“If I can't reach him,” he says. “If the berserker is too deep. If there's nothing of Rodvek left…”
“There is. You've seen it. He fights himself. He attacks and retreats. He says brother and help me. That's not the berserker talking. That's Rodvek.”
“He might not come back the way I did.”
“He might not. But he deserves the chance.”
His arms tighten around me. We lie there, not sleeping, not talking, just breathing in the dark. Through the wall, I can hear Mother Sanque moving around her study, pulling books from shelves, making notes. Preparing.
I press my face against Kovren's chest. His heart beats against my cheek. Slow. Steady.
We sleep. Not long, not deep. But we sleep.
Mother Sanque wakes us before dawn with tea and a pack.
“Supplies,” she says. “Food, water, bandages. My route through the pass is marked. Two days if the weather holds.”
She hands me a separate pouch. Inside, dried herbs I recognize and a few I don't. “For his wounds, if it comes to that. And for yours.”
“Mine?”
“The anchor effect will pull from you. When you touch Rodvek and the bond extends through you, you'll feel it. Fatigue, disorientation, cold. Don't push past your limits.”
“I'm a healer. I shouldn’t have limits when someone needs me.”
“That's exactly what concerns me.” She fixes me with that sharp gaze. “You're no good to him dead, girl. Remember that.”
I tuck the pouch into my pack.
At the door, she catches Kovren's arm. The same gesture as last time, her small hand wrapped around his massive wrist.
“The bond will hold,” she says. “Trust it. Trust her.”
“I do.”
“Then trust yourself.” She releases him. “And come back alive. Both of you. I want to hear what happens.”
The morning air is bitter cold. Frost on the stones, our breath visible, the sky just starting to lighten above the mountains. Kovren slings both packs over one shoulder and holds out his other hand.
I take it.
We walk.
KOVREN
The stronghold is smaller than I remember.
Two days through the mountain pass, sleeping in the lee of rocks with Maren pressed against my chest and the bond warm between us, and then we come around the last switchback and there it is. Gray walls crumbling into the slope. The gatehouse half-collapsed, timbers black with old fire. The training yard choked with weeds that have pushed through the stone and split it.
The mountain has been taking it back.
Maren stops beside me. She doesn't speak. Just looks, and I can feel her reading the place. Assessing damage. Mapping what's broken.
“The hall is through the main gate,” I say. “Or what's left of it.”
We pick through the rubble. The gate timbers have rotted and fallen inward. The courtyard beyond is a mess of collapsed stone and wild growth. Frost has cracked the flagstones. A birch sapling grows from the base of the outer wall, white bark bright against the gray.
The garden is still there.
