Her cheek met a coat made of pockets and sank into it, and she was gone.
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.
