Edgeland

  ALSO BY

  JAKE HALPERN & PETER KUJAWINSKI

  Nightfall

  The Dormia Trilogy:

  Dormia

  World’s End

  The Shadow Tree

  G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS

  an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, NY 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Jake Halpern and Peter Kujawinski.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  G. P. Putnam’s Sons is a registered trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

  Ebook ISBN 9780698405592

  Design by Marikka Tamura.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  To Ari

  CONTENTS

  Also by Jake Halpern & Peter Kujawinski

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Suns and Shadows Sheet Music

  The islands of Purgatory lie shrouded in fog.

  The dead wait and reflect upon their now-finished lives.

  No one laughs. No one sings. No one cries. There is neither sadness nor joy. It is a solemn place, for the dead must earn passage to the kingdom of heaven.

  —The Common Book: Chapter 6, Verse 12

  CHAPTER

  1

  Wren walked along the edge of the known world looking for coins to steal. A few coppers would do. A silver piece would be even better. Her escape fund was almost complete, and soon she’d be sailing for the great spice-trading city of Ankora.

  Her eyes darted across the rocks, searching for the dull gleam of metal. She had been doing this for so many years that it had become second nature. It was forbidden, of course, but she had a worthy goal. Leaving Edgeland would mean the end of stealing—from the living, and the dead.

  A spray of mist dampened Wren’s face as she gazed off into the Drain: a massive, circular waterfall, almost thirty miles in diameter, into which all the water in the ocean drained. This close, it was hard to see anything but the churning water. On rare occasions, you could see the far side of the waterfall.

  Today the late-afternoon sky was dark with clouds, and visibility was low. After a few seconds, Wren turned away. She wasn’t there to gape.

  She was there to work.

  Wren stood on the uppermost level of the Ramparts, an ancient seawall that circled the Drain. There was a road on top with lookouts, and vents at the bottom that allowed water to pass through but kept big ships from being pulled in. Most of the ships that sailed through these waters were headed to Edgeland—a nearby island, which sat just a few miles from the Drain. Wren lived here. It was composed almost entirely of bone houses, which blessed and processed dead bodies.

  A burst of chanting grabbed Wren’s attention. Up ahead, a group of religious pilgrims had gathered around a priest. Such scenes were typical on the Ramparts. Suns and Shadows both believed that the Drain was the gateway to the afterlife, and both sent their dead into the Drain. They threw coins into the water, too, hoping the bits of gold and silver would reach their loved ones.

  Once in a while, when Wren was feeling lonely, she’d flick a coin into the Drain for her mother, who’d died four years ago in a boating accident. Wren sometimes liked to picture her down there, in a happy place glimmering with mist. But today she had no time to daydream.

  She gave the pilgrims a wide berth as she passed by. They were Shadows, wearing their customary silver prayer robes. It was unusual to see them during the daylight hours.

  “SINNERS!” their priest yelled. “Turn from evil and embrace the Shadow, so we can drown the Serpent of Fear.”

  The others punched the air with their fists and chanted: “THE SHADOW! THE SHADOW! THE SHADOW!”

  They began passing a cloth-swaddled bundle. It was a baby. Eventually, it came to rest in the hands of the priest—a tall, fat man in a shimmering cloak and ornate silver crown.

  The priest’s name was Friderik, though his enemies called him “Fat Freddy.” Wren didn’t know him personally, but she’d seen him and his followers. People said he was a “firebrand,” but as far as Wren could tell, Friderik was nothing more than a bully in fancy robes. To provoke the Suns, he gathered his followers during daylight hours and led them in loud prayers.

  Fat Freddy was playing a dangerous game. In this part of the world—thousands of miles due south from the Polar North—the Rule of Light was strictly observed: During the seventy-two hours of day, the Suns ruled and could do as they pleased, while the seventy-two hours of night belonged to the Shadows.

  Fat Freddy and his Shadows didn’t even glance at Wren as she walked past. She looked like nothing more than a poor Sun girl, her frayed yellow cloak draped over her head and body. They would have been shocked to see that the cloak’s inner lining was silver, which meant she could pass as a Shadow when she wanted. It was illegal to own such a robe—even worse than Fat Freddy’s disobeying the Rule of Light—but for a thief like Wren, a reversible cloak came in handy.

  Wren could still see Fat Freddy and his Shadows in the distance when she stopped abruptly, blinking away the mist. A coin glittered near the Rampart’s edge. Usually, Wren found coppers, but this was a dinar from the Eastern Crags—made of gold and inset with a jadeite nugget. It was a once-in-a-lifetime find.

