Then, though, the shale began to disappear, their footing firming up into packed earth and hard stone, and the incline of the world tilted drastically beneath them. By the time dusk fell on their first full day beyond the woods—the painted colors of the sky cast in awkward shadows around them as the sun sank almost directly to their left along the ranges—Declan knew they had reached the mountains true.

  They were within the Mother’s Tears, ascending the great peaks he had been raised to believe—as any child of Viridian was—marked certain death for any man or woman fool enough to test them.

  That night, during his watch—spent huddled under the layers of his salvaged cloak and bed-furs with the firestone clutched to his chest for warmth—Declan found himself repeating his conviction of their shared madness until it sounded like a mantra on his lips.

  The pace slowed exponentially, after that. Orsik and Eyera continued to prove themselves by instinctively taking the easiest paths up the slopes, the clinking of their shifting pack harnesses making them easy to follow even when the breaking juts of rock and cliff hid the pair from view. Ester was always second behind them, with Ryn third. It hadn't been more than an hour into the true climb before the dragon had given up on his rh’eem and transformed into the massive, loping wolf, taking up his claymore in his mouth to chase after the half-elf and warg on a steadier foursome of legs.

  After Ryn, Declan usually came next, with Bonner most often bringing up a straggling rear. The old man, like the animals, was usually audible even when out of sight, though his telling sounds were more often curses and mumbled seethings about the mountains and the blasted wind that continued to buffet them about like leaves on a sparse branch.

  The ascent was, on the other hand, not without its silver linings. For one the fact that they had to keep a close eye on their footing at all times meant that there was little energy or thought to spare to daily training. Declan was excused from all weave practice other than some evening repetition of the arcane laws across a summoned fire, over which they warmed their meat and roasted slices of potatoes for supper. Ryn had considered putting them about their swordplay, but Ester put her foot down on this idea with a pointed commentary that if the dragon wanted them to fall asleep on their feet the next day, then of course she and Declan would draw steel for him. She’d indeed looked exhausted, lounging back into the crook of Eyera’s swelling, furred sides for warmth while the warg slept soundly, half-curled about the woman.

  Declan could have kissed her for joy when Ryn had—somewhat sheepishly—bowed to this sardonic wisdom, and didn’t bring up the idea again.

  That was not the only benefit, however. Whether because they had left Viridian behind or because Sehranya had summoned all her own beasts to her cause, the attacks and ambushes they’d suffered daily in the last half-week of their trek towards the mountains came no more. There were wereyn about them. None of them needed Ryn’s occasional words of warning to know that. Declan put the skills Ester had once taught him in the woods around her home to use, noting infrequently an overturned stone or freshly furrowed earth which outlined the marks of clawed feet. They’d even seen one or two of the creatures outright, but for whatever reason these beastmen did not launch themselves into any furious assault, as had their brethren in the woods. Bonner put forth the hypothesis that these were wild wereyn, possibly moving in smaller packs or even alone, and so lacked the confidence that had led so many larger groups to gleefully leap upon the party’s claws and teeth and steel. It seemed a plausible theory, particularly when Declan had opportunity to observe the exceptionally haggard state of one pair, showing themselves for longer than the rest as they hesitated, thin forms clearly torn between hunger and caution.

  To the benefit of all, the latter won out, and the beasts had left them to seek out less troublesome prey.

  Aside from these few sightings, there was hardly a living soul to be found among the uneven, arid terrain of the crags, the environment growing drier and colder as they climbed. Declan saw on occasion a diving cliff falcon—the bird they’d always claimed Ryn to be in his hawk’s form—chasing after what must have been some small rodent among the rocks, and once or twice thought he caught the slinking forms of wolves peeking at them from the shelves high above. Given that this was the extent of any and all contact they had with the fabled dangers of the ranges, Declan felt himself growing more confident as one day passed into two. Without the threat of attack ever-present in the back of his mind, he found himself sleeping better than he had in weeks, though this was certainly partially due to the ardor of their daily journey.

