The wind whistled past my ears. In my delirium, it sounded like Lusha’s voice, low and disapproving. There will be no one around to fix your mistakes, she had said. You’ll have to stop making them.
Somehow, the memory brought me back to my senses. Ragtooth poked his head over the side of the ridge, staring down at me. He was close, so close. I unhooked the smaller ax from my pack, and swung it up over the edge of the ridge. It caught, and I hauled myself up a foot. Enough to dig my hand into the rock, and hook my leg up over the side. I pulled myself back onto the ridge and lay there, facedown, my feet dangling off either side. Ragtooth licked the top of my head, but I did not move. My breath hissed against the snow, and my forehead began to numb. I stayed there for perhaps a quarter hour before I trusted myself to sit up. Biter settled on my shoulder, croaking softly in my ear.
As much as I wanted to remain there, to simply sit reveling in the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I knew I could not. After a few deep breaths and a sip from my lightening flask of water, I set off again.
The sun was sinking below the horizon by the time I finally reached the end of the ridge and set foot on solid ground again. I squinted at the darkening sky, dazed. I hadn’t even noticed the hours passing, so focused had I been on each step I took.
I thought about continuing, but the terrain was treacherous here—steep and still uncomfortably narrow in places. I didn’t trust myself in the darkness, given the state I was in. As I carried no shelter with me, I had only one option: to make a snow cave.
I chose a spot behind a low ridge of rock and began to pile the snow up against it. Once the pile was large enough, I hollowed it out and clambered inside with my blanket. I didn’t have the energy to build a proper cave, and this one was big enough to accommodate me only if I curled my legs up. I didn’t mind this, however. It was a relief to be sheltered from the vengeful wind and the great and terrible distances, and I was asleep as soon as my eyes closed.
Ragtooth woke me at moonrise. I gazed up at the low roof of my shelter, icy from the melting caused by my breath. I didn’t want to move. My head throbbed. Every inch of my body hurt.
I forced myself to leave the cave. I was so tired that the thought of donning my pack made me want to cry. I placed the kinnika around my neck and tucked them into my chuba. I didn’t know why I bothered. I just knew I couldn’t leave them behind.
Though sunrise was a long way off, the moon was near half-full, and provided enough light for me to see my way. Even the darkest stars shone here, so far from the earth, and their brighter cousins gleamed like tiny suns. I did not hurry. I was too weary for that, so weary that I no longer felt the pain in my feet or the chill in the wind. Biter, balanced on my shoulder now, nipped at my ear whenever I took a careless step or let my focus drift. Finally, I reached the edge of the ridge, with its jagged projections and pitted mounds, and I could see the summit before me. The slope that led to it was gentle, broad, and snowy. Compared to what had preceded it, it was almost a joke. I stepped forward warily, half expecting a chasm to open beneath my feet.
Where was the witch city?
I wondered if it would simply appear in my midst, the world parting like a sheet of fog. I forced my feet to keep moving. I felt half in a dream.
It was a strange feeling, setting off on the last leg of my journey. I had doubted I could come this far under any circumstances, let alone the strange ones I found myself entangled in. I walked on, my boots slicing easily through the dry snow, as the horizon turned from black to indigo to gray. And then I came to a place where the mountain stopped. Where there was nowhere else to go.
I had reached the summit of Raksha.
TWENTY-EIGHT
I BLINKED. STANDING there, I thought I would have felt joy, or astonishment, or even terror, gazing down at the world so far away. Instead I felt a weary relief, like that which followed putting your feet up after a long day, or completing a chore. I was left with only the feeling that something had ended.
The world was still dark, save for the first pale sunbeams that spilled over the horizon. Mountains unfolded across the landscape—the Arya range to the south and west, and the mysterious Ashes to the north. I could see everything in every direction. It was too much to take in, as if I were gazing into a spirit realm that had been shaped by beings far greater and wiser than myself. The summit was a ghost floating in midair, deep shadows beneath it. I gazed around me, taking in the uneven terrain, which dipped toward a lower ridge that was jagged and worn like old teeth. Suddenly, I froze.
The ridge below, which sloped gradually toward the shadowed west, was lined with strangely formed pagodas and towers of what must have been stone, though they had a formless, shifting quality. Some had steps leading up them, while others, perched on precarious outcroppings, seemed made for creatures who could leap great distances or sprout wings and fly. The stone was dark, almost black, and the structures were guarded by tall, carved figures of animals rendered indistinct by the constant buffeting of the wind. Their position allowed for sweeping views to the north and west, while a narrow path—I could make out the line of it through the snow—led to the summit, where I stood.
I had found it—the witches’ sky city.
I gazed at it, transfixed by awe and fear. How was it possible that something like this could exist? I closed my eyes, wondering if I had stumbled into a dream. But when I opened them, the city was still there, as incomprehensible as it had been at first sight.
Swallowing, I began making my way cautiously down the stone path. It was steep, each stone uneven and several times the height of an ordinary stair. It was as if the witches had hewn the steps out of the mountainside itself.
I didn’t see any sign of River as I approached—the shadows were too thick. Nor was there any trace of his footsteps in the snow. With the high winds, though, I was not surprised. I had to crouch to the ground every few steps, gripping the stone, to avoid being buffeted over the side of the mountain. Biter didn’t attempt to fly—he burrowed into my hood, making himself as small as possible. Ragtooth, lower to the ground, did not appear bothered by the wind, though the tufts on his ears flapped madly.