  Wren glanced around, looking for the sentries who patrolled the Ramparts. As she knew too well, it was a serious crime to steal from the dead. And the sentries were hardened men—who’d be all too happy to lop off a few of her fingers in the name of justice. Thankfully, none were in sight.
>
  The gold dinar rested on a flat stone engraved with the most famous mantra from the holy Common Book:

  DROWN THE SERPENT OF FEAR.

  • • •

  Both Suns and Shadows believed that you had to cleanse yourself of fear before entering purgatory—the great waiting room before heaven. This particular mantra was everywhere: etched on flags, painted on the sides of buildings, even tattooed on the legs and backs of the devout. Before becoming a thief, Wren had worked at a bone house where bodies were blessed before their voyage to the Drain. She’d been forced to write this mantra over and over on the bottom of funeral rafts. Merely looking at it made her hand cramp.

  Only a guardrail separated Wren from the dinar. She glanced around and saw no one. Wren knelt down, as if praying, and pressed the palm of her hand against a rotting wooden slat. Her robe fell back, revealing a scratched-up brown arm. On her wrist was a bracelet, a simple rope loop with a talisman on it—a wooden figurine of a girl that her mother had carved.

  Wren pressed harder against the guardrail until the wood began to give. A post cracked, allowing her arm to snake through. She kept reaching, reaching, reaching—until her finger touched the coin. She dragged it toward her. When the dinar was safely in her fist, she let her eyes wander down into the Drain itself, which was obscured in mist. Thank goodness for that. They said if you gazed too deeply into the Drain, you’d lose your mind.

  Time to move.

  Wren put the dinar in her cloak pocket, along with a few copper coins she’d found, and walked quickly back along the Ramparts. She couldn’t stop smiling. She pictured herself standing on a beautiful ocean clipper, sails full of wind, bound for the fragrant streets of Ankora. She’d find the man who’d come looking for her years ago when she’d first arrived in Edgeland. Maybe she had a wealthy inheritance waiting for her and a great big extended family, too. All right, so maybe that was too much to hope for. But still, any family at all—even a distant third cousin—would be better than nothing.

  Which is what she had now.

  Nothing.

  On the island of Edgeland, the mix of young beggars and thieves who lived in tunnels beneath the ground were called Graylings, because their skin was often gray with dirt and grime. It was a miserable life. Wren had to cut her hair, almost to the scalp, to keep the lice away. But not for much longer.

  Wren kicked at the pebble-strewn ground in front of her.

  I wish Alec would come with me. But why would he? Alec was twelve, too, but he had parents, cousins, family of all types and flavors, and a good position at a prestigious bone house. It was a miracle that they were friends.

  The bell signaling the ferry’s departure for Edgeland began to clang, interrupting her thoughts. A long, steep set of stairs led to the ferry landing below, where crowds of mourners had begun to line up. They were a mishmash of Suns from every corner of the world—pale-skinned boys in turbans from the Eastern Crags, old men in chain mail from the Highlands, and women from the Jade Archipelago in shimmering green cloaks.

  The bell clanged again, followed by a burst of excited shouts and cries. At the bottom of the stairs, a mob of angry Suns surrounded Fat Freddy’s entourage.

  “We’re not going anywhere!” shouted a small man with a hawkish nose and a razor-thin beard along his chin. “We do not submit to Suns!” Wren recognized him. His name was Dorman—one of Freddy’s loudest supporters.

  “You have no right to be here during daylight!” hollered one of the Suns. He pushed Dorman, knocking him backward. Soon, others were shoving, too.

  “PROTECT THE BABY!” screamed Dorman. “JOIN RANKS!”

  Fat Freddy’s followers formed a tight circle around a small woman who was holding the baby.

  “Separate yourselves!” yelled a red-faced sentry, who was standing in the thick of the mob and trying desperately to keep the peace. “Separate yourselves!”

  Wren grimaced and made her way down the stairs, looking for a place where she could jump off and slide down the embankment to the landing below. The stairs made several sharp turns and, at one of these bends, she came upon three Suns, their gold robes smeared with blotches of red.

  Wren stopped short. Those are bloodstains. A big, bull-necked bald man grabbed her robe and pulled her toward him.

  “You didn’t see us!” he hissed, so close that she could feel his spittle landing on her cheeks. Then he pushed her roughly away. The other two men paused, as if trying to decide whether to attack her.

  Wren eyed the red marks the man had left on the shoulder and sleeves of her robe.

  “I never saw you,” she whispered, nodding her head.

  The men rushed past, revealing the body of a man lying on the ground. It was Fat Freddy. A knife was lodged right below his heart. His watery eyes strained to look at Wren. Fat Freddy was alive, but he wouldn’t be for long.

  Wren glanced down at the sleeves of her robe. She began rolling them up frantically, trying to hide the blood.

  Seconds later, Dorman appeared at the base of the stairs.

  “MASTER!” he shouted. “MY PRIEST!” He looked up at Wren, his face frozen in shock.

