Mercurial Read online

  A great cataclysm, she’d thought earlier, but she realized now she had no idea what it had been.

  She frowned. She reached for the memory, but only emptiness greeted her. Her brow wrinkled and her concentration turned inward as she dug deeper, rummaging for a memory that might spark more recollection, but nothing came at all, not even her own name. After a moment she shook her head. It would return to her eventually, in the way that memories did, when she wasn’t trying so hard to search for it. In the meantime, there were more urgent things she needed to be doing. It was freezing, and a blizzard seemed to be looming on the horizon, and she was, as far as she could tell, alone. She needed to—what? Build some sort of shelter? Calculate her location based on the stars, or the alignment of the mountain peaks, or…something?

  She suddenly realized she was not well-versed in matters of wilderness survival.

  She huffed an irritated breath, which clouded the air for a moment before dissipating. Her apparent lack of specific knowledge aside, she did possess a basic grasp of logic, and that was all she needed to be able to address her most pressing concerns. Shelter would be important, as would warmth and food. She should attempt to ascertain her location too, though the stars would be of little help there, both because they were hidden behind the heavy clouds and because she had no idea what their arrangements meant with regard to her position. First things first, though, she needed to climb out of this pit so she could get a better look at her surroundings. Perhaps something up there might give her a clue to what had happened to her, or jog her memories.

  She turned in a circle, glass crunching beneath her boots, eyeing the walls of snow as she considered the best path by which to reach the top. There was one slope that seemed both slightly shallower and pocked with fewer bits of debris that might have melted and caused instability in the wall, so she strode to that section and began her climb. She learned quickly that she had to punch her hands and the toes of her boots hard into the snow, as it wasn’t snow at all but permafrost, compacted tightly and slick as ice in some places. Her arms began to tremble after only a few seconds of being off the ground, and by the time she was halfway up, her breath was coming as hard as if she’d been sprinting.

  She gritted her teeth. She would not be defeated by snow. She gathered her strength and punched her hand harder than usual into the frost for her next handhold—and yelped aloud when her fist sank straight through a patch of mostly-melted snow and into something sharp. She yanked her hand back out with a wince and inspected it. Her knuckles were raw already from punching through the permafrost, but now there was a jagged wound in the side of her palm just above her wrist. Dark red blood leaked from it, trickling down the lines in her hand like tiny rivers.

  She stared at the blood. Something in her mind lurched at the sight. Wrong, it whispered. She squinted harder at her palm, trying to lure that little voice out further, but it vanished. She growled in frustration. What was wrong about her blood? Was she worried about infection? Did she have some sort of hemorrhaging disorder that made bleeding deadly? Did it simply make her squeamish?

  Not the last one, she decided. Somehow, she didn’t think she was a squeamish person at all.

  As she’d been examining her injury, she’d had to support most of her weight on her other arm, and now suddenly its strength gave out. She tumbled three feet to the ground and twisted her ankle in the process. She lurched back to standing with a snarl and marched to the base of the wall, hands curled into fists—which reminded her with a bolt of pain that she was injured.

  There was a length of torn fabric dangling from one of her shoulders, the remnants of some sort of cape or cloak. She tore a strip of it off and wrapped it clumsily around her injured hand, tying it as securely as she could and then wondering whether the binding ought to be kept loose instead. Apparently her medical expertise was as limited as her wilderness survival skills. She left the makeshift bandage tight and then sat down in the glass dust to take off her boots. They had tall, elegantly curving heels that made them objects of beauty, and would now also make them objects of great use. She turned them around and drove them heel-first into the wall before her. They carved handholds about as well as punching the permafrost had, and saved her any further injury. She was breathing harder than ever now, and her entire body was trembling with effort, but she pushed herself onward remorselessly and soon reached the spot where she’d fallen before.

  She paused to peer at the melted hole where she’d been injured. A bit of debris was in there, gleaming silver. Curious, she secured her current footholds more deeply—doing her best to ignore the freezing-cold snow melting into her socks—and then carefully freed one hand to reach into the hole.

