Page 101 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

Still, not a night passed anymore without wisps of blue flame flickering behind my eyelids, or the dull scent of death that we’d found in the blacksmith’s cellar. Or both. But he’d never woken me up before. I hoped it wasn’t because I’d screamed.

He frowned. “You were taking valerian root?”

My lips parted in surprise. “How did you know?”

“Your wards came down in your sleep.”

“Oh,” I replied, pulling my knees to my chest. I didn’t bother to slide them back into place, too distracted by my dreams. “Mordric gave it to me to help me sleep, but after what happened with the wightgasts I didn’t think it was safe.”

“I would agree with you. In fact, if I were you, I would toss it off of the pass.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I murmured. I drew in a steadying breath, crawling out of my bedroll.

I lowered the ward that barricaded the entrance to the cave before stepping out into the snow. Spring had not yet laid its hands on this region of Valen, and we would have been buried in it if Enhart hadn’t found this place. Squinting against the glare, I gazed into the gaping maw of the mountains.

In Valnar, I’d read that the Pass of Pelthen, the last remaining obstacle between us and Hollybrook, was as ancient as it was treacherous. Some claimed that the god Felmas had carved it into the mountainside with his ax, chiseling away the layers of stone. He had named it for the giant wolf he kept as his familiar. It was rumored that there was once a temple to him tucked into the mountains, although if it truly existed, I imagined it must currently be buried under a blanket of ice and snow.

Arlys and Grim huddled together by the cavemouth in a rare display of camaraderie. Exhaustion had rendered Arlys docile, and she snored as she leaned against the gelding.

Now that we had reached the mountains, the poor beasts struggled to push through the thick snow that reached to their knees. Although the castle blacksmith had forged their shoes specifically for rough terrain, we were forced to pause often to clear their hooves of ice and shards of stone that had peeled off the mountain. I glanced down at my fingernails, which were chipped from the effort.

“Something to eat?” Enhart asked, appearing by my side with buttered bread in hand. There was an unfamiliar kindness in his voice.

I shook my head, tickling Arlys’s nose to rouse her. “I’d rather get on.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” I insisted. I was disturbed by the connection my unconscious mind had made between Luc and Mordric. I didn’t want to dwell on it. Certainly not with Enhart. I shook my head as if to dislodge the dream from my mind.

“Suit yourself.”

We exchanged few words as we trudged through the mountain pass. Enhart had warned me to be wary of falling rocks, and so I kept one eye constantly on the jagged wall of stone that dwarfed us to the east. The wind howled ominously as it wound its way through the fractured stone, sending Arlys skittering sideways. I fought to control her, pulling her nose toward her haunches as I gently patted the taut muscles of her neck. The pass was narrow, and I couldn’t afford to let her run off with me in the direction of home. She relented, snorting like an agitated dragon as she spun in a tight circle.

“Is that normal?” I asked Enhart over the din.

“The noise?” he asked, watching me carefully. “Yes. There’s a reason they call them the Banshee Mountains.”

The wind screeched as if it had lost its voice, the cold searing the tips of my ears. I gasped as Arlys tossed her head, the reins nearly slipping from between my gloved hands. I placed a palm on her neck, whispering words of reassurance into her ears as I tried to keep my seat.

“There, there,” I said in what I hoped was a soothing tone. “It’s only the wind.” My glove came away slick with sweat.

“Actually, I stand corrected. It’s not the wind.”

The prince pulled Grim to a stop beside us, taking a hold of my mare’s bridle. I shot him a panicked look, only to see a smile on his lips.

“Look up,” he advised.

I raised my gaze to the sky. The sight that greeted me made my jaw drop. Two massive wyverns danced through the clouds, graceful as the river otters that swam in the Tirlif. Their scales glistened with a pale blue sheen as if they were coated in frost. The hair on the back of my arms stood on end as the larger of the pair squawked at its companion, baring razor-sharp teeth.

“Are they fighting?” I asked, never taking my eyes off of them.

The prince chuckled. “At this time of year? I think not.”

My cheeks warmed. The creatures beat their wings, gusts of wind unsettling the snowpack on the mountaintop. A sprinkle of snowflakes showered us, settling on Arlys’s black coat. The wyverns spiraled through the air, nose to tail, until they were out of sight.

My excitement at seeing the wyverns faded as they disappeared, and I blinked rapidly as a screeching gust of wind blew more snow onto my shoulders. Crystalline helixes of ice froze on the strands of hair that had come loose from my braid.

“We should stop for today,” said Enhart, eyeing me warily. “Wait this out until morning.”