Chapter 33
I scour crumbled bits of bridge strewn through the raging river, wishing the water hadn’t risen above the parts I used as stepping stones earlier, dammit.
Now I have to smush Bulder’s words together, attempt to shape some semblance of a path so I’m able to reach the pillar extending from the large eyot like a growth.
With a village-sized audience.
Sighing, I tighten the bind on my braid, drop my knee, and sweep snow into my hands.
Crushing it into a ball, I peer over my shoulder at the scatter of folk who’ve tucked beneath snow-laden awnings, gathered in the steep village paths that cut between clustered buildings.
All a cautious distance away, either watching me or looking up through the soft snowfall while they murmur between themselves—cloaks hugged tight around their shoulders, dusted in flakes of white.
Not wanting to miss the show despite the glacial anomaly shadowing their village, chilling the air so much it stings to breathe.
I get it.
It’s not every dae you get to see someone attempt to mount a semi-wild, murderous Moonplume. That sort of stupidity is rare, as is seeing a perch this far north. In fact, I’d argue it’s the first. A pretty impressive fuck you, Raeve slammed right in the central fold of the village.
Impossible to miss.
I look at said perch surrounded by a nest of frozen, shattered trees that didn’t survive the blast. It’s leaking a wispy fog that’s begun to gather in the gully, the structure a little wider at the base, the tip lost amongst the clouds.
A few fledgling Moltenmaws have eased from their burrows, soaring close enough to sniff at it, but none seem brave enough to investigate the top. Probably wise.
Líri might be small, but there’s a reason Rygun herded her into a burrow near the mountain’s peak. Something attributed to the stiff silence bearing down on the village, like even the birds and the insects know we’re in the midst of an apex predator. Beautiful, but lethal.
Without Rygun’s intervention, I’d already be dead. If I survive this … well. It’ll only be because she deems it so. But I made a promise to that dragon, and dammit, I’m keeping it. I’d rather risk my life than watch her fly off to Netheryn believing she’s unworthy of the best of me.
I feel Kaan’s approach rather than hear his steps.
Clearing my throat, I drop the snowball from my blissfully numb hands and stand, loosen my cloak, then drape it over my arm. “Sire.”
“Moonbeam.”
His voice travels across the back of my neck, making me shiver.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come down.” I turn my head just enough to see his silhouette in my peripheral. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“My eternal adoration.”
My cheeks heat as the crowd bursts into murmured whispers, and I arch a brow, looking back.
The vision of him is a punch to my chest—his arms crossed, snow caught in his beard and the loose bits of hair hanging about his face.
Eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them.
He hides it well, the fear I could feel thrumming off him while I requested he not intervene, no matter what. While he put together a hearty meal we enjoyed together, passing me warm smiles that embraced me from a distance, plumping me with confident strength and encouragement.
He pulls a deep breath and steps close, reaching out. “Want me to look after that?”
I glance down at my cloak, then to the málmr hanging between my breasts—stark against the brown leather garb laced all the way to my nape.
I’m not good with words, but if I die this dae, I need Kaan to know. To see that in this life, I choose him.
Loudly.
I turn, facing him. Watch his gaze drop.
Watch all the color leave his face and pool into his eyes.
Ignite them.
The ball in his throat rolls, a low growl emanating from his chest that skitters a warm shudder through my bones.
He takes the weight of my cloak, then steps forward and grips my waist, pulls me close, and presses his lips against my ear.
“One of these daes, Moonbeam, I hope to repay the great honor by wearing your uhloo.”
I frown, about to ask what he means when his next words render me breathless.
“If you die, I’ll rip the fucking world in two.”
He plants a kiss on my temple—swift and warm—then spins, moving back through the bowing crowd. Though he doesn’t look back, I hear him murmur a sculpting sentence with the precision of an artisan.
The ground shakes.
The crowd gasps.
I whip my head around in time to see twin arms of soft, tan-colored clay flexing free of the riverbanks, mashing together like gripping hands.
The structure flattens, as though being rolled by some invisible force, the excess pinching up into shapely handrails.
An exact replica of the previous bridge, minus the moss.
It settles, hardening to a lighter tone as water wicks from the sturdy structure, dribbling into the river like a million dashed tears.
A seamless path for me to reach the pillar.
My chest aches at the gesture, thankful beyond measure. Half convinced I would’ve brought the entire mountain down had I so much as tried to pull up some wonky stepping stones.