  She drew out a twisted black crown.

  It was a beautiful thing, delicately wrought, made for someone with a petite brow. The design brought to mind brambles and thorns—which was why, she thought dryly, it had gouged a hole in her hand. It didn’t look familiar but it did look valuable, which meant that she might be able to either fetch a reward for returning it to its owner or perhaps sell it if—when—she extracted herself from whatever situation she was currently in and returned to civilization. In any case, it was light enough to cause her no trouble to carry. Moving carefully so as not to upset her footing, she tore the rest of the cape off her shoulder and tied the crown to her belt with it before continuing upward.

  When at last she hauled herself—slowly, painfully, powered by sheer grit of will—over the top of the snowy wall, she flopped onto her back and did not move for several long minutes. Snow melted beneath her and seeped through her tunic. Her breaths came in long shudders and her muscles burned in a way that said her regrets would run deep tomorrow. But today, she had accomplished the first of the tasks set before her, and she was, for a brief but fierce moment, proud of herself.

  The feeling was alien. She prodded at the edges of it cautiously.

  A light scratching sound, like tiny claws on ice, pulled her from her thoughts. She raised her head and looked around.

  She was surrounded by debris, a stain of catastrophe on the otherwise pristine landscape. Shards of half-melted metal thrusted up from the frost like twisted trees. Unrecognizable bits of char littered the ground. The trail of destruction led upward to a mountain slope some distance above, where she could make out train tracks. The beams and rails had been laid into a wide notch carved into the mountainside. The craftsmanship of it was exquisite, she noted, or at least it must have been before whatever had happened. The tracks were utterly ruined now; a good fifty feet of them were simply gone, a crater pocking the side of the mountain where that section had been. Still, though, those tracks had to lead somewhere. She could follow them and be assured of eventually reaching whatever destination she had originally been travelling to, or from. It was very good news indeed.

  The scratching sounded again. She glanced around in search of it, and that was when she saw the bodies. There were perhaps a dozen of them. Many had been burned to unrecognizability, but some seemed to have died not from whatever explosion or fire had caused the…train wreck, she guessed it must have been…but had instead been impaled by debris or killed upon impact with the ground. The snow steamed red all around her.

  Some of the bodies, she noted, still wore clothing that could be salvaged. And hers was soaked through and highly impractical in any case, made of formerly fine fabric that aimed for beauty rather than warmth. Her boots, in particular, would need to be replaced. They weren’t practical at all for walking on snow. If she was very lucky she might even find a pair of warmer socks.

  Keeping an eye out for the source of the scratching, she moved toward a body whose clothing seemed mostly intact. It had been a woman, a kitchen servant from the looks of her uniform. Her feet looked to be about the right size, and her tunic was warm and sensible, though her trousers were too shredded to be of use. Quickly, Elodie stripped the body down and changed, trying to minimize the time her bare skin spent exposed to the frigid air. The
boots were a touch too big but spread her weight much more evenly atop the frost. The tunic smelled like smoke but she supposed that was the least of her worries.

  The scratching sounded again. She followed the noise quickly enough this time to be able to spot its source: a stoat, its fur a gorgeous ermine white, its little claws skittering against the crusted ground as it made off with the mangled body of a snow hare. The hare was singed, one leg missing, and it was nearly decapitated with its head dangling from just a few strips of flesh—another casualty of the wreck, likely killed by debris.

  Food had been on her list of immediate needs. The hare would do nicely; she already knew she would make a miserable hunter and might succumb to starvation if she was forced to rely on her own skills, but here was a meal ready-made. All she had to do was retrieve it from the stoat. Or perhaps kill the stoat, if she could manage it. Then she would have two meals. Perhaps she could find some way to use the fur too. A pair of mitts, maybe. Her hands were freezing.

  She scanned the wreckage for anything that might serve as a weapon. She settled on a shard of metal about as long as her forearm. Its edges were sharp enough to cut her hand as well as the stoat, so she tore off the sleeve of her discarded tunic and made a wrapped hilt from it. All the time, she kept her gaze locked on the stoat, who stared fearlessly back. It twitched its nose, likely trying to scent her. Was she downwind? She had no idea.

