WE LEFT AT dawn.
Or we would have, if River had been on time.
“Probably fixing his hair,” Tem said. He stood erect beneath the weight of his pack, resting his arm calmly on his walking stick. Too erect. Too calm. He was doing his best to appear untroubled—and would have succeeded, had I not known him as well as I did. Based on the stiffness of his mouth and the faint tremor in his hands, I guessed he wasn’t far from throwing up.
I said nothing, too preoccupied with a dream from last night. I had been running from a fire demon, who stalked me through dark woods. A beautiful woman appeared, half shadow and half flesh—even though I had never seen a witch, I knew she was one. But before she could lay a curse, the fire demon stretched its mouth to a terrifying size and swallowed her whole—then it turned toward me.
It doesn’t mean anything, I lectured myself. Just nerves. In the morning light, this was somewhat easier to accept.
Even more unpleasant than the dream had been saying good-bye to Father. I had found him sitting by the fire in his reception room before sunrise, his head in his hands. The doors of his shrine were ajar, and a stick of incense burned in the censer, as if he had recently prayed. The scent of jasmine and chani leaves filled the air, cloying in the close little room, which was sparsely furnished with a few woven mats for visiting villagers to sit on. A silk scroll took up an entire wall, depicting the generations of elders who had come before him.
“Papa?”
He started. “Kamzin. I didn’t hear you come in.”
I went to his side and wrapped my arms around his shoulders. “It’s time for me to go. Won’t you come and see us off?”
“No—I don’t think so.”
I could see he had been crying. I went back to the door, closed it, then returned to his side. Father’s reputation was as a stern but fair leader, a wise arbiter of disputes who put reason before emotion when coming to decisions. But in truth, he was the most soft-hearted person I knew, more likely to cry at a wedding or birth ceremony than even my great-aunt Yema. He doted on his daughters—Lusha in particular—even more since my mother had died.
“Lusha will be all right,” I said, kneeling beside him and taking his hand. “And so will I.”
“Kamzin—”
“You don’t have to say it,” I interrupted. “I know you don’t want me to go. But I have to do this.”
He let out a sigh, his beard fluttering. It was mostly white now—despite his straight back and keen gaze, Father was not a young man. He had been twice my mother’s age when they married, and was now older than some grandfathers.
“When River Shara first wrote to Lusha,” he said, gazing into the embers of the fire, “I told her no. But, as Lusha said, how could we deny the Royal Explorer? I’m a village elder, and he’s one of the most powerful men in the Empire. And yet I wish with all my heart that Lusha had listened to me. There is a terrible darkness surrounding that mountain.”
“That’s just superstition, Papa.”
“That’s what your sister said.” He picked up a poker and stirred the embers, releasing a few lurking flames. “Now she’s gone. Somehow I can’t help feeling that it’s my fault.”
I touched his shoulder. “Of course it isn’t.”
He gave the embers another stir, then set the poker aside. “If your mother were here . . .”
My throat clenched. Father used those words often. In serious moments, when a storm or early thaw threatened the village, it was an invocation. Other times, when Lusha and I argued about who would travel with him to the spring markets, it was almost a joke. He never finished his thought. He didn’t need to.
If my mother were here, everything would be different.
My mother had rarely taken the dangers she faced seriously, dismissing them with her booming, infectious laugh. She had been big—not merely in terms of size, but everything about her. She had always seemed like the sort of person no amount of space could contain. In the end, though, it had been a small thing that had taken her. A fever that hadn’t seemed out of the ordinary—little more than an inconvenience—until it suddenly took a turn for the worse. In the space of a night, she was simply gone.
“Kamzin.” Father took my hand and drew me in front of him, so that I was looking down into his lined eyes. “You must promise me that you will turn around at the first sign of danger. Don’t let River convince you to do something that doesn’t feel right. I don’t care who he is—your life is more important than the emperor’s displeasure.”
“Papa, I—”
“No.” He was gripping my hands so tightly that I felt my bones creak. “Promise me.”
I swallowed. “I promise.”
