and heading on?'
Rix winked and whipped up the ox. 'I wouldn't dream of such a thing:
She watched them all pass. The bear was hunched in misery, its cage floor blue with feathers. One of the jugglers waved at her, but no one else even put their heads out. Slowly, the troupe rolled into the distance.
Attia tugged her pack on to her back and stamped life into her cold feet. She walked quickly at first, but the track was treacherous, a frozen metalway greasy with oil. As she descended into the plain the walls of ice slowly rose on each side; soon they were higher than her head, and as she picked her way past them she saw objects and dust embedded deep inside. A dead dog, its jaws wide. A Beetle. In one place, small round black stones and grit. In another, so deep among blue bubbles she could barely see it, the bones of a child.
It grew bitterly cold. Her breath began to cloud around her. She hurried, because the waggons were already out of sight, and only by walking fast could she keep warm.
Finally, at the bottom of the slope, she reached the bridge. It was stone, and it arched over the moat, but as she slipped along in the cart ruts she saw that the moat was frozen solid, and leaning over the side made her shadow darken its dirty surface. Debris was strewn across it. Chains led from the cutwaters, disappearing deep into the ice.
The portcullis, when she came to it, was black and ancient. The ends of the bent bars glittered with icicles, and on the very top a solitary long-necked bird perched, white as snow. For a moment she thought it was a carving, until suddenly it spread its wings and flew, with a mournful cark, high into the iron-grey sky.
Then she saw the Eyes.
There were two, one on each side of the iron gate. Tiny and red, they stared down at her. Icicles hung from them like frozen tears.
Attia stopped, breathless, holding her side.
She stared up. 'I know you're watching me. Was it you that sent the message?'
Silence. Only the low cold whisper of snow.
'What did you mean, that you would see the stars soon? You're the Prison. How can you see Outside?'
The Eyes were steady points of fire. Did she imagine that one had winked?
She waited until she was too cold to stand there any longer. Then she climbed through the gap in the portcullis and trudged on.
Incarceron was cruel, they all knew that. Claudia had said that it wasn't meant to be, that the Sapienti had ma de the Prison as a great e xperiment, a place of light and warmth and safety. Attia laughed aloud, bitterly. If so, it had failed. The Prison kept it own council. It rearranged its landscapes and struck down troublemakers with laserfire, if it felt like it. Or it let its inmates fight and prey on each other and laughed to see them struggle. It knew nothing of mercy. And only Sapphique — and Finn — had ever Escaped it.
She stopped and raised her head. 'I suppose that makes you angry,' she said. 'I suppose that makes you jealous, doesn't it?'
There was no answer. Instead the snow became real. It fell gently and relentlessly, and she shouldered her pack and walked wearily through it, a noiseless cold that chilled her fingers and toes, chapped her lips and cheeks, made her breath a frosted cloud that did not disperse.
Her coat was threadbare, her gloves had holes. She cursed Rix as she stumbled in frozen potholes, tripped over broken mesh.
The track was covered already, the ruts of the waggons hidden. A pile of ox-dung was a frozen mound.
But when she looked up, her lips blue with cold, she saw the settlement.
It seemed to be a collection of low round mounds, as white as their surroundings. They rose out of the tundra, all but invisible except for the smoke escaping from vents and chimneys. Tall poles soared above them; she saw a man at the top of each, as if they were lookouts.
The track branched off and she saw how the troupe's waggons had crushed snow here, how wisps of straw and a few feathers had fallen at the turn. Walking cautiously on
Rix winked and whipped up the ox. 'I wouldn't dream of such a thing:
She watched them all pass. The bear was hunched in misery, its cage floor blue with feathers. One of the jugglers waved at her, but no one else even put their heads out. Slowly, the troupe rolled into the distance.
Attia tugged her pack on to her back and stamped life into her cold feet. She walked quickly at first, but the track was treacherous, a frozen metalway greasy with oil. As she descended into the plain the walls of ice slowly rose on each side; soon they were higher than her head, and as she picked her way past them she saw objects and dust embedded deep inside. A dead dog, its jaws wide. A Beetle. In one place, small round black stones and grit. In another, so deep among blue bubbles she could barely see it, the bones of a child.
It grew bitterly cold. Her breath began to cloud around her. She hurried, because the waggons were already out of sight, and only by walking fast could she keep warm.
Finally, at the bottom of the slope, she reached the bridge. It was stone, and it arched over the moat, but as she slipped along in the cart ruts she saw that the moat was frozen solid, and leaning over the side made her shadow darken its dirty surface. Debris was strewn across it. Chains led from the cutwaters, disappearing deep into the ice.
The portcullis, when she came to it, was black and ancient. The ends of the bent bars glittered with icicles, and on the very top a solitary long-necked bird perched, white as snow. For a moment she thought it was a carving, until suddenly it spread its wings and flew, with a mournful cark, high into the iron-grey sky.
Then she saw the Eyes.
There were two, one on each side of the iron gate. Tiny and red, they stared down at her. Icicles hung from them like frozen tears.
Attia stopped, breathless, holding her side.
She stared up. 'I know you're watching me. Was it you that sent the message?'
Silence. Only the low cold whisper of snow.
'What did you mean, that you would see the stars soon? You're the Prison. How can you see Outside?'
The Eyes were steady points of fire. Did she imagine that one had winked?
She waited until she was too cold to stand there any longer. Then she climbed through the gap in the portcullis and trudged on.
Incarceron was cruel, they all knew that. Claudia had said that it wasn't meant to be, that the Sapienti had ma de the Prison as a great e xperiment, a place of light and warmth and safety. Attia laughed aloud, bitterly. If so, it had failed. The Prison kept it own council. It rearranged its landscapes and struck down troublemakers with laserfire, if it felt like it. Or it let its inmates fight and prey on each other and laughed to see them struggle. It knew nothing of mercy. And only Sapphique — and Finn — had ever Escaped it.
She stopped and raised her head. 'I suppose that makes you angry,' she said. 'I suppose that makes you jealous, doesn't it?'
There was no answer. Instead the snow became real. It fell gently and relentlessly, and she shouldered her pack and walked wearily through it, a noiseless cold that chilled her fingers and toes, chapped her lips and cheeks, made her breath a frosted cloud that did not disperse.
Her coat was threadbare, her gloves had holes. She cursed Rix as she stumbled in frozen potholes, tripped over broken mesh.
The track was covered already, the ruts of the waggons hidden. A pile of ox-dung was a frozen mound.
But when she looked up, her lips blue with cold, she saw the settlement.
It seemed to be a collection of low round mounds, as white as their surroundings. They rose out of the tundra, all but invisible except for the smoke escaping from vents and chimneys. Tall poles soared above them; she saw a man at the top of each, as if they were lookouts.
The track branched off and she saw how the troupe's waggons had crushed snow here, how wisps of straw and a few feathers had fallen at the turn. Walking cautiously on
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