Free Chasing the Valley by Skye Melki-Wegner Page B

leaf litter, but I manage to catch myself just in time. I can’t afford to look weak in front of the others. I’m already furious at myself for needing Teddy’s help during the ride; Radnor probably regrets inviting me to join the crew.
    â€˜Yes,’ says a voice. ‘It smells like bombs.’
    I turn around, surprised to hear an unfamiliar female voice. It’s the quieter twin, the one whose name I’ve never managed to learn. She slips down from her own foxary, eyes downcast, hands clasped in front of her stomach.
    â€˜Dunno about you guys,’ says Teddy, ‘but I always thought bombs came out of biplanes. Don’t hear any planes up there, do you?’
    I glance up. The canopy is too thick to make out the sky; if one of the king’s biplanes were overhead, we wouldn’t spot it until it was too late. But Teddy is right about the noise. Those planes rattle and spit: hunks of metal that choke their way across the skies. The forest is too quiet for a biplane to be overhead.
    I sniff again and then spin around to follow the source of the smell. After traipsing through a few metres of tangled undergrowth, I see it: a tiny wisp of smoke twisting up among the mess and roots of a nearby thicket.
    â€˜Hey, over here!’ I whisper.
    The others join me, hot and nervous in the thick of the trees. We push through the foliage, pulling aside leaves and twigs to squeeze our bodies further into the thicket. Even from here, I can tell that something’s wrong – there’s too much light ahead, as though something has smashed a hole through the canopy itself.
    Finally, we thrust our bodies into the clearing.
    â€˜What the hell?’ says Teddy, as sunlight hits his face.
    I stare down, right at the source of the smoke. The burning metal, the crumpled glass, the shattered wings . . . and a scorched golden tattoo that marks the impact of a signal flare. The debris flickers oddly, as though an invisibility enchantment is still wearing off. It must be tainted with magical residue, to still be smoking so long after last night’s carnage. This broken hunk of metal is no ordinary wreckage.
    â€˜Is that a . . .?’ breathes Clementine, sounding horrified.
    I swallow. ‘Yeah. It is.’
    This is one of the king’s biplanes, scorched with the mark of a signal flare. And last night, by launching that guard-tower’s flare, I shot this plane right out of the sky.
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    The only sound is wind in the trees. We stare at each other. Then we stare back at the plane, stunned by the sight of a palace machine, broken and smouldering, in the middle of the forest.
    â€˜Those markings,’ says Clementine. ‘Our mother told us about the signal flares. Each turret has a unique tattoo, so guards in the other towers know which part of the wall has been threatened.’
    I nod. ‘My flare.’
    Silence.
    When it becomes clear that no one else is keen to look, I take a step closer. If there’s a body in there, if I’ve killed someone . . . 
    â€˜Don’t look, Danika,’ says Radnor. His voice is calm, imitating the tone of a leader, but a twinge of uncertainty lingers in each word.
    â€˜What if the pilot’s still alive?’ I say. ‘What if he’s just unconscious?’
    No one answers. I don’t want to think what sort of injury could knock someone unconscious for the better part of a day. With a couple of shaky steps, I find myself at the edge of the wreckage.
    I bend down, trying to ignore the stink of bombs – no, not bombs, just hot metal – and peer through the shattered window.
    The cabin is empty. ‘There’s no pilot!’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜There’s no body or anything!’
    I straighten up and find Radnor raising an eyebrow. ‘A plane can’t fly itself,’ he says. ‘And no one could just walk away from a crash like that.’
    â€˜Not