I had felt guilty as I said it. Now, in the cold light of the morning, I felt even worse. Because I didn’t think I could keep my promise.
I didn’t think I wanted to.
I gazed over the valley and the misty landscape beyond, the towering mountains and sweeping expanses. I felt a familiar pull—to dive into the wilderness, digging my boots into soil no one else had touched. Now, for the first time, I didn’t have to ignore that pull. I could let it take me.
The two assistants I had hired, Dargye and Aimo, waited patiently by our yak. They had already proven their competence that morning—the yak was loaded comfortably but securely with the bulk of our gear, and they had consulted the maps I had brought and provided sound suggestions. Dargye was a heavy man with moody eyes beneath a single brow. He was a low-ranking member of the village council, and his size and strength had made him an obvious asset for an expedition this dangerous. Rumor had it he could fell mountain birches without the help of an ax. Looking at the enormous biceps battling the seams of his shirtsleeves, I didn’t doubt it.
I didn’t know much about Aimo, a young woman in her early twenties. A year ago, her daughter had escaped her grandparents’ care, tottering down the mountain and into the Nightwood. Aimo’s husband had followed in search of her. Neither had returned, and no one doubted that they had met a grisly end. It was said that the witches devoured human souls, leaving behind empty bodies that they kept as slaves, or drained of blood for their mysterious spells. After the period of mourning, Aimo had carried on running the family’s large farm by herself. With her stoic temperament and reputation for generosity toward her poorer neighbors, she was widely respected in Azmiri.
“Thank you,” I said as she repositioned one of my satchels on the animal’s back. She nodded, her smile transforming her plain face. It was no wonder, I thought, that she had received three marriage proposals since her husband’s death.
“Is everyone ready?” It was Norbu. With him was a slim, handsome boy with a large pack slung over his shoulders.
“We are,” I said as they moved to check the yak’s load. “Where’s River?”
The boy looked up from the strap he was examining. He wore a slight smile that seemed familiar. “Honestly, Kamzin, will I need to introduce myself each time we see each other?”
My jaw dropped. Tem made a low noise that sounded like woo. River laughed.
“Come now,” he said, making a sweeping motion with his arm. “Surely I don’t look that different.”
But he did. The young man standing before me was as far as possible from the elegant noble I had met at the banquet. His hair was an ordinary dark brown, and while still bird’s-nest messy, was cropped shorter than it had been, and no longer woven with expensive charms. The rings and jewels were gone, as were the fine clothes—his trousers and tunic were a plain gray in a weave suited to walking, and his scuffed leather boots looked as if they had traveled many miles in their lifetime. His eyes were the same, though, unsettlingly mismatched in a way that was even more apparent in the morning light, and full of laughter.
“I, um—” I came to a stuttering halt, uncertain how I should address this unfamiliar person. River took little notice. He shook out the chuba folded over his arm, then swept it over his shoulders. I had to suppress a gasp. It was the finest tahrskin chuba I had ever seen, far finer than my mother’s, though made in the customary way—two-sided, one dark and one pale. River’s somehow made him seem taller, more sharply defined, and it fit as if it had been made for him. The short black fur gleamed in the sunlight.
“Dyonpo, we should make haste,” Norbu said. He scanned the horizon, where a line of clouds was gathering. “We should be off the mountain before the rain reaches us.”
“I can help with that,” Tem piped up. He looked immediately regretful when all eyes trained upon him, but he pushed on. “I’ve been studying weather spells. I think I could delay the rain, at least for a while.”
Norbu stared at him blankly, as if Tem were a species of animal he had never seen before. River grimaced. “What is he doing here?”
I bristled at his tone but managed to keep my temper. “He asked to join the expedition as Norbu’s assistant, if that’s all right with you. He has a talent for shamanism.”
“Does he?” River gave Tem a skeptical look. “I’ve observed his talent for falling off things, which doesn’t exactly recommend him for an expedition like this. And he’ll be a nuisance to Norbu.”