  It didn’t matter. She was far bigger and stronger than the tiny creature, and more importantly, she was desperate.

  She crept slowly forward, clutching her clumsy weapon in her good hand. The stoat flicked its whiskers at her and scampered away, dragging the bloodied hare—which was several times larger than the stoat itself—behind. She followed the track it was taking and spotted a neatly-dug hole in the snow not far ahead. Its den, likely. If it made it into that tunnel there was no way she’d be able to catch it. The stoat apparently came to the same conclusion as her, because its lurching movements hastened as it bounded across the snow toward the den.

  She cursed. Throwing stealth to the wind, she sprinted after it and then dove the last few feet. The stoat had made it to the tunnel and was tugging the hare in after it.

  “No you don’t!” she shouted, grabbing onto the rear half of the rabbit and yanking. The stoat growled at her from within its den. She growled back, pulling harder. A wet tearing noise sounded and she flopped suddenly backwards, the rabbit still in her hands. Well—most of the rabbit. It was now completely headless. The stoat popped its nose back out of the tunnel, hissed at her, and then vanished, snatching up the fallen rabbit head on its way.

  She stood, holding her trophy aloft and grinning in triumph. She’d won half a rabbit and one more day of survival. If, of course, she could find some way to prepare her meal. She would eat it raw if she had to but she much preferred it roasted, and she would soon need a fire—and a shelter—for warmth in any case. The sky had darkened further and the wind was beginning to pick up, fat white snowflakes mixing with the still-falling ash now. She also still needed to find some thicker trousers to replace her thin, snow-soaked ones. The rabbit dangling from one hand, she set off on her new mission.

  The first two bodies she passed were too mangled and bloody for their clothing to be of any use. One of them, though, did have a beautifully tooled dagger still sheathed at his waist. The thing was obviously ornamental and had never seen any actual use, but it was far better than her metal shard weapon, and she might be able to sell it along with the crown later too. She shoved the large body over to unbuckle the belt and then drew it around her own waist, having to tie an awkward knot to secure it, as she was far smaller than the dead man.

  Her gaze caught on another body, and she straightened, casting an assessing eye over it as she approached. This one was a younger man, perhaps even around her own age. His clothing—and most importantly, his trousers—were singed through in spots but still plenty useable, of quite high quality and thick enough to give her more protection from the coming blizzard. Even better, he had two short swords sheathed at the small of his back. She didn’t want to weigh herself down too much, but she also would feel far less vulnerable if she had proper weapons, even if she had little idea of how to actually wield them.

  She knelt next to the body. He didn’t seem to have been as badly injured as most of the others. The only sign of trauma was his left leg, which was twisted beneath him at an angle that could only mean a broken bone. The boy’s face was unmarred—and, she mused, beautiful in a tragic sort of way. Strands of dark hair splayed over his forehead and hid his eyes. A sudden impulse surged through her: she wondered what color those eyes had been. Curious, she reached out and brushed his hair to the side.

  His eyes snapped open. They were green, she noted in a moment of shock before his hand jerked upward and latched onto her wrist, locking her in place.

  A JOLT OF UTTER PANIC SHOT THROUGH HER. She was defenseless. He’d moved quicker than thought, and the muscles cording along his forearm meant he was far stronger than her. She couldn’t reach her stolen dagger when she was bent over like this—the attempt to do so would likely topple her, putting her even more at a disadvantage against this boy. She shouted in wordless panic and lifted a hand to strike him, hoping to surprise him enough to loosen his grip so she could get away.

  Those sharp green eyes jerked from her face to her raised hand. He reacted as quickly as he had a moment ago, releasing her wrist instantly and turning his face away, closing his eyes and bracing his shoulders as if anticipating a blow from someone much stronger than her.

  Hand still raised, she paused. He looked…painfully defenseless. The way she’d felt a moment ago.

