Page 117 of The Bone Season

I held still, trying to think. Jaxon thought salt could potentially be used for divination, along with sand and dust – but even if it was true, I was no augur, and Warden knew it. This couldn’t be for me.

I could picture him now, watching the clock like a hawk. He would expect pride to hinder me again.

He had no idea what I had survived. I would remind him not to count me out just yet.

His note warned me not to go south. He might be throwing me a bone, telling me I should head north. I searched the sky for the pole star.

Dense woodland lay in that direction, thick and overgrown. I was about to set out when I glanced over my shoulder. The forest looked more navigable on the other side of the clearing – firs and pines looming tall, but spaced wide. That path would lead me away from the city.

Do not go south.

It could be advice, or it could be a warning. Either way, I was curious.

Oxford was northwest of London. If I went south, I was heading in the right direction. I might just reach the very edge of the Rephs’ domain – and even if I couldn’t escape, I could see what sort of barrier was there.

Wind rushed through the leaves. It was now or never.

I turned and headed south.

Heavy rain had softened the earth, leaving it spongy and damp. My boots made no sound as I trekked between the massive pines, sometimes breaking into a jog. A strange mist wreathed their trunks and wove a thin blanket over the ground. I willed my torch to hold out. I had never been afraid of the dark, but after nearly three months of living in close quarters with Warden, this degree of isolation was chilling. I wasn’t used to this silence, this stillness.

These pines had grown for two centuries, hiding the city from prying eyes. I wondered if the journalist from theRoaring Boyhad seen them, before he was run off the road. Perhaps his car had been dumped here. Perhaps his corpse as well.

Coming this way might have been the wrong choice. The farther south I went, the higher my risk of failing the test. As I walked, I checked the branches, searching for surveillance cameras. Drawing a deep breath, I picked up my pace. I needed to leave myself time to backtrack.

Suddenly I stopped, remembering what Liss had told me.

The red-jackets patrol it to stop them reaching the lamplight. Apparently its far reaches are full of mines and trap pits.

Warden could have been warning me not to venture into those reaches. The clearing must be a last safe point before the minefield. I stayed where I was, ears pricked. I pointed my torch at the ground.

Other voyants had tried to escape. Perhaps the test included resisting the temptation. I almost turned back, but a mulish determination pushed me on.

The Rephs could be sowing fear of these woods to stop us glimpsing the edge of their city. If I didn’t take a few risks, I would never see my gang again. I would never reclaim my position as the Pale Dreamer.

I stopped when my torchlight fell on a skull.

Not just a skull, but a skeleton – still in the shreds of a pink tunic, both legs missing at the knee.

My breath caught. I pressed my back straight to the trunk of a pine, my skin turning damp. When I swung my torch to the right, I saw the crater, surrounded by shards of mine casing.

Fuck this.

Warden had told me not to let pride cloud my judgement. For once, I would listen. No amount of clairvoyance would help me navigate a minefield in complete darkness. Knees shaking, mouth dry, I started to inch back towards the clearing, my hand clammy around the torch.

A root came underfoot and floored me. As soon as I hit the ground, I tensed, eyes tightly shut.

A long silence resounded, broken only by my breathing.

I turned to the skeleton, screwing my courage in place. There was a sack under its fingerbones. Checking the ground in front of me, I crawled towards it, prising the sack free. It was dark with dry blood. Inside I found a hip flask, rotten crumbs of bread, and a rusty trowel.

No one could dig their way out of hell.

Finding the skeleton had given me an idea. I dug in my backpack for the lighter. Dreamwalking was useless for now, but I could still call on the dead. Placing one hand on the broken skeleton, I flicked the lighter open, and a clean flame rose. Even though I wasn’t a pyromancer, any nearby spirits would be drawn to this tongue of flame, a numen.

‘I need a guide.’ I tightened my grip on the bones. ‘Are you still here?’

For a long time, there was nothing. The flame guttered. Then my sixth sense jolted, and a spirit – a revenant – emerged from the trees. I got to my feet.

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