“I wouldn’t mind, dyonpo,” Norbu said. “I’ve been missing my assistant.”
I held my breath, but River only shrugged. “Kamzin, the map?”
I started. Feeling unexpectedly nervous, I fumbled around in my pack until I extricated the map of the Samyar Plains.
I had sketched out the route to Raksha in charcoal, carefully calculating distances and noting streams and potential campsites. It would take a traveler of average abilities a month or more to reach the mountain from Azmiri—but in a month, summer would be over and the weather on the highest peaks would be unpredictable. My goal, therefore, was to reach it within fifteen days.
I didn’t know if it was possible. But we would have to try.
“We can make it to Winding Pass in five days, Riv—um, dyonpo,” I said, holding the map open so he could see the route. “If we keep up a good pace.”
“Five days to the pass?” River said. “Is that the best we can do? I want to close as much distance as possible between us and Mara. He and Lusha have a full day’s head start.”
“I know this part of the Aryas like I know my own hands,” I said. “The other routes may be faster, but they’re more dangerous, which could slow us down in unexpected ways.”
River nodded as I spoke, peering down at the map. A strand of unkempt hair fell across his forehead. “All right. What are you thinking?”
“We’ll travel through the Azmiri foothills. Avoid Bengarek Forest, given how dense the undergrowth can be in summer. It’s a thirty-mile hike to Mount Imja—we’ll camp beneath it tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll push on across the plains toward Winding Pass. I expect we’ll catch up to Lusha and Mara there, if not before. They’re carrying all their supplies on their backs, after all, and won’t be able to move as quickly as us.” I unrolled Mingma’s map. “It isn’t safe to linger in the pass, so we’ll have to avoid getting stuck there after dark. Once we’re through, we’ll be in the Nightwood—the borderlands, anyway.” I tried to keep my voice even, as if traveling through the witch lands was something sane people did regularly. “From there, we’ll hike north to Raksha.”
Dargye, standing behind me, made a small noise.
“Yes?” River glanced at him. “Did you have something to say, ah—”
“Dargye, dyonpo,” he said. He too seemed nervous, being addressed by River directly. “I can’t help wondering why we would avoid Bengarek Forest. The undergrowth isn’t as bad as she says, and it’s flat ground, unlike the foothills.”
“And unlike the foothills, we would have a good chance of being attacked by red-toothed bears,” I said, glaring at Dargye. He had agreed to my plan before, when River wasn’t there. “Bengarek Forest is infested with them.”
Dargye barely seemed to be listening to me. He addressed River again, more confidently this time. “I believe the forest is the wisest choice, dyonpo.”
River furrowed his brow. “Kamzin, you didn’t tell me that Dargye knew the way to Raksha.”
“What?” I said. “He doesn’t.”
“I see.” He handed the map back to me, and dumped his pack unceremoniously in Dargye’s arms. “All right, everyone, let’s make for the foothills.”
I couldn’t suppress a smile of triumph. Dargye glowered. I thought I saw River wink at me, but he turned away quickly, and I couldn’t be certain.
The road that led from the village down to the valley sliced back and forth along the flank of the mountain, following the edge of the terraces. The sun wouldn’t touch us for an hour at least, and despite the exertion I was shivering in the chill breeze. It was a crisp, clear day, with only the faintest mist hovering among the forest far below. Despite the early hour, I was full of energy. My feet wanted to move more quickly, and I had to remind myself to take measured steps, to conserve my strength for the long road before me.
River and Norbu walked ahead, their voices occasionally floating back to us, garbled by the wind. I found myself examining River—the profile of his face, as he gestured at something; the stirring of his chuba as he strode easily along the path. I still found it hard to reconcile the young man in front of me with my image of River Shara, the man who, in the three short years he had held the title of Royal Explorer, had mapped half the Empire and established himself as one of the emperor’s closest confidants. Who fought and killed savage barbarian lords and doomed those who betrayed him to slow, lonely deaths in the wilderness.