  More Shadows appeared next to him, looking at Fat Freddy and then at Wren.

  Dorman pointed a finger at Wren. “That grayling girl did this!” he yelled. “Murderer!”

  Wren turned and sprinted back up the stairs, willing herself to move faster than she ever had before.

  CHAPTER

  2

  Two hours later and several miles away, Alec heaved the oars of his skiff and then glanced back over his shoulder. The furrier’s ship was getting closer. It had four masts bearing giant, billowing yellow sails. They’d come to float their dead into the Drain, riding the Fourteen-Year Tide. And they were right on schedule.

  They’d see him soon. But would it be soon enough? Alec had to keep rowing—keep holding his place—that was the key. If he stopped, the currents would grab his tiny boat and fling it into the Drain. The Ramparts were a fail-safe only for bigger vessels: clippers, knarrs, and brigantines.

  The skiff rolled heavily to starboard, and Alec yanked on the oars. Frothing whitecaps roiled and splashed around him. He gritted his teeth. If Wren could see me now, she’d laugh, until she realized how serious this was—then she’d smack me.

  Up to this moment, Alec’s had been a quiet existence, spent mainly indoors; a stark contrast to Wren’s life on the streets. And now, here he was, alone, in a small boat, battling the Drain’s vicious current. I’m still the only boat out here, Alec thought with satisfaction. He had calculated that the furriers would arrive in Edgeland today. And if he could persuade them to use House Aron for their funerals . . . well . . . Sami Aron would be very pleased. The coffers at House Aron were shrinking, and the furriers paid in sunstones and polar diamonds; it’d be the richest haul anyone had seen in years.

  What’ll my father say when he hears the news?

  For a second, Alec smiled. His parents were wealthy landowners from the north. His two older brothers had been explorers; they’d crossed the high peaks of the Jagged Teeth Mountains and returned with chests full of gold nuggets. But Alec’s father thought that he was too small and timid for such a life—and often told his mother so.

  “But how can you tell?” asked his mother. “He’s only a child.”

  His father scoffed. “He’s too frightened to walk down the stairs to the cellar by himself,” he said. “Alec’s a clever boy, but he’s no explorer. And he knows it.”

  And he knows it. That was the worst part—because his father was right. Alec was afraid of the cellar and the Jagged Teeth Mountains and a great many other things as well.

  So, at the age of eight, Alec had been sent off to apprentice at House Aron, to begin a life of reading and praying. And then he’d been forgotten. Well, not exactly forgotten. His parents wrote him letters, filled with pleasantries and bits
of news. It’s been a cold winter . . . Your brother has a new horse . . . We can’t visit this summer, but maybe the next. Meanwhile, Alec had done well at House Aron. He picked up foreign languages with ease and worked tirelessly to arrange funerals. Now, only four years later, clients arrived and often asked for him by name. He was building a reputation. Not that his parents noticed. But they would soon . . . They’d have to. Books and reading be damned. Alec had snagged a great, big haul of sunstones—even more valuable than gold nuggets. What do you think of that, Father?

  The ship was close now. Alec stood, dropped his oars, and began waving his arms. “Over here!” he screamed, willing his voice to rise over the sound of the ocean. “OVER HERE! I AM THE GHOST-CHILD!”

  Years ago, Alec had memorized Witold’s epic funeral ode, in which a ghost-child—a flicker of a boy—rows across the rapids of the Drain, in a skiff, to greet the furrier captain and escort him to purgatory. The poem was beloved by furriers, mainly because it was filled with descriptions of epic battles they’d won. The ghost-child is the hero, a boy of unrivaled bravery, who accompanies the sailors all the way to heaven. Some furriers even engraved the poem’s verses onto the prows of their ships. At first, Alec believed his plan to pose as the ghost-child was clever, though less so now that he was close to capsizing.

  Alec’s boat lurched forward, and the crest of a wave crashed over the gunwales. The starboard oarlock popped open, and the oar was swept overboard. Another wave surged over the bow. Alec lost his footing and fell backward, grazing his head against the boat’s wooden ribs. Blood began to trickle down his pale forehead. The boat wallowed in the sea, wrenched in opposite directions by the strong currents of the Drain.

  The furriers. Where are the damn furriers?

  He looked around, momentarily confused. Where was the ship? But then he saw it—alongside him now—the massive ship and its billowing yellow sails. Far above on the deck, a man with a long white beard and a spyglass was pointing at Alec.

  Someone from the ship flung a rope. It arched up and away and came down expertly across the skiff. Alec grabbed the rope, wrapped it several times around his arms, and jumped into the water. He and the rope were pulled up to the deck, where he collapsed in a sodden heap. The skiff was quickly taken by the current and sped toward the Drain.