Page 18 of To Scale the Emerald Mountain
He stops and turns to me, “You should probably wear the cloak now,” Locane says tersely, scanning the road in both directions. “There’s nothing we can do to hide your bare feet if we run into anyone, but you can at least be more covered.”
“Is it not suspicious for me to wear a stifling cloak in this heat?” My voice is an octave too high. “I thought you said you never see anyone.” Locane’s sudden tension is leaching into me like a poison steadily dripping into my nervous system.
“No, I said I rarely see my neighbors. Just put the cloak on.” Locane doesn’t wait for me to reply and produces the cloak fromhis bag. “This road heads straight to the village. When we get close, we can find a quiet place for you to wait. It will be fine.”
He sounds as if he’s trying to convince himself as much as he is me.
I’m not at all comfortable with any of this, but I can’t see that I have much choice. I grab the cloak and follow behind him reluctantly. After a few short steps, he turns and swiftly snaps the hood over my head and down across my brow, covering my face and hair completely.
“That’s better.” Locane’s fingers just barely graze my chin as he pulls his hand away, sending a zap straight to my spine, making it stiffen.
The temperature is warmer here at the base of the mountain. In no time, I am hot and sweating as we continue to walk. My hair sticks to my slicked neck and face. I pull off the hood briefly to twist my hair, piling it on top of my head and tuck the end into the bun.
“What are you doing?” Locane demands in panic when he sees my bare face.
“Fucking Mother, this is misery. How far into summer are we?” I ask breathlessly.
“The season has barely begun. Put the hood back on.” The tension in his voice grows with every word. He continues to scan the trees with a paranoid glint in his eye.
“You’re failing miserably at trying to be inconspicuous. If you want to draw attention, keep walking around like a strung bow with darting eyes.” I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you aboutmypanic.”
Despite my growing unease feeding off him, I can’t help being slightly amused at his sudden change. Locane seems ready to saysomething smart before thinking better of it. But he does loosen noticeably and his head stops swiveling from side to side.
Only a few minutes pass before we hear the unmistakable sounds of hooves clip-clopping and wheels bouncing along the road ahead of us. Before it comes into view, I ask Locane, “Are you sure about this? Is whatever you need in that village absolutely vital?”
He looks uncertain, but he nods at me. “Yes, absolutely vital. Try not to speak to anyone. If you must, you are my wife, and your name is not Ellya.”
“Well, what should it be then? And do I have to be your wife? Why can’t I be your sister?”
“Because we have no resembling features. And I don’t care what your name is,” Locane says hurriedly as the horse drawn wagon comes around a bend and into view.
It appears to only be one man, carting a large load of pungent purple onions. As he draws closer, I trail my eyes to the ground. Locane stiffens next to me. I glance up in time to see him give a curt, red-faced nod to the farmer as he passes—sweat dripping from hisforehead.
Mercifully, the farmer barely even glances at us and doesn’t return a gesture of hello.
I loosen a breath and laugh. “Well, that was anticlimactic. You’re more nervous than I am. Why?”
“You are an escaped prisoner. What will be the repercussions for aiding a fugitive?” Locane’s words sound distant and superficial.
“Right. We should work on this story before we encounter anyone that speaks to us. Our avoidance of conversation is not paying off. I’m your wife.” I grimace. “And how long have we been married?”
“A year.”
“And where are we from?”
“I don’t know, Crane Hills,” Locane offers halfheartedly.
“But you do look distinctly Quinndohsi with your dark hair and dark eyes. And that lovely brown skin tone.” I flick at his cheek. He pulls away, shooting me a hostile glare. “I bet you look as sun kissed in the dead of winter as you do now,” I say, taking in his dark features again.
How have I only now made the distinction between his darker Quinndohsi traits and my fairer Brhadirian ones? Locane’s drawn accent that I’ve been trying to place comes to me as well, as distinctly Quinndohsi as his physical features. How do I know anything about Quinndohsi and Brhadirian features in the first place?
“Well then, I am Quinndohsi, but we have settled in Crane Hills,” Locane says, breaking me away from the new line of questions forming in my mind.
“What are we doing here? We are a long way from Crane Hills on the other side of the Emerald Mountains,” I note.
A mental image pops into my head of the small prosperous city built into the Emerald Mountain range. Somewhere I’ve clearly been before with the vivid details painting their way across my mind. The large valley between two peaks acts as Main Street with beautifully ornate buildings carved straight into the gray stone of the mountain.
The structures are multiple stories high. Stairways and passages are also carved into the rock to navigate between the city buildings. Hundreds of tiny waterfalls from the top of the peaks fall into carefully placed fountains and pools during the wet spring and summer months. The flow slows during the autumn months, misting around burgundy, orange, and yellow hues of the dyingleaves. During winter, the flows slow to barely a trickle, freezing into thousands of icicles to decorate the city, shining and refracting light off the delicate drips.