I recalled how he had seemed to change suddenly, out on the spur, his capricious manner subsumed by something cold, calculating. I shook my head, feeling oddly out of my depth. I was used to the plain-spoken villagers of Azmiri, whose desires were simple and whose lives were small. River was as different from what I knew as a hawk from a sparrow.
Tem and I walked in the middle of the company, followed by Dargye and Aimo with the yak. Tem was fiddling with a strange talisman—a leather cord strung with bells of different shapes and sizes.
“What’s that?” I said.
“Oh—Chirri gave them to me.” He blushed. “They’re kinnika—they help ward off misfortune. This one”—he pointed to a small, black bell—“will alert me to the presence of any creature who means to harm us. It won’t sound for any other reason. See?” He shook the bell. It made no noise whatsoever. “These two will keep a dark spirit at bay while I speak the incantation. This one—” His brow creased as he gazed at the largest bell, bronze with a reddish patina. “I don’t remember what it’s for. I wrote it down, though.”
“That was good of Chirri,” I said. “Something tells me we’re going to need all the help we can get.”
Tem looked guilty. “She should have given them to you. You’re her apprentice.”
“Tsh. You know me. I would have lost them already, or mixed them up so badly I’d be trying to put out a fire with the bell for banishing ghosts. Chirri chose right.”
I had visited Chirri yesterday, to tell her I was leaving. She would have known already, but I had felt it was only right to say good-bye. The old woman’s hut, I had been pleased to discover, was still overrun with baby dragons, which had swarmed me like bees when I entered. Chirri herself had seemed irritated by my visit, muttering something about being woken from a particularly sound nap. Her only comment about the expedition was that I should have left long ago, which made little sense. Rather than leaving her hut with words of wisdom or a useful talisman, I had been unceremoniously shooed out with one of the teething dragons, who now perched on the yak’s neck, gnawing at her lead.
“I’m glad she trusted you,” I added. “I didn’t think she knew—about how powerful you are, I mean.”
“I wouldn’t put it like that.” Tem was the color of an apple now.
“Father would be angry, if he found out she was favoring you,” I said, sighing. “He still thinks I’m going to take over from Chirri when she dies. I suppose if I die first, I won’t have to worry about it. That’s something.”
Tem was quiet for a long moment. “Don’t joke about that, Kamzin.”
“All right, all right.” I gave him a playful shove. “Lighten up. I never said I’d die tomorrow. And you know Chirri’s going to make it to two hundred, at least.”
Tem didn’t reply. He stopped to remove a rock in his boot. But he didn’t catch up to me again.
When the sunlight oozed over the peak of Azmiri, it grew hot. I removed my chuba and looped it through the straps of my pack. The frost on the grasses and rhododendrons was melting fast, a steady drip-drip-drip that mingled with the honks of the bar-headed geese passing overhead and the whistling wind. Small creatures stirred among the foliage—warblers searching out their breakfast, or foxes on their way to the village to spy on the chicken coops. I tried to focus on these sounds, and the steady rhythm of my boots against the path, but found it impossible. We caught occasional glimpses of Imja, its snowy, pinnacled summit painted orange by the rising sun. Beyond it, far beyond, was Mount Raksha.
I shivered with mingled excitement and fear. It was as if I could feel the mountain out there in the mingled shadow and sunlight of the morning. Now that my feet were set firmly on the path, and moving toward my destination, I realized just how mad my decision was. I had never climbed Mount Raksha.
No one had.
I forced my attention back to my feet. One step at a time. That was all this was: a series of steps. I beat the anxious voice back to a dark corner of my mind, and prayed it would stay there—at least for now.
We stopped that night in the shadow of Mount Imja, at a spring that bubbled from between two enormous boulders crowned with juniper trees. The spray from the water as it tumbled down the rock was cool against my face. I removed my boots and waded into the spring, crouching to cup the icy water in my hands and splash it across my sweaty brow.
I surveyed the terrain, pleased with myself. We had reached our destination with time to spare—there was still an hour of daylight to make camp. I couldn’t help gloating at Dargye, who seemed to be avoiding my eyes.
