The princess opened her eyes. Readied her worn arms above her head. Squatted as deep as her balance dared. And sprang for the top.
The upward momentum gave lift she wouldn’t have had from a dead hang. Her fingers gained tenuous purchase on the plateau, just deep enough that she was able to drive her left elbow into the graveled skin of the flattop, lace shredding as the bent joint skidded to a delicate halt.
For one sick moment, her entire body weight, plus the heft of her crossed swords and her boots with their hidden knife, was suspended on three points.
With everything she had left, Amarande’s right hand left the safety of her grip and shot forward, her elbow jutting out and catching the plateau’s lip.
Teeth grinding, she hauled her upper body toward the bend of the edge, and swung her right leg on top, and then rolled onto the table of rock.
Breathing in ragged kicks and starts, she lay on her back, swords pressed in an unforgiving cross over her spine. The air she sucked in was sweet and clean, even mingled with a harsh cut of new perspiration from under her arms.
She made it.
A smile touched Amarande’s lips as she sat up and opened her eyes, eager to peer over the edge, hoping for three horses at a distance and therefore more pointed guidance on the correct direction. The barest sign of water along the same general path would be even more desirable.
So much to gain. But when she stood, something came that she didn’t expect.
The sudden sensation that she wasn’t alone.
The princess immediately extracted both swords and whirled a quarter turn to her left, Egia and Maite out in a high blocking cross.
Between the intersection of glinting Basilican steel, the princess saw a ghost.
A wolf as black as night.
Her breath caught and her swords quivered.
Dehydration might kill a person in three days, but the princess knew not how long a person could go without water and maintain sanity.
This couldn’t be real.
There were no black wolves left in the Torrent or anywhere else in the Sand and Sky. All had been famously murdered and their pelts made into various fluffy gifts to the Warlord. The symbol of the Otxoa, eradicated right along with the family that held it dear.
Yet the wolf’s eyes narrowed.
Its canines flashed, the length of her hand from wrist to middle finger.
It took a step forward, onyx paw landing in a whisper of cinnamon dust.
Amarande’s mind raced. This was the face of something that didn’t exist. “Extinct” didn’t mean lying in wait atop a plateau the height of the Itspi’s tallest tower.
“You’re not real.”
The wolf took another step, its carriage lowering, power coiled in its hind legs.
“You’re not real,” the princess repeated, this time a whisper. An appeal to the stars. Amarande couldn’t attack an actual black wolf. She couldn’t. She had her swords, yes. But this creature might be the last of its kind.
Like her.
The wolf’s grin spread, snout crinkled. Yellow pupils just slits now. It didn’t howl, and it wouldn’t, not if it was real. Real wolves attacked in silence. In packs, too—if a lone wolf was spotted, more were near.
But here? On top of the worst part of the world? How could there even be one, let alone a pack?
Amarande backed up on a curve. In her periphery, there was a mass of some kind—a crush of rocks. Koldo’s voice stuck in her head, the advice the same for any fanged beast:Cover your flanks.She needed protection on one side, and without a tree—ideal—anything upright would do. Looking bigger than she was would help. Her left hand scrabbled at her skirt, pulling the fabric out to the side.
The wolf hesitated. She was wider. Bigger. Flank covered.
It didn’t matter.