Most of all, I’m thankful he didn’t build me a staircase or something to make scaling this thing easier. There’s nothing honorable about receiving such help.
I scan the crowd, some of them murmuring between each other, eyeing the pendant I boast. Perhaps wondering who the fuck I am.
If they knew the truth—that their perfect king has fallen in love with a rogue assassin—they’d probably riot.
I tuck the treasure safely beneath my garb and move across the bridge, edging around the island’s rocky banks. Leap over shattered trees that look almost glass-like, until I’m standing in the pillar’s shadow, skin prickling.
Anticipating its feel.
Tentative, I reach forward, brushing my hand across the unbuffed surface. So cold it bites my flesh and strikes me with memories of the glacier shard I used to dig a shelter for Fallon and myself after we escaped Arkyn … shoveling snow as the shard slashed my palms and painted the snow red—
I grit my teeth and shove the memory down, away. Sketch a path up the tapered structure, the column littered with flat spots where bits of the growth stalled. By no means footholds—more like thin grabbing points that hopefully won’t slate off—but they’ll have to do.
Tightening my mental sound snare, I slide off my iron ring and tuck it in my pocket, shaking out my hands as I push down the fluttery feeling in my chest.
Fucking nerves. Leave me alone.
I set my foot on a low lip, wedge my fingertips against a higher one, repeat with my other hand. Finally putting all my weight on my left foot, I set my right in place, getting a feel for having my full weight on the pillar’s steep face.
Not bad.
Maybe I won’t die after all.
I propel up, replant my foot, then reach for another lip. Repeat. Finding a steady rhythm that becomes smooth and seamless the higher I climb.
Time becomes unfathomable, all my focus homed on the placement of my boots and fingertips, the movement of my limbs. On pulling deep and slow breaths that keep my pulse tempered.
I don’t look down, quietly aware that the snow’s no longer falling.
Trying to remember a single gust of wind against my cheek since I began my climb.
Smiling, I reach for another lip, finding peace in my belief that Clode and Rayne are encouraging me with their silence.
Doing what they can to save me from a deathly plummet.
If only Clode knew what I have in mind for her, she wouldn’t be treating me with such grace.
But that’s a problem for Later-Raeve. Present-Raeve just wants to make it to the top without a hitch.
Preferably un-masticated.
My lungs and legs burn with equal might as I finally reach the heavy cloud, stilling to recompose myself and shake out my aching hand. My other one. While I work to stretch the welling cramp from my fingers, I dare a peek at the village below … and instantly regret it.
The river is a vibrant streak through the white terrain, the villagers mere specks of sand in the streets.
This was a terrible idea.
I draw a calming breath and reach into the cloud’s fluffy underbelly, hunting for a lip. With my next pull up, I’m blinded, like being caught in a cushion—relying heavily on my sense of feel to find my next purchase, my next, my next, the silence cold and stiff around me.
Too cold.
A sure sign I’m getting close.
Each beat of my heart is a summoning drum as the cloud thins to lacy scraps, allowing me to finally glimpse the top. And Líri’s wispy tail dangling over the pillar’s sharp rim.
My chest grows tight at the sight.
I freeze, listen. Tune in to Líri’s smooth, rumbling breaths.
She’s asleep.
Thank the Creators.
I edge past her silky threads at a slow, careful pace, aware of how sensitive they are. Reaching up, I pause, looking from Líri’s tendrils to that silver apparition tangled around my hand, wondering—
Her tail twitches, almost slapping me in the face. Though it strikes my heartstrings with such oomph I almost lose balance, my pulse pounding at such a speed I can barely hear my own thoughts over the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of my rushing blood.
Too.
Fucking.
Close.
Teeth gritted, I shift farther to the right in slow, syrupy motions, gaze darting between her tail and my various options for leverage. Once I’m a safe distance away, I continue up, heart in my throat until I’m finally within reach of the pillar’s edge.
I move my left foot, settle it on the next notch—
It slates away, skittering down the side like an extra loud fuck you, Raeve!
My body flattens against the perch, heart drumming so hard I’m certain I’m about to be snatched up, disemboweled, then splattered all over the village.
Breath held, I watch Líri’s tail for any flicker of movement—for any sign she heard—my lungs burning for sustenance by the time I accept my good fortune.