“Let’s set up the tents here,” I said to Aimo, gesturing. “Dargye, build the fire against that rock.”
“It’s too wet,” the man said shortly, barely breaking his stride. He dropped an armful of firewood on the ground, too close to the tents for my liking. The wind would surely blow the smoke into our shelters as we slept.
I opened my mouth to protest, but Dargye began noisily breaking the scraps of wood into smaller pieces with his bare hands, his enormous muscles straining. Muttering, I turned away.
“Don’t let him do that,” Tem said quietly.
I sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s just a campfire.”
“I don’t think so.” Tem turned back to his pack. “You’re in charge, Kamzin.”
I chewed my lip. I was annoyed at both of them now. After a second’s thought, I called out, “Dargye.”
The man looked up, glowering. A small flame flickered among the moss he cupped between his hands. “What?”
I walked up to the fire calmly, and then, just as calmly, snuffed out the flame with my bare foot—one quick stomp. The large man almost fell over backward in surprise.
“The fire,” I said, “will go over there.”
Then I walked away. When I snuck a glance some moments later, Dargye was hunched by the patch of earth I had indicated, rebuilding the fire.
I allowed myself a smile of triumph while surreptitiously pressing my foot into the cold sand of the streambank. It didn’t hurt—much. My soles were as tough as leather after so many summer evenings spent roaming the mountainside barefoot.
Aimo was watching me from behind the yak. I wondered if she would be angry at me, for her brother’s sake, but there was a quiet amusement in her eyes.
“Is he always like that?” I muttered.
Her smile grew. “Yes,” she said in her typical matter-of-fact tone.
I laughed. She did too, a pleasant, rumbling sound.
“I wonder why he decided to join this expedition, as he hates taking direction,” I said, helping Aimo untie one of the satchels.
The woman smiled again, rolling her eyes slightly. “For me,” she said. “He wants to protect me.”
“To protect you?” I repeated. “Then it was your idea?” I had assumed, when Dargye volunteered to join the expedition, offering his sister as an additional assistant, that it had been the other way around.
Aimo nodded, bending her head over our supplies.
“Why?”
Her eyes drifted away, and she flushed slightly. Tem reappeared at my side then, and began noisily unloading the layers of oilcloth and wooden stakes that would serve as our tents. Dargye called to his sister, and she moved away.
The dragons soared toward us, skimming the pool of water before coming to rest on the bank. We had brought five. All day they had alternated between sleeping among the yak’s satchels and flying above us. A plump one nosed up to me, pawing my leg with its front feet. I winced at the pinch of its talons. Fortunately, Tem distracted it with a handful of dried chickpeas from his pocket.
“Ouch!” He laughed as the dragon devoured the snack. “That was my finger.”
I laughed along with him, relieved to feel some of the tension drain away. Tem and I had not spoken since morning. Once the dragon finished the snack, though, Tem went to help Norbu with his satchels. I felt a pang as I watched him go. There was still a distance between us, and I didn’t know how to close it.
Dinner was a plain meal of rice and mung beans. We ate seated on the grass around the fire, enjoying the warmth it brought to the cooling twilight air. Aimo caught fish from the pool, but they were so small that they only amounted to a mouthful or two for each of us. I eyed the water moodily as my stomach gave a growl, wondering why I had thought the rations I’d brought would be sufficient. Tem often teased me about my appetite, claiming I could devour as much as fifty dragons in a single sitting. He probably wasn’t far off.
Everyone else seemed content with their meals, however. Norbu selected a talisman from the tangled mass he wore around his neck, closed his eyes, and began muttering to himself. Dargye and Aimo murmured together on the other side of the fire—or, rather, Dargye murmured; Aimo listened with a long-suffering expression on her face. River sprawled across the grass, watching the stars appear and chatting easily with Tem about the geological differences between the Arya and the Drakkar Mountains. River was certainly not the haughty, ill-tempered explorer his reputation suggested—he had talked so much through the day that I wondered how he had enough breath to keep up with us—but unlike Mara, little of his conversation involved bragging. When one of his famous exploits came up—his expedition into barbarian territory, for example, where he’d spent weeks spying undetected on their rough camps, or the time he’d rescued twelve soldiers patrolling the northern reaches of the Empire from an avalanche—he shrugged it off, as if bored by the subject. I found myself biting my tongue to keep from asking questions about the deeds he referred to so casually, many of which had already become legend. For some reason, I didn’t want him to know I was listening.
