Page 36

Before Dawsyn has time to turn back, the air is sucked from her lungs, her body, the world. The universe coalesces, pressing in with such force… she is sure she will die.

The mage was right in insisting that Dawsyn would be more prepared.

Right and wrong.

Dawsyn did at least know what to expect – the insurmountable pressure, the unbelievable strain, followed by the abrupt unspooling, where her bones re-calcify, her organs swell and every nerve ending shrieks indignantly. But though Dawsyn anticipates it this time, her experience is very much the same. She vomits as her feet hit the snow. Her hands bite into the drift before she can tumble forward. She heaves violently.

“Argh,” Dawsyn spits, sweat beading her forehead. “Fuck!I’d rather take my chances climbing the mountain.”

There is no reply from Baltisse – the mage is likely too disgusted.

Dawsyn focuses on the powdery snow mere inches from her eyes and counts her breaths, willing her stomach not to revolt again.

It is several moments more before Dawsyn looks up. She expects the expanse of the Glacian Colony to undulate around her – a dizzying network of shelters in their crooked lanes. Or else, perhaps Baltisse has folded them straight to the Glacian palace, its monstrous granite towers and turrets throwing the small kingdom into perpetual shadow, a beast all its own.

But Dawsyn sees neither.

Instead, she sees the rapid incline of the slope, the thick spruce trunks towering like shadowy giants into the night sky. She sees the undisturbed drifts of snow, painfully white.

Not Glacia, then. Just the slopes.

“Baltisse?” Dawsyn calls, turning to question her.

But the mage is not there. In fact, she is nowhere. There are no marks in the snow in any direction.

Dawsyn draws her ax from her back, her pulse spiking. “Baltisse?” she shouts, louder now, but no answer comes.

Ravens disturb the pine branches above and Dawsyn grips the ax handle reflexively, watching their black wings glide between the trees, soaring low to the forest floor and over the lip of a cliff.

Dawsyn’s eyes widen. “Fuck.” Her breath fogs as she runs, her boots slipping down the decline to the cliff edge. She slows as she nears. “Baltisse?” she calls again.

The drop is a short one, but still threatening enough. At its end lies a crumpled figure, barely discernible in the darkness but for the contrast against the snow.

“Baltisse!” Dawsyn shouts, but it might as well be a call into the Chasm for all the effect it has. The mage’s form remains still.

Dawsyn gasps once with indecision, eyes darting to all corners of the forest for a way down. But there is nothing. Not a tree nor jutting rock to clamber down. There is nothing else for it. She heaves her supplies over the edge, letting it fall that short way to the snow below and watches it sink into the drift. Next, her ax. It too disappears into the white, the depths of which is indiscernible – a foot or five?

Dawsyn closes her eyes. Her heart pounding, she sends a singular prayer to the sky that the powder below is deep enough… and then she jumps.

The fall is a quick one, and she tucks her body as she comes to land, but the snow is mercifully deep and she sinks to her knees, pain radiating up her legs. But nothing has broken, and in that, luck sides with her.

Dawsyn crawls from the snow to where Baltisse lies, a curtain of hair shrouding her face.

“Baltisse!” Dawsyn calls, wiping the hair away awkwardly with her gloved hands. “Be alive, witch, please!”

A shallow gasp, and then. “Do not… call me… ‘witch.’”

Dawsyn sags in relief, letting her forehead touch the snow briefly. “What happened?”

The mage coughs as she tries to speak, the splutters wet and choking. Dawsyn helps her roll to the side, where she spits blood onto the white powder. Just like the people of the Ledge did, days before they succumbed to the sickness in their lungs.

No. Do not die.

“Do not be so dramatic, Dawsyn Sabar,” Baltisse gasps, but she has begun to shiver, and each moment they linger on the snow will see the frost steal in.

“Can you move?” It is difficult to see the state of her limbs beneath the heavy clothing.

Baltisse grimaces, as though she means to bite back a retort, but then she swallows, humbled by pain. “Not far,” she admits.