Ice Country
Icers- the mountain-dwelling people who have long-survived a harshly cold world of snow and ice
Water & Storm Country
Stormers- a tribe that lives on the stormy seaside plains, surviving off the land and riding horses that they refer to as the Escariot
Soakers- a pirate-like people that control a large fleet of ships and prefer living on the water, landing only to replenish their fresh water supply
And now the end begins…
Chapter One
Adele
I blink against the blinding sun and the crimson sky and the birds wheeling overhead, and they’re still there. My mind is spinning, whirling, remembering: the long journey with Tristan through the rock-surrounded shaft, the exhilarating walk down the tunnel to end all tunnels, the thrill of stepping out onto the surface of the earth, of kissing Tristan, of breathing the real, real air.
And then the three girls appearing, as if from nowhere. But no, they stepped from the shadow of the very rock looming behind us. The middle one asked a question—something about who we are and a sun goddess, right?—one that’s still hanging in the air, patiently awaiting an answer.
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out; not a breath, not a word, not a sound.
Thankfully, Tristan answers for the both of us. “I’m Tristan Nailin, a sun dweller, and this is Adele Rose, a moon dweller. We’ve come from the depths of the earth.”
The girls just stare at us for a moment, the two on the sides not smiling, but not frowning either—just staring, like we’re covered in filth. The one in the middle, however, is wearing a thick scowl, her eyebrows bent and threatening to pinch her nose. I want to look away, to avert my eyes under their scrutiny, but I don’t. I stare right back.
They’re wearing very little clothing, just small swatches of material that appear to be some kind of animal skin, around their chests and torsos. They’re beautiful and dark and, strangely, remind me of Cole—who I haven’t thought of in a long time—not because of their skin, which is several shades lighter than his shadowy complexion, but because of the undercurrent of energy that seems to surround them, both dangerous and exciting and the kind you want on your side. Especially the middle one, the frowner, who is musclier than I am, her toned, tanned arms hanging loosely at her sides.
And then not.
In a split second she’s managed to whip out a long blade, glinting in the sun.
“Now, Skye,” the tall one beside her says, her voice smooth and almost soothing. She reaches out a hand and touches her fingers gently to the middle girl’s arm. Skye, I assume.
“They’re burnin’ Glassy baggards, Wilde,” Skye says, her eyes darting between Tristan and me.
“We don’t know that,” Wilde says, firmness in her tone.
Shaking off Wilde’s hand, Skye steps forward, spinning her blade casually. “Yer from the Glass City,” she says. Not a question.
“No,” Tristan says.
“Yes,” she says. “Only the Glassies are vomited from the earth.” Welcome to Earth, I think wryly.
“No.” Tristan again, but there’s less conviction in his voice now. This girl’s out of her mind, about two pebbles short of a cave-in. She won’t listen no matter what we say. She’s convinced we’re these “Glassies.” Whoever they are, they must be her enemies.
For the first time, I’m thankful Tristan and I thought to bring our swords to the surface, for protection. Though I prefer to fight with my fists, or a staff, like my father taught me, when facing the sharp edge of a blade wielded by a crazy woman, I’ll take my sword.
Before she can take another step, I reach over my shoulder and slide the deadly steel weapon from the sheath running down my spine. “Back off. We’re not who you think we are.” My voice is a growl, rumbling from my chest.
The girl called Wilde—who, despite her name, seems the calmest and most in control—steps forward, one hand outstretched toward me and the other once more on Crazy-Girl’s arm. “There’s no need for that,” she says to me.
“Tell that to Short-Fuse over there,” I say, pointing the tip of my sword in Skye’s direction.
In the time it takes me to blink, I’ve got an arrow aimed at my heart, nocked on the bow of the third girl, the skinny one, who I’d almost forgotten about. From my training in archery with the star dwellers, I can tell she knows how to use it. I can’t count on her to miss.
“Whoa, whoa,” Tristan says, extracting his own sword from his belt. “We all need to just calm down.”
“Then tell your Glassy friend to stop pointing her searin’ sword at my sister,” the skinny girl says. So she’s the sister of the crazy one. Let’s hope insanity doesn’t run in their family.
I glance at Tristan and he nods. I lower my sword halfway, but not enough that I can’t defend myself if Skye takes a swipe at me.
“Good, that’s a start,” Wilde says. “Now you, Skye.”
Skye flashes an annoyed look in Wilde’s direction, but lowers her blade to the same level as mine. Despite her more relaxed stance, the tension remains in her body, her muscles taut, her knuckles splotched with white as they grip the hilt of her weapon.
“And you, Siena,” Wilde says. Siena. The sister. Wilde, Skye and Siena. Earth dwellers?
Siena continues to peer at me down the length of her arrow and I can’t help but hold my breath. All she has to do is release it and I’m dead. Whose stupid idea was it to come to the earth’s surface anyway? Oh right, it was mine.
“Siena!” Wilde says sharply, and the skinny girl lowers her aim, releasing the arrow with a dull thwock, embedding it into the dry earth.
“We don’t want to fight,” Tristan says, lowering his own weapon. Speak for yourself, I think. The way Skye continues to glare at me makes me want to crack a forearm shiver across her jaw. Why does she hate us so much? She doesn’t even know us.
Skye shifts her death stare to Tristan. “You shoulda thought of that ’fore you murdered our people, ’fore you declared war on the Tri-Tribes.”
Murder? War? The Glassies. The people she thinks we belong to. “The Glassies murdered your people,” I say.
“Don’t play wooloo,” Skye says. “You were probably there with the rest of ’em.”
“We don’t even know who the Glassies are,” Tristan says. “I swear it.”
“Swear on the sun goddess,” Siena says. She pulls another arrow out of the pouch strapped to her back. Doesn’t nock it, just holds it. Like a warning. Lie and die.
“I don’t know who the sun goddess is,” I say, “but I’ll swear on her and my life and the lives of my mother and sister, too, if that’s what it takes for you people to listen.”
Skye suddenly stabs her sword into the ground. Chews on her lip. Sighs, as if exhausted. “If yer not Glassies, who the scorch are you? Yer as white as the snow-capped mountains of ice country, but yer not Icers—not dressed like that. And yer not Soakers ’cause yer not freckly and don’t smell like the big waters. With yer pale skin, you can only be Glassies. And what in the big-balled tug are you wearin’ over yer eyes and on yer heads? Looks like somethin’ them Glassies would wear, ain’t no mistaking.”
“Dammit!” I say, shoving my own sword into the ground. I’m angry and the sun isn’t helping—it’s hotter than I ever could’ve imagined, drawing sweat out of my skin like I’ve been running laps around the girls in front of us, rather than just standing here across from them. “We’re not freaking Glassies!” I rip my sunglasses off, but the light is so bright I have to shut my eyes, so I put them right back on. The brim of my hat casts a shadow down to my chin. Amidst the confrontation, I’d forgotten we were wearing them until Skye pointed it out.