“Take the reins,” he orders, his breath gusting warm on my nape. “Onyx knows the way.”
Leaving the fallen bridge behind, I ride into the mist-shrouded mountains—reins in my hand, enemy at my back, heart lodged firmly in my throat.
Chapter
Eight
The path is steep—a narrow switchback of icy stone, nearly vertical in pitch. A thick cover of clouds clings to the mountains like cologne on a courtier’s neck. Ascending into it, I can see no more than ten paces ahead of us. Though I suppose any view at all is an improvement on that afforded by my previous riding position.
I hold the reins but I do not steer, for Scythe did not exaggerate—Onyx knows the way. His hooves never falter as he navigates around boulders and fallen tree limbs, over snowbanks and ice sheets, an ever-upward march. Far below, the ravine is a constant presence, growing all the more bottomless as we climb. It runs the length of the range, a dark vein of demarcation dividing civilization from barbarity.
The Northlands.
Of all the places I thought my path would lead, it was not here. Not to this hellscape. Sure as I know my own name, I am certain I’ll meet my end in these mountains. As good a place to perish as any, I suppose. If my bones bleach beneath the cold Cimmerian sun for all eternity…Well, there is no one left to mourn me anyway.
The air in my lungs is thin, each breath tinged with the scentof pinesap. I pull in shallow gulps, trying not to shiver as the wind whips at my face. Feeling my poorly subdued shakes, Scythe presses closer to my back and adjusts his cloak more firmly around both of us. I can feel the hard planes of his chest even through the fabric of my dress, so warm it’s a bit like leaning against the wall of a furnace. The leather straps of his bandolier are a pointed reminder of the peril that chases us up the mountain.
“I’m f-f-fine,” I say through chattering teeth.
“Stubborn is what you are.” I can practically hear his scowl. “Rather freeze to death than admit weakness.”
“Honestly, of all the ways I thought I’d d-d-die these past f-f-few days, freezing to d-d-death sounds almost pleasant.”
He does not dignify my snide remark with a response. And I cease my protests, for, though it pains me to admit it, the journey is undeniably more tolerable riding thus. Pressed close to Scythe’s chest as I am, a slow heat begins to radiate through my body, starting at my spine and ebbing outward until I can once again wiggle my frozen fingers. After a few moments, my shivers slow, then stop altogether.
For a while, we ride onward in silence, the horse plucking a careful track on the slippery slope. Questions gnaw at me. I tell myself not to put words to them, but eventually I am overpowered by my own insufferable curiosity.
“Have you traveled this way many times before?”
“Enough to know the way.” Succinct as ever.
“Which makes you—what, exactly? A spy, sent down to the Midlands by some northern king pondering invasion?”
“I’m not certain why you suddenly feel entitled to ask.”
“Of course.” I drop my voice to imitate his low rasp. “Prisoners are not privy to information.”
This, he ignores outright.
I sigh heavily. “What difference does telling me a few measlydetails make? I’m going to find out where your allegiance lies as soon as we arrive at our destination. I’ll learn the name of the liege whose boots you lick when you throw me at his feet.”
Still, Scythe remains stubbornly silent.
Gods, the man is insufferable.
With one hand, I tighten my grip on the reins, wishing I could as easily rein in my temper. With the other, I finger the slim blade buried deep in the pocket of my gown. For both our sakes, I hope we haven’t much farther to go before journey’s end. Any more time spent at each other’s throats might result in one of them getting slit open.
Several hours later,it is a vast relief when the switchback path veers away from the summit and into a natural valley between two adjoining peaks. As the endless climb flattens to a solid plane of earth, I summon the energy to open my eyes. My lids feel stiff. As for the rest of me, I’ve long since gone numb. A girl carved from ice, chilled to the very bone. Even my captor’s furnace-like heat isn’t enough to stave off the relentless cold at this altitude.
At some point during the ascent, my stubborn nature faltered in the battle against arctic air. I now find myself slumped fully against Scythe, as much for warmth as to keep from losing my seat on the precarious incline. He is irritatingly warm. Warmer than he has any right to be, frankly, when I’m teetering on the edge of frostbite. The indignity of it—needing him—leeches through me like poison. Forcing my frozen limbs into motion, I grab the pommel and straighten in the saddle to create a bit of space between us.
Regret blasts through me instantly. Parted from his body heat, I feel the frigid air bite with hungry teeth. I do my best tosuppress the shivers racking my body, but it’s a futile effort. My very bones are rattling.
If Scythe notices my sudden repositioning, he does not remark upon it. As that would require his voluntarily speaking to me, I can’t say I’m entirely surprised by that fact.
Overhead, a weak winter sun burns, dissipating the thick mountain mist as it rises higher in the sky. Beams of light refract off the peaks, a blinding white. I squint, trying to make out our surroundings. Before us lies an expanse of snow that seems to stretch on forever. Save for a few green trees, the landscape is entirely colorless. Wind stirs the drifts into vortexes that dance across the valley’s surface.
Onyx draws to a halt without warning, his chain mail tackle chiming. Behind me, Scythe shifts in the saddle, grunting lowly in discomfort as he lifts his wounded arm. With his fingers at his lips, he looses a sharp, birdlike whistle.