Page 116 of Fire to the Stars

Our voices echo into the twining valleys below. An owl hoots. In an instant, Claire’s whole body trembles worse than if she were naked in the snow.

“They’re here,” Claire whispers. “The cultists.”

“We planned for this,” I remind her. “The owl form won’t hurt us.”

She nods but pulls her hood low over her head, as if hiding her face makes her feel better. I readjust her scarf so it covers her nose. But with the scarf trapping the fog of her exhales, it looks unnervingly like she isn’t breathing.

After a few more guiding shouts, an orange light bobs in the distance between the trees. Lucy yips at it. I wave my lantern until Lyle finally halts his snorting horse in front of us.

He and the horse are spattered with blood.

My eyes widen. “Is that—”

“Not mine,” he laughs in a frantic, desperate way. “Owls were waiting at the summit. A gendarme shot one down next to my head with his moonmetal crossbow.”

“Did that kill it?”

“Maybe. I didn’t stay to find out.” He readjusts his reins. “Abby wants me to guide you to her right away.”

“Tell me you found something.”

“No promises yet, but there’s a—” His wide eyes skip past me as he whispers, “Behind you.”

I turn around, hearing the snarls before I see the threat. A pack of five, six,sevensilverwolves prowls toward us. One by one, as they enter the lamplight, they shake out their pitch-black coats into snow white.

I draw my sword and put my arm in front of Claire. Lyle’s horse snorts anxiously. The largest silverwolf steps forward, saliva dripping from its fangs. The tip of the left ear is missing, evidence of a bloody encounter.

“Stay calm,” I tell Claire and Lyle as evenly as I can. “They might chase us if we run.”

“I have a crossbow,” Lyle says. “I’ll try scaring them off.”

Before he can draw it, an owl swoops onto a branch aboveand spatters us with snow and pine needles. It blinks once, twice, as if the cultist inside its body wants to communicate orders to its familiar but can’t.

OrdersIcan speak.

“Laissez,” I command.

The closest silverwolf pauses mid-step, cocking its head at me like a confused pup. The others follow its lead.

“Allez-y,” I add.

The silverwolf obediently lowers its head and turns tail back into the shadows, shaking its coat into black once again. The rest of the pack disappears with it.

Lyle’s next breath comes out as a laugh.

“The Old Tongue,” he marvels. “What made you think to use it?”

“I remembered the commands,” I say, relieved as I turn to face Claire.

But she’s walking away, past Lyle and his horse, toward the summit.

“Wait!” I catch up and grasp her elbow. She’s not paying attention to me. She’s lookingup, pupils blown wide as she stares at the owls—multiple now, collecting above us. She whispers, as quiet as snowfall.

“We’re close.”

We all fall off the horse sometimes, ma petitoune. What matters is that you get back in the saddle.

—Nicolas Belgard