Chapter 25
In her dream, she again fought through the snow, alone and pelted by stinging flakes, her fur crusted with ice. Fern chanced a look over her shoulder and glimpsed a tall figure following the trench she’d forged through the drifts.
She paused, shading her eyes against the white as the figure resolved.
For a moment, the person shifted like smoke, and then—
—Viv, arms bare, seemingly immune to the cold, moving with purpose.
Her curls writhed behind her in the wind. The pommel of her greatsword was visible above her shoulder, a simpler, more practical echo of Nigel’s silver starburst.
Blackblood doesn’t exist anymore. It melted in the fire, thought Fern, although this did not trouble her.
“Hey!” she cried, turning fully and waving with both paws above her head, overcome with relief. She grinned, suddenly giddy with joy.
Apologies seemed unimportant.
Then another smoky shift, and the orc shrank a handspan. Curls became braids, the greatsword’s hilt vanished, and in her right hand, a hooked axe, whole once more.
Tullah, because of course it was—relentless, unforgiving.
The ice in Fern’s fur doubled in weight as she turned and began to desperately surge through the snow again.
The white expanse before her rumpled like a sheet in a gale, fluttering, flapping, and a sudden cloud of ivory birds burst into flight. Their wings beat at her frozen face, and she was lost in the cacophony of their wings as they swirled around her in a whirlwind of feathers and sound.
Fern started awake to frantic wingbeats and bitter cold and immediately doubted whether she’d awakened at all.
Frigid gray light cast everything in pewter. One cheek was settled against something soft and warm, while something feathery tickled her whiskers. She squeaked and scrabbled at it with a paw only to discover a wrinkled piece of paper.
Dear Viv, it read.
Then she was fully alert, sitting bolt upright from where she’d been leaning against Zyll. The goblin blinked groggily at her from above the collar of her coat.
The fire had expired, and letters from Fern’s satchel eddied around the room in fresh gusts of wind. Bucket snorted and shook his head to dislodge one that had plastered itself to his neck. Fern’s satchel lay open beside her, two or three pages trying weakly to escape its mouth.
With a cry of dismay, Fern leapt from the bench to chase after the scattered letters, heedless of how they crumpled in her paws as she snatched them up.
When she’d caught the last one, she knelt, breathing hard, to stuff them back inside the satchel and buckle it tight.
Only then did she have the presence of mind to approach Astryx, where Bucket snuffled anxiously at her face.
The elf’s chest still rose and fell in shallow, sipping breaths. Her hand still rested against the floor. Hectic spots of color in her cheeks hinted at fever.
Fern blinked at the Oathmaiden’s wrist.
The bracelet that had fallen off the night before once more encircled it.
She glanced with perplexity at Zyll, but she’d withdrawn all exposed skin inside of her coat.
Fern approached, reaching out a tentative paw to gently wake the Blademistress, when someone else beat her to it.
“Tarim’s patience!” cried a new voice, and the elf’s eyes snapped open.
Three rattkin penitents crowded the entrance, all bundled in fur-lined habits, mouths agape. Shocked silence reigned.
Then the monk in front, a piebald fellow, broke it by casting aside his staff and hustling to Astryx’s side. She struggled to rise, but he was already investigating the rusty red of her bandage with gentle fingers.
Fern’s mind felt as though it were still battling through the snow of her dream. A profound relief wrestled with an old distrust, but she was far too tired to declare a victor.
The monk caught Fern’s gaze from across the elf’s prone body. “You look iced through to the whiskers. It’s only luck we spied the smoke.” Then, to Astryx, “Can you stand?”
“I can,” croaked the elf. She levered herself up with a sharp intake of breath, then slid her legs off the bench in a series of deliberate motions. Ice crackled off her trousers.
“Hemlock!” snapped the piebald monk, and one of his black-furred companions hurried to stand on her opposite side as they both helped the elf rise.
The other made soothing noises at Bucket and tried to get a paw into his halter.
The monk’s eyes widened at the sword slung through the mess of leather across the horse’s ribs.
Zyll appeared beside Fern, nose and eyes just visible, but hands tucked up inside her sleeves. They shared a glance.
“Safe-ling,” mumbled the goblin through her collar, then patted Fern reassuringly on the back.
“Safe,” murmured Fern. Her eyes widened.
She spun, and, realizing she had no idea how to address him—Brother? Sir?—tugged at the piebald rattkin’s habit. “Um?” she tried.
