To Scale the Emerald Mountain (The Willowbane Saga #1)

1. CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER ONE

C old, stinking grime scrapes against my flaming cheek. My scratchy lids reluctantly lift, as if my bleary eyes are coated in a blanket of crystalized sand.

My head pounds as I take in my surroundings; a chilled and dark space with soft drops of water pattering to the hard ground. As unconsciousness ebbs and clarity flows, I make out the iron bars before my face, their metallic stink coating my nose.

I rise to a sitting position, my thoughts whirring and reeling with the dense fog pulling at my mind, attempting to smother me with thieving hands. Trying to dig through my memories in these waking moments has my brain aching, as if it’s being squeezed and rung; a spent sponge with nothing to give.

My fearful eyes dart around, quickly seeing that I’m in some kind of dungeon cell. But I have no idea how I got here, or what my crimes may be. Realization quickly sets in that I don’t know who I am at all—my hazy awareness trapped in a bell jar.

A pair of silent guards sit stoically against the rough stone wall opposite my cell, bracketed torch lights sending flickering waves of shadow across their blank faces. Faces as blank as I feel. I turn my stiff neck and squint at the miniscule window near the roof of my cell, soft light pouring in to tell me the time of day .

This mundane and muted existence of crippling confusion continues for an undetermined amount of expired suns, flowing through my tiny window from the outside world. I watch them blankly, struggling to find the energy or ability to fully grasp any thought of substance. I spend this fleeting time trying to decipher my thoughts, how I got in this predicament, but thinking is forced.

My memories are muddy and indecipherable.

With each passing day, I’m weighed down by the single knowledge that no matter what, I’m not safe here.

I begin to learn the guard’s schedules and habits. They say little, they act as if I don’t exist. From my counting, there is consistently a three and a half minute window of time for shift change at both dawn and dusk. The guards at sunup are less focused than the ones at sundown, probably still in the throes of their early morning wake ups and getting their bearings for the dull day ahead.

On a bright morning, I gaze at the hole of freedom in the wall above me. Blazing rays of warmth float down to my position on the ground, coaxing me to find it, a guiding hand out of the darkness. The sudden lightness and caressing warmth brings a spark of clarity. A thought barely dares to form in my addled mind.

I need to escape.

Waking the next morning with buzzing energy, something pulls deep within my gut, begging me to follow.

A soft internal voice tells me, Today.

I’m always given my early breakfast of gray slop before the shift change. I eat, pretending to be as confused and beaten down as always. I try to ignore the roiling bile in my stomach while that voice continues to urge me, nudging me more and more ferociously as the slow ascent of the sun counts down to a moment of opportunity .

Whatever I need to do, this is the time.

Slowing the shaking of my hands, I try to douse my brewing apprehension. In my inability to remember anything, where am I finding the strength or purpose to even dare an escape? Swallowing that question of doubt, I resolve to accept my sudden wave of boldness.

The gripping fist around my gut clenches tighter as the night shift guards leave, their metal armor clinking softly and leather boots stamping through the dirt strewn floor, silent and methodical.

Attempting to control my stuttering breaths, I watch them leave. My heart pounds painfully, releasing new waves of fear with each desperate pump.

Counting to thirty, anxious tremors wrack through my weary body; I take my chance.

I’ve made no real plans, haven’t even attempted to. That quiet voice of instinct within me is simply telling me to go.

Facing the outside barred wall of my cell, dank air laced with stagnant mold grabs my alert senses in a chokehold. I put both pale hands around the bars, clumps of dirty brown hair falling around my face. The cool, rusted metal is gritty and flakes under my palms. Loosening a long exhale, warm breath slides past my parched lips.

Please, open. Just a thought, and it does. The lock clicks and the door swings wide. Taking no time to question, I bolt through the miraculously open cell door and run.

I follow that hallway until it forks.

Right or left?

That instinct screams left.

I run for long minutes, that deep tug pulling again in my gut. My bare, frozen feet slap against the floor in the most deafening noise. I keep following the silent voice with every turn, every fork. The guiding instinct brings me to a chamber with a gate leading to a lush green forest, dappled sunlight splashing against the ground.

That voice, that feeling tells me, This is the way .

Skittering to a stop at the closed gate, I wrap my hand around a smooth bar, pulling it hard and foolishly expecting it to allow me through.

It doesn’t budge.

I extend my weakened arms forward to push it out. Nothing. My palms begin to blister and sting with my effort; my grunts turn into a frustrated scream. My breathing grows panicked and ragged as fresh desperation begins to pull me under. Blood pours from my nose in hot rivulets, dripping into my open mouth while my head begins to pound, oceans of blood thrashing in my ears.

How have I come all this way on instinct and can get no further?

With each ragged inhale, my terror slices at my chest in angry swipes. Pausing, I work to school my breaths with my forehead against one of the bars.

As my breathing evens, a strange calm washes over me.

Without any thought, I breathe out, “Open,” in a choked rasp.

At that whispered word, the gate unlocks.

That voice demands, Go .