‘I imagine you’re right,’ he tells me. ‘Especially since I also swiped their papers to get us through the checkpoints. As of now, our names are –’ he pulls two identity cards from his pocket – ‘Balthasar and Hortensia Whistlethorpe.’
I stare at him. Then, to our mutual surprise, I start to laugh. I decide I must be having some kind of nervous breakdown, yet the longer I laugh, the lighter I feel.
Fox raises an eyebrow. ‘You’re laughing. Does this mean I’m forgiven?’
‘Absolutely not,’ I splutter.
‘You wish for me to grovel, then,’ he says. ‘So be it. I throw myself upon your mercy, Your Majesty. I am yours to do with as you please.’
I clamp my mouth shut, shoulders still shaking. ‘Just shut up and row.’
The further we travel into Brava, the harder it is to imagine anyone living here. The terrain is jagged and inhospitable, hewn into deep ravines and endless rocky gorges. According to Scout, the Singers dwell by a sacred lake in the very heart of the province.
Gradually the Creek widens, and soon enough a colossal waterfall comes into view.
‘This is it,’ Fox announces.
I swallow, my anticipation coiling into a spring. ‘You’d better be right about this.’
As we approach the waterfall, I raise my hands and make a parting motion, as though drawing a pair of heavy curtains. Moments later a narrow opening appears. Fox rows hard against the pull of the current, and the frothing surf engulfs us in a cloud of spray as we sail right through the waterfall and out the other side.
My eyes widen as I take in the scene beyond. Not a single ripple shatters the glassy surface of the lake, which sits in the shadow of a rocky valley. The cliff face is pockmarked withcaves, yet there is no sign of those who dwell in them. There is no sign of life at all. Everything is perfectly still and eerily quiet, as if this whole place really were a giant tomb.
When the water grows shallow, Fox jumps from the boat and heaves it up the pebbled shore, the sound echoing through the valley. Ignoring his proffered hand, I leap out beside him and glance around uncertainly.
Suddenly an arrow whizzes out of nowhere, skimming close to Fox’s neck. I gasp, and he shoves me roughly behind a boulder, shielding my body with his own.
‘Believe me now?’
My heart hammers against my chest. ‘They’re alive,’ I whisper.
Another arrow ricochets off the rock and lands in the water.
‘We have to show them we come in peace,’ says Fox. ‘We have to yield.’
Before I can utter another word he ducks into the open.
A third arrow is fired in warning. Fox unsheathes my dagger from his belt and tosses it to the ground. ‘We mean you no harm.’
Judging by the twin arrows that whistle past his head, each missing by mere inches, the Singers seem unwilling to take his word for it.
Fox’s voice fills the valley. ‘We came here to find you, not to fight you.’
‘And why is that?’
A woman steps out from a nearby cave. With her pale, lined face, long white hair and authoritative tone, I’m guessing she’s an Elder.
‘Because I have someone with me I believe you’ll want to meet.’
A boy about my age appears next, perched on a jutting rock, his bow loaded. ‘The girl cowering behind that boulder, you mean?’
Cowering?
I bristle, then step out into view before anyone else can take a shot at my pride.
More Singers emerge from the surrounding caves. They wear simple, modest garments that blend with the environment – washed-out fabric wrapped several times round their bodies and secured with a length of rope, the kind used to make fishing nets.
I let out a shrill squeak of surprise as two giant dragonflies land on either side of me, cobalt-blue and breathtaking. Weak rays of sunlight glint in their large spherical eyes and off their membranous wings, which gleam like shards of stained glass, a mosaic of every colour I’ve ever seen and more. I may have glimpsed such creatures once before, but that was in a vision. This is very, very real. Their riders slide from the saddles and regard us warily. I back away, awestruck, until I collide with Fox. He holds out an arm to steady me.
