Lyra Fernbrook's Arc

Chapter 9 of 18

By dawn the third bell hung cooling beside the other two. Lyra lifted them one at a time from the hooks and set them on the anvil. The blue flame in the elven forge burned low over pale coals. Dorian wiped soot from his glasses and looked at her over the rims. His chest and arms were scored with old cuts from the tree spirits, and new burns from the night's work. He nodded once. The bells were true. They moved to the bench by the window to braid the rope. Lyra held the three cords tight while Dorian crossed them over her fingers. Her staff leaned against the wall. The lyre rested beside it in its wrapped cloth, the ward mark on its frame catching the first gray light. Neither of them spoke. The braid grew under their hands, slow and even, the way rope must be made if it is to hold weight. A shadow crossed the window. Lyra looked up. One of the scout birds she had glimpsed two nights before hung outside the glass, wings beating, bronze feathers rattling. It opened its beak and let out a low, deep crow that shook the pane. Then it dropped away toward the trees. "Early," Dorian said. He pulled the last cross of the braid tight and knotted it with his teeth. "They mean to catch us on the ground." Lyra tied the bells to the finished rope with quick knots. She slung the bundle across her back. Dorian took her hand. They ran. The path from the ridge to the archer tower cut down through open meadow, and the sun was not yet high. Behind them, more crows answered the first. Lyra did not look back. She counted her breaths and the beats of her feet and squeezed Dorian's hand each time she thought he might slow. The first bird came in low from her right. She heard the wings before she saw it. Dorian yanked her sideways and the bird's claws raked empty grass. A second dove at Dorian's shoulder and tore his sleeve. He kept running. Lyra pulled the lyre free of its cloth as they ran and struck three fast notes across the strings. The sound was thin in the open air, but the birds jerked back at it, confused by the ward mark on the frame. It bought them twenty paces. The tower rose ahead, tall and pale between the trees. They hit the base together. Dorian shoved her onto the first step and turned with his knife raised. Lyra climbed. The bells knocked against her spine at every stride. She heard Dorian's boots behind her and the wings above, and she did not stop until the top platform opened around her under the green roof. She pulled the bells from her back and hung the rope on the highest hook. Dorian came up behind her, bleeding from the shoulder, and bolted the trap. They were inside. The flock circled. Dusk was still hours away.