  Indeed exhaustion, if anything, would have been the most dangerous of their enemies, but Bonner was their saving grace in that respect. They took frequent rests, stopping every hour or so, in which time the mage would see to any scrapes or bruises any of their number might have incurred, and weave spells of vitality into their bodies. He was sparse with his magic, providing just enough to assist their aching muscles and lungs in adapting to the altitudes, but it was enough. By the time the morning of their third day came, Declan found himself waking feeling refreshed and ready, like he had spent weeks adjusting to clambering up the Tears, rather than mere days.

  Alas, where fatigue failed in seeing them defeated, the elements put up a greater fight.

  Declan rather thought that they might have ordinarily managed relatively well without spellwork for the first two-thirds of the climb. His and Ester’s heavy cloaks, gloves, and boots were godsend, and Bonner and Ryn were initially as bothered by the chill as they might have been by a mild drizzle on a summer’s morning. Had it been any other mountain range, they might have been fine until they reached the true bluffs still high above them.

  But these were the Tears, and they did not bear trespass lightly.

  The cold was bad enough. By the time Declan ventured to guess they had managed half the ascent, the slickness of the stone underfoot had turned to true ice, as frequently smooth and glassy as it was rough and manageable. He and Ester had taken to wrapping spare clothes about their faces every morning to ward off the bite of the air, and even Bonner joined them on their fourth day in doing so, as well as tucking his hands into make-shift mittens from some of his spare socks which Declan hoped were warmer than they appeared. Orsik and Eyera were less affected, their heavy fur keeping them content on the move, but at night they always curled around each other for warmth, leaving only enough space between their two massive, shivering bodies for Ester to slip between. By the time they reached the snow-shelves, only Ryn appeared yet unperturbed by the cold.

  Even the dragon, though, could do little against the wind.

  In the first days, it had been noticeable, but hardly concerning. At worst a particularly strong gust would throw back one of their hoods, exposing faces and ears to the winter-worthy chill while costing them a few seconds of cursing and scrambling to cover themselves. But, as they got higher, the blasts worsened, arriving in an almost timetable fashion while a steady, unrestful zephyr pressed at them constantly in between. Their pace became crawling, their movement upward every hour feeling like it could be counted in body-lengths rather than any valuable measurement of distance. The wind tore at them, scouring them and buffeting their bodies first this way, then that, more than once almost costing someone the already-precarious purchase they had on the slick rock and ice. It was unrelenting, and by the time they settled for camp on the evening of their fifth day on the slopes, Declan had noticed Bonner and Ryn both glancing up at the clouds more times than he was comfortable with over the course of the afternoon.

  “Is something wrong?!”

  Exhausted by the day’s climb, the yr’Essel’s had taken to their rest the moment the group had finished scarfing down a meager dinner. Ester had clambered between the warg while her father huddled atop one of the beds of thin roots and small firestones that was all he was able to summon up for he and Declan to sleep on this high up the mountain. Declan, for his part, had found himself awake despite his own fatigue, a nagging doubt prodding him away from his bedroll.

  Ryn’s twisted, wolfish head bent around at his voice, the question yelled over the buffeting scream of the cliffs. The dragon had somehow backed his large body into a crevice formed between two smaller boulders, settling down in preparation of the first watch of the night.

  We’ll have to teach you to mind-speak, if this keeps up, he said with something like a laugh. And what do you mean?

  In answer, Declan pointed skyward, not trusting his words to reach against the wind picking up even more.

  Ryn looked once at the clouds, then back down, his expression inexplicably fascinated.

  Don’t tell me you can feel it, too? I’m impressed, Declan. I don’t think I’ve been giving the old man enough credit as a teacher…

  “No!” Declan yelled and waved his hands in an attempt to get his point across. “No! I’ve just seen you and Bonner watching the sky all day! What’s got you both worked up?!”

