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.
