Springhope
The scouts found them on the second day of riding.
Lark had been watching a mostly unconscious Rion, her attention so fixed on his precarious position on Duchess that she didn’t notice the figures above until Whisper stopped and refused to move.
She looked up and found three people standing on a shelf of rock, perhaps fifty feet overhead, positioned where they could observe the trail without being seen by anyone not specifically looking for them.
Two women and a man, all dressed in clothing that blended with the gray and green of the mountainside. They carried bows but had not drawn them. They were just watching, their faces unreadable at this distance.
Lark’s hand instinctively moved to summon a dagger before she caught herself. Whisper shifted beneath her, responding to her rider’s tension.
“Easy,” Darian said quietly. “They’re not hostile. If they were, we’d already have arrows in us.”
One woman raised a hand in greeting and called down words Lark could not quite hear. Then all three began making their way down the rock face with the casual confidence of people who had spent their entire lives navigating vertical terrain.
They reached the trail in less time than should have been possible and approached the group with expressions of cautious welcome. The woman who had called out was older, perhaps fifty, with hair pulled back in a practical twist and eyes that took in everything around her.
“Travelers,” she said. “Heading for Springhope?”
“Yes,” Lark said. “We were told …”
She stopped. The woman was staring at her with an expression that had shifted from caution to something almost like recognition.
“Snow witch,” the woman said softly. She glanced at her companions, who were watching Lark with similar expressions. “We don’t see many of your kind in these mountains.”
Lark didn’t know how to respond. She had grown used to her silver hair marking her as unusual and had learned to expect curiosity or suspicion from strangers who noticed it.
But this was different. The scouts were looking at her like they knew her, like she was someone they had been expecting, and she had no idea why.
“We received a Copperwing from Autumncrown,” the woman continued.
“From Councilwoman Thornwood. She said to expect three travelers. A woman named Lark and two companions.” Her gaze moved to Rion, taking in the bandages and the pallor and the way he slumped in Duchess’s saddle. “She did not mention a fourth.”
“Plans changed,” Darian said. “We had to make a detour.”
The woman nodded slowly, apparently deciding not to press for details. “Your friend needs a healer. We should move quickly.”
She turned and began walking up the trail, her companions falling into step beside her. The goats followed without prompting, Duchess keening once as though to announce their departure. The sound echoed off the mountain walls, and somewhere above them, an answering call drifted down.
“More goats?” Pippa asked wearily.
“Springhope keeps herds near the summit,” the woman said over her shoulder. “You’ll hear them often. You get used to it.”
“People keep telling me I’ll get used to things,” Pippa muttered. “I’m beginning to doubt them.”
As they climbed, the lead scout fell back to walk beside the goats, pointing out features of the landscape as they ascended.
She explained Springhope was built directly into the mountainside, using the natural terrain rather than fighting against it.
The city was heated by geothermal vents, she told them, hot springs and steam that rose from deep beneath the mountain and was channeled through pipes into homes and public buildings.
“It’s how we survive the winters,” she said. “And how we grow food year-round. The greenhouses stay warm even when the snow piles higher than a man’s head.”
“Greenhouses?” Pippa perked up at this, her mechanist’s curiosity overriding her exhaustion.
“Glass structures built over the thermal vents. We grow vegetables, herbs, and flowers that wouldn’t survive the altitude otherwise. Some of them are found nowhere else in Ianorrah.”
They climbed for another hour before the city came into view.
Springhope revealed itself slowly, emerging from the mountainside as if it had grown there rather than been built.
The first structures Lark saw were carved directly into the rock, their facades flush with the cliff face, their windows glinting with reflected sunlight.
Above and beyond these, the city rose in terraces, each level connected to the next by stone staircases and winding paths.
Gardens grew everywhere. They spilled from terraced beds, hung from balconies, and crowded the spaces between buildings.
Lark saw vegetables, herbs and flowers she didn't recognize, their riotous colors vivid against the gray stone.
Glass structures dotted the upper levels, their surfaces fogged with moisture from the warmth within.
Steam rose from vents scattered throughout the city, carrying warmth that Lark could feel even from here.
At the heart of it all, rising from a natural plateau near the summit, stood the obelisk. It was smaller than the one in Autumncrown but no less impressive, a spire of pale stone that caught the afternoon light and held it like a beacon.
In Autumncrown, the magic had felt like hearth fire: warm and glowing, quick to spark.
Here the aetheria seemed to rise from the earth itself, slow and steady as a heartbeat, ancient as the mountains that cradled the city.
It nudged against her senses like roots reaching down through bedrock, like the patient warmth of stone that had spent centuries absorbing the sun.
And there was life in it. She could feel the gardens, the greenhouses, the thousands of growing things that drew strength from the mountain’s heart, but beneath all of that life was something older.
Something that had been here long before the first witch carved her home into the cliff face, something that would remain long after the last one was gone.
She had never felt anything quite like it. It made her feel small and temporary, and yet strangely comforted all at once.
“It’s beautiful,” Pippa breathed.
It was. Lark had not expected beauty and had braced herself for a fortress or a village. But Springhope was none of those things. It was a city that had made peace with its environment and had learned to work with the mountains rather than against them.
The scouts led them through a gate in the outer wall, a construction of stone and timber that looked timeworn but solid. People stopped to watch them pass, and again Lark noticed the way their gazes lingered on her, the flickers of recognition that made no sense.