  Ah. Ryn frowned, his white-gold eyes lifting a second time. The very last light of the sun was all that illuminated the heavens now, dim beyond the overcast blanket of the storm.

  There was no mistaking, this close, the brief flash of worry that passed across the dragon’s face.

  Whatever that is, it isn’t natural. Ryn sounded uncertain. Bonner thinks the same.

  Declan felt a now-familiar fear scrape at the back of his neck. They were high, five days up the incline of the mountains, and some part of him felt like he wouldn’t have had to do more than reach up in order to touch the dimming sky. Even had that been possible, though, he didn’t think he would have. He’d never seen clouds move like those above them now, churning and dipping fast enough for the eye to follow. It gave new meaning to the idea of a “brewing storm”, and he supposed he should have guessed there was more to the tempest if he’d really been willing to consider the alternative. He forgave himself the neglect. Declan had never before had the opportunity to witness anything remotely like such a phenomenon from such proximity. It had allowed him to cast the fear aside, to ignore it in favor of assuming the roiling cloud cover was nothing more than a trick of proximity and the cruel nature of the Tears.

  Ryn’s words, of course, snuffed out that small spark of hope.

  “Is it her?!”

  He despised the fact that it had become even the least bit difficult to say the witch’s name. He’d found himself avoiding it during what conversation they’d been able to maintain as they climbed, like voicing it would give cause for Sehranya—obviously close, now—to summon herself to them once more.

  If Ryn noticed Declan’s trepidation, he made no comment of it.

  Who else? Either she’s preparing something she hopes will take us out in one fell swoop, or she’s using the winds to herd us into some other danger.

  Mercifully, if only for a moment, the howl of the storm faded enough to speak normally, and Declan eased himself down to sit in a small nook of the rocks beside his companion, eyes still on the boiling clouds.

  “And there’s nothing to be done about it?” His voice, at a normal volume, sounded dull to his ears.

  In the immediate moment, I don’t know what we could do. Ryn, too, was yet watching the sky. All we have left is to prepare ourselves. She’s making no attempt to hide her weaving. Then again, she might not have a choice, given the amount of power in that storm. But the fact that she isn’t trying is what’s most concerning. Whatever she has in store for us, she’s confident it will be enough.

  Declan didn’t ask what the dragon meant. He could figure it out on his own.

  It was apparent, staring into that storm, that the Endless Queen had no intention of letting any of them off those mountains alive.

  The snows started the next day.

  At first it was hardly noticeable, the flecks of white little more than added annoyance to the pebbles and ice dust the wind kicked maliciously about their heads. By the time mid-morning arrived, however, the blizzard had started in truth, and soon what little security they’d had in their footing was betraying them to the slickness of a half-inch of piled snow, built up in barely an hour. It was getting worse, too. Declan had his fair share of experience with winter storms, having grown up not a few hours south of these very ranges farther to the east. Now, old memories of his childhood’s more brutal tempests pricked at him every time he lifted his gaze from his feet to look upwards. First they’d lost the sky, then the outlines of the peaks above. Now he could barely make out Ester and the warg some twenty feet up the slope, with Ryn distinguishable from the larger rocks about them only by the distinct darkness of his fur and scales. The winds, too, had mounted once more in their fury, and as they pressed on towards noon Declan finally understood what the dragon had said the previous evening about being “herded”. Orsik and Eyera, more than once, had nosed at paths and lesser inclines only to be buffeted back onto their previous course like some eye in the storm was shunting them away from any easy climb. Orsik had lost all balance on one such occasion when a particularly vicious blast caught his long body length-wise, sending him yelping and tumbling back down the mountain face. Only Bonner’s quick thinking—and even quicker spellwork—kept the warg from plummeting on without end, the mage shifting and angling a sizable slab of jutting stone to cut the animal’s fall short. Even then, Orsik hit the rock hard enough to make every one of them wince, and they’d broken for their noon meal early so Bonner could tend to the beast’s wounds and recuperate himself from the toll the abrupt weaving had taken out of him.