Despite the growing chill, River seemed comfortable in his shirtsleeves, and used his magnificent chuba as a pillow. I had to suppress an urge to yank the garment out from beneath his head. If the emperor ever honored me with a tahrskin chuba, I told myself, I would never treat it with such disrespect.
Absently, I rubbed my shoulders, which burned from the chafing straps of my pack. As River spoke, his face became animated. I had seen explorers who had been marred by their profession—noses lost to frostbite, cheeks carved with deep furrows by the elements. River was nothing like them. Everything about him was sharp and beautiful—an unexpected sort of beauty. It wasn’t just the strangeness of his eyes, it was how he held himself, with a loping, lazy grace that put me in mind of a leopard or lynx more than a boy my own age. All the boys I knew were like Tem—awkward and gangly, all bony limbs and overlarge feet that always seemed to be in the way of each other.
But why was I comparing him to Tem? River’s gaze met mine, and a smile flickered on his face. I looked away so quickly my neck hurt.
I unrolled Mingma’s map of the Northern Aryas, tucking one edge beneath the tail of a sleeping dragon. The explorer had been an accomplished artist—though the mountains were drawn with quick, almost careless strokes, they were more accurate than most other maps I had seen. Raksha—featured among the Arya range and then, in a series of separate panels, by itself—was particularly vivid. I could almost feel the chill of the wind that roared across its slopes, the great and terrible shadow it cast.
I traced the lines of it, picturing Mingma’s pen flying gracefully over the canvas, his head bent over his work. He had been young when he died, I knew. I wondered again what had happened to him.
Gathering my chuba around my legs, I let my gaze drift to the mountains. Their white peaks were knife-sharp against the darkening sky. Though the western slopes of the Aryas were less treacherous than the east, given the risk of witches, places like this were far from safe. The red-toothed bears of Bengarek Forest were aggressive, and there were also snow leopards and wolf packs to contend with. We would have to cast our warding spells carefully every night, and assign a lookout during the day.
While part of me made note of these things carefully, another, larger part could hardly believe my situation. I was really here. Marching into the wilderness with the Royal Explorer, staring down unknown dangers. My hated lessons with Chirri, the weight of my family’s disappointment—it was all gone. And if I did well on the expedition, well enough to impress River, it could be gone forever.
A shiver of excitement traced its way down my spine.
I wondered if we would come across any evidence of Lusha and Mara tomorrow. We had passed the remains of a small campfire a few miles back, but there was no way to be certain it was theirs. Hunting parties from Azmiri sometimes ventured this far afield.
I gazed at the rising moon—Lusha could be looking at it too, also with a pile of maps unfurled before her. She couldn’t be far away. We would catch up to her—I knew we would.
Suddenly, something was on my shoulder, digging sharp claws into my skin. Something hairy, with a cold, wet nose that brushed against my cheek. I yelped.
“Kamzin, what—” Tem stopped. He let out a disbelieving laugh. “What is he doing here?”
I yanked Ragtooth off me. “You little rat! I told you not to follow me!”
Ragtooth bared his teeth, looking all too pleased with himself. When I released him, he gave a large yawn, stretched his back, and began to groom himself, as if he were settling into his customary place by the hearth back home. I couldn’t help laughing.
“What is that?” River said. He was propped up on his elbows, staring.
“He’s Kamzin’s familiar,” Tem said.
“I gathered that. I mean, what is he?”
“What do you think he is?” I lifted Ragtooth around his pudgy belly and transferred him to my lap. “A fox.”
“Are you sure? Looks more like a hairball with teeth.”
