The ceiling over the middle of the ledge makes the kind of rumble you never want to hear from overhead stone. Then it cracks.
For a single moment, nothing moves.
Then everything does.
A slab of ceiling the size of Haroth tears free and drops straight down onto the path where Kelvan stands.
Mih-kay-lah flinches. The basket slams against her chest.
“Down!” I roar.
Instinct moves quicker than thought.
I snap my arms around her waist and turn, twisting our bodies and slamming us flat against the wall. I shove with all my strength, pinning her between the stone and my chest, curling my shoulders forward to make myself a shell against the falling world.
The world turns to noise and grit.
Rock hits rock, a deafening series of blows. Dust explodes around us in a thick wave. The ledge bucks under our feet as shattered pieces bounce and twist.
Something the size of my fist clips my shoulder, then my hip. Pain flares hot. I ignore it.
I hold her tighter.
Her head tucks under my chin. Her fingers knot themselves in the harness strap at my hip. The hard edge of the basket digs into my side; I do not let it go.
The worst of the fall ends in a rain of smaller stones, then tapers off.
Silence rushes in to fill the space.
Not true silence. My dra-kir is still pounding hard enough to make my ribs ache. Water still drips down the wall. On the far side, I sense Haroth cursing in the mindspace, Zan growling at the mountain.
But no more stone is falling.
Slowly, carefully, I ease my grip.
Dust hangs thick in the air, turned to a cloud of gold by my over-bright glow.
Mih-kay-lah is very still in my arms.
“Mih-kay-lah?” My voice feels like it has been scraped with rough stone. I force her name through anyway. “Mih-kay-lah. Hurt?”
She drags in a shaky breath. Then another. Then she lets out a word in her language that I have heard many times but still do not fully understand.
“Fuck.”
The shape of it is familiar. She uses it when she is angry. When Ain is too bright. When the coo-keen does not go well. Often when she catches me watching her.
“This time is… hurt?” I ask cautiously in my own tongue, trying to sort her tone.
Her chest shakes against mine.
For a dra-kirbeat, my blood turns to ice. I imagine her eyes leaking, that strange female reaction to pain or fear. I do not want that. I would rather fight the mountain than see that.
Then the shaking turns into a long, rough exhalation against my collarbone.
Relief hits me so hard my knees nearly give.
She is not broken.