  Despite those misfortunes, it wasn’t until the afternoon that the Queen’s power lashed out with more deliberate intent.

  CRACK.

  The lightning seemed to strike out of nowhere, lancing down from the grey and white of the falling snow like a blade of brilliant, blue-etched light. It caught the jutting end of an outcropping not a hundred feet to their left, outlining the stone’s silhouette through the blizzard when it struck with such force the crag exploded in an eruption of rubble, smoke, and dust. Without time to take up the firestone in his pocket, Declan could do nothing more than throw himself to the ground, stomach twisting when he found nothing but slick ice beneath him. He slid a good three feet before one boot found a hold in some break in the shelf beneath the snow, and the moment his momentum was cut short he jerked his knife from its sheath and jammed it down for another point of purchase. When he knew he wasn’t about to slip off to his doom, he lifted his face, squinting through the flecked frost about his eyes.

  He could make out Ryn picking himself up from what looked to have been a similarly frantic flattening. The dragon was lifting his great blade out of the snow with his mouth to look west, where the place the lightning had bit into the mountain face had vanished again behind the endless curtain of the blizzard. Bonner, too, Declan could hear cursing somewhere behind him, and with Ester even further away than the three of them with the warg, he relaxed ever so slightly.

  Then a second incandescent bolt descended, this time much closer, and Declan actually felt the discharging buzz of static through the handle of the blade still stuck in the ground.

  EAST! Ryn’s voice reverberated in his mind. MOVE! FIND SHELTER!

  Declan was on his feet as fast as the ice beneath him would allow, not letting go of his knife and using it to aid his scramble laterally along the slope. He heard, from somewhere above, the howls of the warg—something between terrified and furious—and paused to look up, desperate to make out Ester’s form through the snow.

  “Move, boy!” Bonner bellowed up at him from somewhere close to his feet. “She’s fine! Quick as she is, she’ll outrun the damn storm while you and I are left to cook!”

  Too full of adrenaline to be embarrassed at having been caught—and hardly disagreeing—Declan did as he was told. He couldn’t see the mage through the narrow slit of the cloth about his face—what limited vision it offered already so often crusted with snow the wind seemed to kick up deliberately into his face—but he could make out a hint of the man’s panting breaths and grunts not far at his rear. Then Declan’s own heavy breathing filled his ears within his wrapping, and all he could do was focus on the blurred black shape of Ryn, who appeared to keep with their slower pace, leading them east. He ignored the sound of yet another lightning strike at his back, ignored the sting of what must have been shrapeneled rock thudding into the heavy coat over his spine and shoulders. After two days of struggling foot by foot upward with meticulous deliberation, Declan suddenly found himself moving almost at a run, casting caution aside while he sacrificed sure-footing for even the barest chance of escaping the arcing bolts.

  He was so desperate to move, in fact, he almost missed the second sound when it came, so similar to the break of the lightning, and yet distinctly different.

  This sound, after all, came not from the sky, but from beneath his very feet.

  CRACK.

  Despite himself, despite every ounce of his being telling him to run, to flee, Declan froze. He found his legs unwilling to move, his muscles tensing up with a palpable fear that was more primal even than the terror of what it was he was trying to outrace.

  “What in the name of all the gods are you doing, boy?!”

  Bonner had caught up to him, and Declan felt a hand on his back shove him forward with that familiar deceptive strength, beyond the body of any ordinary man. Just the same, he took one stumbling step forward, then halted again, throwing an arm out to block the mage himself from going around.

  “Stop! Wait!” He lifted his gaze, heart hammering, seeking the black outline of the dragon through the bounding snow. “Ryn! RYN!”

  There was a moment of terrifying silence.

  Then the wolf’s form melted back into view.

  Declan, you have to move! What’s—?!