“Why do they keep looking at me like that?” she asked quietly.
The lead scout glanced back at her. “You remind them of someone.”
“Who?”
But the woman didn't answer, only quickened her pace as they wound through the terraced streets toward the center of the city.
The healing halls were built into the base of the plateau that supported the obelisk, their entrance marked by a carved archway depicting intertwined vines and flowers.
The stone here was warm to the touch, heated by the geothermal forces that powered the rest of the city, and the air that drifted out carried the scent of herbs and a sweetness beneath.
Healers emerged as they approached, summoned by some signal Lark had not noticed.
Two of them went immediately to Rion, helping him down from Duchess’s back with gentle hands.
He was barely conscious now, the long ride having taken whatever reserves he had left, and he did not protest as they guided him through the archway and into the halls beyond.
Lark moved to follow, but the lead scout caught her arm.
“Let them work,” she said. “He’ll be examined first. They’ll call for you when there’s news.”
“I should be with him.”
“You should rest. All of you.” The woman’s voice was not unkind. “There’s a guesthouse near the eastern terrace. Food, beds, a chance to wash the road from your skin. Your friend will be taken care of. This is what we do.”
Lark wanted to argue. Every instinct she had railed against letting Rion out of her sight, against trusting strangers with the man she had fought so hard to save.
But the scouts were right. She was exhausted, filthy, and in no condition to help with anything.
And these were healers, people trained in the type of magic that might actually make a difference.
“Fine,” she said. “But I would like to see him as soon as possible.”
“Of course.”
They were led to the guesthouse, a comfortable building with thick walls and windows that overlooked the terraced gardens below. The rooms were small but warm, heated by the same geothermal system that served the rest of the city, and someone had provided clean clothing and basins of hot water.
Noctis immediately found a place to sleep at the foot of the bed while Lark washed, scrubbing away the grime of the journey, and put on the simple dark green dress that had been laid out.
She did these things mechanically, without really seeing what she was doing.
Her thoughts were in the healing halls with Rion, wondering what the healers were finding, wondering if there was damage beyond what she had seen.
She was braiding her damp hair when a knock came at the door.
“The healers are asking for you,” a young man said when she opened it. “For all of you. They’ve finished the initial examination.”
Pippa and Darian emerged from their own rooms, and together they followed the messenger back through the winding streets to the healing halls. The sun had begun to set in shades of orange and rose that reflected off the greenhouse glass and turned the entire city golden.
Inside, the halls were quieter than Lark had expected. They passed through a receiving area and down a corridor lined with doors, finally stopping at one that stood slightly ajar. The messenger gestured for them to enter.
Rion lay on a bed in the center of the room, covered by a light blanket, his eye closed in what might have been sleep or unconsciousness.
Someone had cleaned him properly, washing away the last traces of the dungeon, the sewers, and the desperate flight through the mountains.
Without the grime, the damage to his face was even starker, the bandages white against skin that was still bruised and too pale.
A healer sat beside the bed, a young woman with dark hair and a kind face. She rose when they entered.
“He’s stable,” she said before they could ask.
“Exhausted, malnourished, and carrying injuries that should have been treated days ago, but stable. The burns are healing cleanly. His ribs are cracked but not broken. The eye …” She paused, choosing her words carefully.
“The eye cannot be restored. But the wound itself is not infected, and with proper care it will heal without further complication.”
“And his magic?” Lark asked. “He can’t reach aetheria. He’s been trying for days, and nothing happens.”
The healer’s expression grew troubled. “That is beyond my expertise. I’ve sent for someone more skilled. She should be here soon.”
As if summoned by the words, footsteps sounded in the corridor outside. The door opened wider, and a woman stepped into the room.
She was perhaps sixty years old, with silver hair that fell past her shoulders and eyes the color of a winter sky.
Her face was lined but handsome, carrying the particular beauty of someone who had aged with grace.
She wore healer’s robes in pale green and moved with the quiet confidence of an experienced healer.
Lark stopped breathing.
She knew that face. She had seen it every day of her childhood, had watched it smile and frown and crinkle with laughter. She had seen it one final time across a crowded market square, had watched it mouth the word run before disappearing forever.
Twenty-five years had passed. White had crept into the silver hair, and the softness of youth had given way to a face that was leaner and stronger. But the bones beneath were the same. The eyes were the same. The way she held herself, the angle of her chin, the particular tilt of her mouth.
Lark was looking at her mother.
No. Not her mother. Her mother was dead, had been dead for a quarter of a century. She had died in a market square in Wintersorrow while Lark ran and ran and didn't look back.
But this woman could have been her. This woman looked exactly as Alisse Silvertree would have looked if she had lived long enough to grow old.
The woman had stopped just inside the doorway. She was staring at Lark with an expression of shock that slowly transformed into wonder and hope.
“Larkindel,” she breathed. “Oh, moons above. Larkindel.”
The name no one but Duskwood had called her since she was twelve years old. The name her mother had given her. The name she had buried along with everything else from that life.
“You have her face,” the woman whispered. “My sister’s face.” Tears were sliding down her cheeks now, unheeded. “I thought you were dead. All these years, I thought everyone was dead.”
Lark couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. She could only stand there as the world rearranged itself around a truth she had never imagined.
She was not the last of her family after all.