Mira Nightingale's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

Mira faced the mountain from the tower door. The compass needle locked onto its peak. She could not chart a route up a place she had spent her life erasing. She owned no drawing of it, no height, no ridge line. To plan a climb, she needed a rough survey. She had none. She knew who did. The girl drew everything. Mira climbed to the drafting room. Hale Juniper sat cross-legged on the floor, barefoot, her small fingers black with ink. She looked ten years old. She had drawn every map in this tower twice. When Mira entered, Hale did not look up. "I need a survey of the mountain behind us," Mira said. "Height, slopes, any pass." "I drew it," Hale said. "Second survey. Page under the table." Mira's stomach dropped. A drawing of her mountain existed, in her own tower, made by a child. Her hand itched to burn it. She fought the itch. She needed it more than she needed it gone. Hale pulled a rolled parchment from the box beneath her worktable. She spread it flat. The mountain filled the page. Ridges, a snow shelf, one narrow pass on the north face. Every line clean. "How do you know the height?" Mira asked. "Shadow at noon. Measured it four seasons." Mira leaned close. The pass was real. A route ran up the east ridge, along the shelf, through the gap. She could chart it now. The compass had a heading, and now the heading had ground beneath it. Then a hammer struck downstairs. Then again. Metal on metal, steady. "Who is that?" Mira asked. "Locksmith," Hale said. "King sent him. Every lock in the front hall." Mira went cold. Her atlas was locked. The scout's folded report was locked. She took the survey and went down. A heavyset man knelt at the hall door, a ring of old keys at his belt. He did not turn when she came. Milo Strand fit a new plate to the wood and drove a screw home. "That is my hall," Mira said. "On whose order?" "The king's." He kept working. "I need the new key." "He gets it. Not you." Milo set down his screwdriver. He worked out the old lock and held it out to her, flat on his glove. "This is yours. What a lock remembers belongs to its owner." Mira took the old lock. It was dead metal now. The new one answered to the king. She understood. The king had stopped believing she only copied charts. He wanted a key to her tower, and everything in it. Her atlas. Her mother's compass. The mountain she was about to climb. Mira folded the survey against her chest. She had her route at last. She also had less time than she thought. She would climb the mountain before the king turned his new key.