Their path coincided with the direction the compass pointed them in, which was promising. Most of them managed to get the hang of riding after a long day of it, though by the time they stopped for the night, they were all aching and sore. Virgil looked about ready to keel over, which Vera made a point to tease him about, especially after he had claimed that very morning to be familiar with riding and had spent all day showing off as he tried to measure up to Vera.
“Fine, I lied,” Virgil grumbled. “Closest I’ve ever come to a horse is watching the races. My parents used to take me every summer we spent in Trevel.”
Vera snorted. “I forget that you’re from a prominent Selenic Order family. The posh sure do love their horse racing.”
“Says the equestrian.” Virgil contemplated her with amusement. “I wonder if our paths ever crossed.”
“Doubtful. I don’t make it a point to hang out with pretentious racing enthusiasts who don’t actually care about the horses.”
“Pretentious?Now I’m just insulted. And I’ll have you know I care about horsesdeeply.”
He recoiled in fright from the neighing horses they’d tied nearby, making Vera laugh and Emory bite back a smile, wondering if there was something brewing between the two.
Thick pine trees rose around them, sheltering them from the elements. While they ate around a fire, Emory used her healing magic to relieve everyone’s aching muscles. Ghosts sprang up around her, called by her power, but she had gotten good at ignoring them. Still, she found herself wishing for Sidraeus’s presence, the way his proximity always seemed to absorb the darkness of her magic.
She had to find the syrinx.
The thought had consumed her all day as they traveled. She’d kept her eyes peeled for any temple ruins lying nearby, had asked their guides about them, too, but they reiterated what Inga had already alluded to: that most ruins would be found in the mountains proper—especially any temple once dedicated to the Soulless One.
Emory did not sleep that night, afraid to face Sidraeus after she’d told him of her intentions with the syrinx. He wanted her to break it—had been adamant about it, clearly terrified of it being used. But if the instrument was like the lyre Inga believed could bring back the Celestials and earn their favor—if it might bring back the Celestials’ counterpart, therealSoulless One, and bind him to whoever used it…
Then Emory had to get her hands on it. She had to be the one to use it, to bind Sidraeus to her and stop Clover once and for all.
It took two full days of riding to arrive at the foot of the great chain of craggy, snowy peaks that rose to impossible heights. From here, they would start up the base of the highest mountain, which the guides called deceptively easy; snow did not reach these tree-lined parts, and old steps were carved into the gentle incline to ease their ascent. But soon enough this path would become treacherous.
In the shadow of the mountains, everything was dark and desolate, pine trees drooping with eerie moss, not a bird or insect to be heard. There was something in the air that smelled foul, making Emory suppress a shiver.
“This used to be a place of ethereal beauty,” one of their guides said, eyeing the peaks with equal parts reverence and fear, “where the winged horses roamed free. The messengers, we called them. They were the Celestials’ creatures, divine messengers. Coats the pure white of fresh snow in sunlight, and wings to match. Theireyes used to glow like the sun. Nowadays… well. You’ve seen what they’re like now. Tainted by the Soulless One and his followers, just like these mountains.”
“This is where we leave you,” the other man said skittishly. “This is no place for those who aren’t Godstouched—nor is it a place for common horses, I’m afraid.”
Emory was relieved to be done with the soreness of riding, but the prospect of the climb didn’t seem any better. As the guides were getting the horses ready, using lead ropes to tie them together to their own mounts, one of them glanced pointedly at Vivyan, Ivayne, and Vera.
“Last chance to turn back, you three. Death lives in these mountains, the kind only the Godstouched might survive.”
Ivayne merely lifted a brow at him. “When was the last time a non-Godstouched tried?”
The guides had no answer to this, and both Vera and Vivyan stood as resolute as Ivayne. None of them had a spiral mark, unlike Emory, Virgil, and Nisha, but that wouldn’t stop them.
“Your funeral,” the guide muttered before hopping on his horse. “Be sure to—”
His words were cut short by the whizzing of a lightning bolt that embedded itself in his chest. The man fell limply to the ground as his horse whinnied and bucked. It darted off through the trees along with the three horses it was tied to. The other guide struggled to control his own steed and the other three horses it was meant to lead. Vivyan and Ivayne already had their swords drawn and brandished, looking at the treetops where a winged horse and its rider were visible.
“GO!”the guide screamed at Emory and the others just as a horde of ash-umbrae manifested between the trees.
There was no time to consider the fallen guide, no time to see if the other one was all right as he and the horses raced off, a fewash-umbrae trailing after him. Emory and the others dashed up the mountain, an army of monsters at their backs and one of the Songless flying above them on his once-divine steed. Lightning struck a massive pine tree up ahead, making it fall on the path, blocking their way. Before any of them could think of a way to cut through it, the winged horse flew close to the fallen tree, and its rider jumped from its back, landing with unnatural grace on the path, lightning sword in hand.
They had no choice but to head off the path, into the trees. Emory used her magic to create a barrier around them, hoping it would keep the ash-umbrae and the Songless off their backs long enough for her and her friends to lose them through the foreboding brush. Fog had descended, engulfing the moss-covered trees and disorienting them until they couldn’t tell which way they were going. They ran until their lungs were on fire, until there was not a sound around them, and when they finally stopped for a breather, the fog had cleared just enough that they could see nothing was chasing them. No ash-umbra, no winged horse, no Songless.
But they had veered so completely off the path, the peak they were meant to climb seemed like a distant thing now.
“We can make it back,” Vera panted, looking at the compass. “There’s a ridge over there, see? Connects back to our mountain.”
The farther up they went, the sparser the trees became, the wind howling around them as if it wanted to knock them off the mountainside. Close to nightfall, the question of where they’d sleep weighed on them. They carried on and on, panic and dread creeping higher and higher, until at last some kind of shelter came into view.
Temple ruins built into the side of the mountain.
Emory’s heart thudded wildly at the thought that the syrinx might be here. Distantly she remembered Inga’s warning, but surely it was better to face whatever superstitious evil might live in theseruins than to freeze to death out in the open. They could only hope the Songless and the ash-umbrae wouldn’t appear again, as they had at the last temple they’d visited.
