaldon. Or had it been in Euterpe?
He couldn't remember. All these towns, the days on trains and the nights in saloons … they blurred together. An endless railroad journey, thrummed to life by the music of his fiddle.

If it was truly Execution Day tomorrow, it had been a whole month since he'd been in Jubaldon. A month since he'd stood in another town's square, and watched its prisoners die. The idea made Chester's stomach clench. But on the other hand, Hamelin would brim with people tomorrow. Farmers would trek in from their fields, and workers would flock from smaller towns in the region. There would be hundreds of people to speak to, to question. Hundreds of people who might know a secret or a rumour about the vanishings.

‘How many prisoners lined up?' he asked, trying to sound casual.

The old woman shrugged. ‘Only one, far as I know. Fool got caught thievin' horses from the mayor's own stable. Still, always draws a crowd, don't it? Plenty of folks to play for tonight.' She eyed him, frowning. ‘What per cent you offerin' if I let you play in here?'

‘Twenty per cent of my takings,' said Chester. ‘That's my usual deal.'

She shook her head. ‘Fifty.'

‘Thirty.'

‘Forty.'

‘Thirty-five?'

The old woman scowled. ‘All right, all right. Thirty-five'll do it.' She tossed him a key from her pocket then gestured up the wooden staircase. ‘Room Three, end
of the corridor. I'll expect you down here at seven, after sundown.'

‘Thank you, ma'am. I'm Chester, by the way. Chester Hays.'

‘Call me Annabel,' she said. ‘And make sure that fiddle's in tune. Last bloke we had playing in here sounded like a bunch of howling cats.'

Room Three was small and crooked, and there was a faint stench of vomit, as though a former guest had expelled a night's drinks onto the floorboards.

Chester opened the shutters. Daylight rolled inside, unfurling like a melody in a major key. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the afternoon breeze wash over his skin.

When he opened his eyes, Hamelin stretched out below him. A dusty road, lined with wooden buildings, and two riders soaring on pegasi overhead. One horse was white: a living cloud against the blue. The other was chestnut, with wings and limbs as tan as the cornfields below. They looked so quiet. So peaceful. Just hooves, wings, and sky.

Chester had always longed to ride one. To gallop faster and faster, churning dirt and dust until those wings lifted them up and the world fell away. But pegasi were for rich people: mayors, lawyers, Songshapers. When Chester wanted to travel, he only had one choice: to sneak aboard a cargo train and pray he didn't get caught.

With a sigh, Chester shuffled back to the bed. He opened his fiddle case and stared at the gleaming wooden instrument, polished and obsessively cared for. It was sheer luck that Chester knew how to play. Most poor children never learnt music. Few could afford the training. Children of rich families were sent to expensive music lessons. They piped away on flutes, and banged their piano keys. They strummed violins and hooted clarinets in the desperate hope of being admitted to the Conservatorium. Poor kids worked in the fields, or baked bread, or ran errands in the streets.

As a boy, Chester had dreamed of studying at the Conservatorium. But it was only a daydream, as realistic as sprouting wings and flying to the moon. He was a labourer's son, without a penny to his name. He could never pay the audition fee let alone the years of tuition, board and food. He didn't have a noble heritage to call upon, or a vault full of gold.

But he had been lucky. He had worked at an instrument shop, and the owner had taught him to play. Chester could pluck out a tune on many instruments, but the fiddle was his favourite. It was the only instrument he owned, bought after months of scrimping and saving. Its music made his fingers sing.

He picked up the bow and tightened its hair, until the gap between hair and wood was the width of a pencil. Then he lifted the fiddle, pressed the chinrest onto his shoulder, and ran his bow along the strings.

He played a C major scale first, then a G major. Slowly, he melted from scales into melody.

The music calmed him. It was slow and steady, like drops of falling rain. Chester closed his eyes and fell into the sound, the run of notes, the thrum of double stops. Sometimes, when he played, Chester felt as though the music was his breath. He breathed in the song, and the song breathed back.

Chester's veins tingled. His fingers sped up and felt hot, fast, like the sparks of a sorcery lamp. They were more than flesh and knuckles. The world was spinning around his ribs, down his throat, into his stomach, until …

It wasn't his music. It wasn't the music of his fiddle, or the patter of his breath. It was something deeper. Something primal. Something …

Chester froze. The music snapped.

It was happening again. By the Song, it was happening again.

He shouldn't be able to sense the Song. He wasn't a trained Songshaper; he hadn't studied at the Conservatorium. Chester was untrained and unlicensed. He shouldn't be able to sense the Song, and he sure as hell shouldn't be able to play into it.