“Biter!” I shouted, horrified. He was going to show River where the talisman was. “To me, to me!”
But the wind snatched my voice from my lips. Biter flapped up the cliff and came to rest on a narrow ridge crowned by a single tower, which tilted to one side. The light hadn’t hit it yet—a pillar of shadow, even blacker than the blackness that surrounded it.
“Well.” River gazed at me, a calculating look on his face. “It seems these pets of yours do have their uses.”
I stared back, uncertain, as the seconds stretched out. River knew where the dead king’s remains were now. Why didn’t he do something? Use his power to cut a path through the snow, or split the mountainside open and retrieve the witch’s bones. But he only stood there, watching me, as if trying to glean my thoughts.
That was when it hit me.
I may have destabilized something. River had said it in Winding Pass, after his spell had defeated the fiangul. I remembered the second avalanche that had been triggered when he rescued Tem. River would be afraid to use Azar-at’s magic here—if he did, there could be consequences. Consequences that could destroy the witch king’s grave. A fierce hope rose within me.
I met River’s eyes, narrowed now, and realized we were having the same thought.
Perhaps all was not lost after all.
“Kamzin—” he began.
I didn’t hear the rest. I was running, faster than I ever had run before.
If I can get there first, I thought. If I can get my hands on even one of those bones, if I can give it to Biter, if he can take it to Tem—
I couldn’t hear River pursuing me. I had no idea if I had outpaced him, or if he was there, drifting like a dark cloud at my heels. I ran, exhaustion making the motion feel dreamlike—my feet, churning up the snows, could have belonged to someone else. I reached the cliff, which was bracketed by a pointed ridge that formed a small canyon. Snow piled in deep drifts at its base. I stumbled, letting out a shout that echoed oddly off the rock. Every sound was amplified in the canyon—the clatter of loose rock as it slipped under my feet, the rasp of my breath. It was as if the mountain mocked my efforts.
I began to climb, my hands trembling against the icy stone. My fingers, chafed by the climb up the rock face where Mingma had died, burned from the effort, the skin tearing again. Still I forced myself up. I could make it. I had strength left.
But then—
A strong hand wrapped around my boot, and I was airborne. I landed in a drift of snow with an oof, the wind knocked out of me. I lay still, too surprised to move, one leg folded awkwardly beneath me. River, barely pausing, began to climb, moving as smoothly up the rock as a shadow. Ragtooth scrabbled after him with a ferocious growl.
“Ragtooth, no!” I remembered all too well what River had done to Lurker. But River only glanced once at Ragtooth, then kept going, and the fox soon slipped down the rock. Already River was almost halfway up the cliff, his chuba whipped by the wind.
I stood, and a red-hot bolt of pain darted up my leg. I sagged against the rock as spots flickered across my vision. My ankle was twisted—badly.
I took a slow, deep breath, counting silently to three. It’s nothing, I told myself, as the pain seared and pulsed. It’s nothing. You’re fine. I forced those thoughts to flood my mind, forced back the pain.
I started climbing again.
River was well ahead of me, but I moved like a possessed thing, and soon closed the distance. It was a twisted version of our old game—the memory of it, of the laughter we had shared, made me burn with fury. He glanced down, an amazed look on his face.
“It’s no use,” he called, and the mountain echoed his words, twisted strangely by the wind. “You won’t make it, Kamzin.”
“Maybe not.” I met his gaze, knowing my face was contorted with pain and fury. “But neither will you.” I reached into my chuba and drew the kinnika out. They were warm from pressing against my skin, or perhaps from the magic that ran through the metal.
River stared at me. Then he began to laugh, so hard he had to lean into the rock for support. The mountain echoed the sound, sharing his amusement.
“Kamzin, Kamzin,” he said, “you couldn’t bespell a mouse, let alone a witch.”
I flushed. It was true: my gesture had been an empty threat, a distraction. But as I glared at him, the pain raging in my leg, one of the bells twitched.
Not the black one—that was still, quiescent. The one beside it, the scorched bell carved with the symbol for “witch.” It had sounded before, many times, for no apparent reason.
But always, I realized with a chilling certainty, when River was near.
I looked back at River—almost too slowly to catch the grimace that flickered across his face. It was gone in a heartbeat. If I hadn’t been looking for it, I never would have noticed.
“It hurts you,” I breathed.
“Kamzin.” River’s voice was low, warning. Its echo was a whisper, thin as thread. “Don’t—”
I yanked on the bell, and it broke from the chain. Gripping the tiny thing in my palm, I sounded it as hard as I could.
There was no mockery in the mountain’s voice now. The bell’s ringing flooded the canyon, notes clashing with their own echoes, a terrible cacophony that hurt my ears. The wind howled as the sound spilled across the mountainside, as if it too was in pain.
River pressed his forehead against the rock face, his shoulders shaking. I couldn’t make out his expression, but it seemed like every muscle in his body had grown taut, as if he fought an invisible attacker.
He turned to me, his face a grimace of pain, and for one heart-wrenching second, I faltered.
What was I doing? This was River—I had saved his life. He had saved mine. We had faced death so many times, relying on each other with that pure and total trust that was fundamental to survival in a place like this, and in that moment, some animal instinct rebelled against hurting him.
Father. Aunt Behe. Chirri.
Their faces crowded my mind, along with those of every aunt and uncle, cousin and acquaintance in Azmiri. I saw my home, its tidy, whitewashed walls hung with the familiar tapestries. The well that Tem and I used to race to, the orchard where we stole apples every fall—those apples would be almost ripe now, the farmers pacing among the trees at dawn, tallying the harvest. I saw black flame consuming them, consuming everything I had ever known.
I sounded the bell again.
The wind howled. River slipped another foot as the bell’s piercing tongue sang out, and the echoes answered tenfold. It was as if the entire mountain was keening. My head pounded and my eyes watered. I rang the bell again, and River slipped another foot.
“Kamzin,” River murmured. He was almost level with me. Our eyes met, and his gaze was not cold anymore—it was desperate, a desperation tinged with sorrow. He was terribly pale, the freckles standing out in stark relief. For one agonizing second, I felt my heart stop.
No.