He looked back at her distractedly as he and his fellow did their best to support an elf twice their height as she tottered toward the exit.
“Rhubarb,” he said.
“What?”
“My name. It’s Brother Rhubarb. Be quick. We need to get her indoors.” He grunted as Astryx leaned more of her weight on his shoulder.
“Right.” Fern swallowed, throat dry and lips cracking. “It’s just that the one that did this is still out there. And I don’t think she’s given up. I figured you should have fair warning.”
“Tarim’s patience,” he muttered, with a grim shake of his head.
“There’s nothing to be done but move swiftly.
There’s a storm on the way. Look, there’s a donkey outside.
He won’t bite if you act like you know what you’re doing.
The two of you should mount up while we figure out how to get your companion on her horse. ”
“Apologizing about the bridge-ly,” mumbled Zyll, then scurried out into the snow.
“The what?” replied Rhubarb, brow furrowed.
Fern groaned. “I’ll tell you on the way?”
She didn’t, though. The journey wasn’t conducive to conversation.
Zyll and Fern managed to climb onto the donkey that waited outside. It looked annoyed, and while it did bare yellow teeth at them, it did not bite.
With what little assistance the monks could provide, Astryx did succeed in muscling her way onto Bucket’s back once more, but Fern’s stomach went wobbly at the fresh streak of red she dragged up his side.
The Oathmaiden slumped forward on his neck, and the way her arms trailed bonelessly over his shoulders was worse than the blood.
Then they were off through the snow. Hemlock led Bucket in the front, while Rhubarb trudged beside the donkey in the furrows of the larger horse’s wake. The other monk walked between the animals.
The leaden sky became more troubled by the minute as darkening clouds lowered and snowfall became even thicker.
Despite all of that, Fern found herself drifting, readily abdicating all responsibility to the monks, the mountains, and Tarim himself.
Saved by a bunch of penitents, she thought. Then, Too bad I’m out of the bookselling business. I bet they could really use some filthy romances. The thunder of a distant avalanche swallowed up the sound of her delirious laughter.
She leaned forward into Zyll’s coat and the heat that rose from the donkey’s back, as time became elastic.
A moment might be one second as easily as a year, and there was only the croon of wind, the flutter of snow, the creak of leather, the huff of donkey’s breath, and the rustle of the goblin’s orange hair.
They continued that way until a change in the rhythm of things tugged at Fern’s consciousness.
“We arrive,” called Brother Rhubarb.
Disoriented by the near darkness that had overtaken them, she gazed over Zyll’s head and the donkey’s bristly neck at slabs of black, outlined in white and marked by licks of flame.
The shadows resolved by degrees into a series of stone buildings sprawled across the slope of the peak before them.
Capped with heavily pitched but still ice-encrusted roofs, the structures were girdled with cloisters.
A massive chapel dominated one side, a cluster of six spires lancing into the darkness.
Two pillars flanked the road where it entered the abbey, crowned with the tentacles of Tarim as the god seemed in the process of swallowing each of them.
Fern’s relief curdled somewhat at the sight.
Several monks looked up from the main path where they were shoveling snow aside in apparent anticipation of their arrival.
In moments, Fern and her companions were surrounded by a lively sea of habits, fur, and tails as the denizens of the abbey ushered them through the pillars and past torch and lantern light, to the warmth of the church stables.
A pair of donkeys regarded their entrance with skepticism as the murmuring gaggle of monks led them indoors. A hiss escaped Fern as her frozen toes prickled in the sudden heat. Zyll immediately slipped off their animal’s back and disappeared amidst the confusion of black and brown habits.
Then Rhubarb was helping Fern gingerly dismount. She became suddenly and painfully aware of the stiffness in her joints and the ache in her tail. Her knees nearly buckled under her own weight.
Using his arm to regain her balance, she watched anxiously over the monk’s shoulder as they set up two stools and a step-ladder next to Bucket. With a Tarimite tottering on each, they began delicately maneuvering Astryx off his back.
“We’ll do our best for her,” said Rhubarb, patting her paw with his own.
“I’m no man of medicine, so I won’t pretend to know her chances, but there’s no better place to be spared Tarim’s ill-regard.
As for you, let’s get something hot in both your bellies to warm you up before you meet the abbess.
Your friend should—” His brow creased as he peered over the heads of his brethren. “Now where did she get off to?”
“She tends to turn up again,” mumbled Fern, whiskers shivering.
“Mmm,” he replied, frowning, then turning his attention back to her. “Now, what was that you were saying before about a bridge?”