“He has some mange,” I said with dignity. “There’s no need to be rude about it.”
River and Norbu exchanged a look. The shaman appeared baffled. “Is it some form of weasel?”
“How many weasels have fangs like that?” River said.
“Stop it,” I said. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Don’t get her started,” Tem said to River. “She won’t listen to reason about that creature. He’s been hovering around her since she was a baby. Her father tried chasing him away, but he came back every time. He gives everybody the creeps.”
River looked bemused. “Why couldn’t you have ravens, Kamzin, like your sister? Much more useful than—well, whatever that is.”
“Still,” Norbu said somewhat dubiously, “it is interesting that the girl should have a familiar. I understand it’s a rare honor.”
“It is,” Tem said, while I stewed. “Some say they’re sent by the spirit world to watch over those they favor.”
“Then these familiars have special abilities?” Norbu said.
“Well, not exactly,” Tem said, with an apologetic glance at me. “They’re ordinary animals, though the bond they share with their master can be quite useful.”
“It’s said that the shaman Bansi had a hawk.” The look on Norbu’s face indicated how I ranked in comparison to the shaman Bansi. I smothered a sigh. Most people reacted with disbelief when they discovered I had a familiar—I was used to it by now. Lusha and I were the only ones in Azmiri to have them, though the elder of a neighboring village had a monkey. Familiars were common among shamans and great heroes, the kinds of people that stories were written about—people like Lusha. Not like me. Clearly, as I had often said to Tem, even the spirits could make mistakes.
Ragtooth bared his teeth at Norbu, and the shaman inched away.
“Drop it,” I muttered, poking him. The fox snapped at my finger.
River shook his head. “The spirits have an interesting sense of humor, don’t they?”
“Ragtooth and I are going to bed,” I said, raising my chin. As obnoxious as the fox could be, I would not sit there and let them insult him. “Good night.”
Lifting the beast by the scruff of the neck, I walked over to my tent and pulled the flaps securely shut behind us.
“Don’t listen to them,” I whispered. “You can’t help it if you were born a little different.”
The fox gazed at me with his green eyes, which gleamed like polished jade. I tossed my boots on the ground, then—after glancing at Tem’s neatly arranged belongings—picked them up again guiltily and tucked them into the corner of the tent. I settled into my blankets, shivering at their cold touch, and Ragtooth curled his body into a pillow of warmth against my head.
I must have slept for two hours, maybe three—when I woke, it was deep night, a darkness that could only exist in the valleys between great mountains. Tem snored on the other side of the tent.
I shifted restlessly. Something had woken me, I was sure of it. As I lay there, listening, the noise came again.
A skittering, snuffling sound.
It was coming from somewhere outside the tent. It seemed to rise and fall, as if whatever was making the noise was moving closer, then away, then closer again.
“Ragtooth?” I whispered. I looked around the tent and met the fox’s glittering gaze. Ragtooth’s ears were pricked, and though he didn’t appear fearful, there was a watchfulness about him.
I lifted myself up onto my elbows. I could see no blue glow through the walls of the tent, and in any case, it didn’t sound like a dragon. It was too large.
My heart began to pound, and my mind leaped to an image of a snow leopard, creeping through the darkness on enormous paws, drawn by the scent of human flesh.
The skittering grew louder. Again I heard something breathing in rough, animal pants. It seemed to be right outside the tent now. Terror froze me in place. Behind me, Ragtooth was equally motionless. We waited, barely breathing, until the thing moved away. The noises grew fainter and fainter, and then they were gone.
I fell back against my blankets, cold sweat bathing my brow. Tem gave a snort and rolled onto his side.
“Some comfort you are,” I muttered. Ragtooth nosed up to me and licked my forehead. I pulled him to my chest. His heartbeat was faint but steady, and he still gave no sign of fear, though his ears remained pricked long after the sounds died away.
I lay awake for another hour at least, straining to hear. But all was still and quiet, apart from the trickle of the spring and the wind brushing through the trees. Finally, I fell asleep, the fox a warm, soft weight against my chest.