  She dropped her hand and scrambled backwards, putting enough space between them that he wouldn’t be able to get to her without standing, which he wouldn’t be able to do very quickly on that leg. Then she stopped and stared down at the boy.

  He took a shuddering breath, eyes still squeezed shut. The hand that had gripped her wrist a moment ago was now splayed white-knuckled on the snow, as if he was still bracing himself for a blow.

  “Are you well?” she asked before she could stop herself, and winced at how ridiculous her question sounded. Of course he wasn’t well. He was in obvious pain. No wonder, if he’d survived the train wreck. It was a miracle that she herself had somehow escaped it unscathed. With the exception of her memory, obviously.

  The boy didn’t open his eyes. “My leg is broken,” he said flatly, his voice hoarse and cracking.

  “Oh. Of course,” she replied, feeling foolish again. She cleared her throat. What was she supposed to do now? Snow was whipping all around her, beginning to fall more thickly. She needed to find or build a shelter as soon as possible. Trying to help this boy would only slow her down. Still, she didn’t move. As far as she could tell they were the only two survivors of the wreck. That meant they were in this together. And more importantly, she realized suddenly, she didn’t want to leave him. She didn’t want him to die, which he certainly would, alone with a broken leg in a mountain blizzard. But helping him would be hard to manage too, and not only because of her lack of skills. Their first introduction a moment ago had been a bit of a disaster, and now she was simply standing and gawking at him while he kept his eyes tightly shut, bracing himself against the pain he was obviously in.

  She hesitated a moment, uncertain of how to improve matters. Perhaps lightening the mood might help? She held up her amateurishly bandaged hand, then motioned to his broken leg and tried for a smile. “I’m afraid I’m not much use with medical treatments, but I could probably manage a mercy killing if you’d prefer.”

  His eyes opened. He turned his head and looked at her, though his face was expressionless. “What do you want?” he asked roughly, his tone raw.

  Unsettled by the unexpected emotion in his voice, she took a step back. “I just wanted your pants,” she said before she could think better of it.

  The boy stared. A bit of an expression—incred
ulity, confusion—leaked into his features. Then, suddenly, his gaze sharpened. “Your eyes,” he said. “They’re brown.”

  She pursed her lips, glancing from him to the ominous sky. “And yours are green. Now that we are finished stating obvious facts, we need to find some shelter and quickly, unless you prefer that mercy killing after all.”

  He was still staring at her. The mercy-killing witticism had apparently not landed as planned. Perhaps an introduction might help move matters along, so he would stop gaping at her and lend a hand, or at least some expertise. Of course, she couldn’t actually remember her own identity, but maybe trying to introduce herself might jar it back to mind.

  “My name is…” she started, and then jerked in surprise when the memory of a voice whispered, Do you hear me, Elodie?

  She blinked. The words were a memory—a recent one, from the strength of it. A surge of triumph mingled with unease low in her stomach. She had finally recovered something of herself, but whoever had spoken those words in that shred of memory sounded furious. Furious at her, and broken with it.

  What had happened on that train?

  “Elodie,” she finished, forcing her mind back to the moment at hand. “I think, anyway. What’s yours?”

  The boy frowned. His brow crinkled when he did that. “Tal,” he said slowly.

  Finally, they were making progress. “Well, Tal,” she said, “I possess an ornamental dagger, a crown, and half a rabbit. What can you contribute to our shared survival?”

  He eased himself up onto his elbow, his movements and expression still cautious and confused. Perhaps his memories had been jarred in the course of the wreck too. “Why…do you have half a rabbit?” he asked, eyeing the corpse dangling from her hand. She lifted it up, still proud of her victory.

  “I got in a tug-war with a stoat,” she said. “I won. Mostly.” She looked back at Tal, assessing his bearing, his muscles, his soldier-like clothing. “You look like a young man who knows how to start a fire. And perhaps hunt?” she added hopefully. “We’ll need both, if we’re going to make our triumphant return to civilization.” Transport would be a concern too, especially with his leg, but that was a concern for after the blizzard passed.