When morning light came, Yethyr trudged over the mountain, guiding the party toward the snippet of watersong he had briefly heard through me. He hoped it was a sign of people, and if so, people that weren’t allied with Datrea.
He carried those hopes silently, and no one disrupted his brooding. The party gave him a wide berth since Ruzar died, and even Jaetheiri didn’t seem to know what to say. Yethyr radiated a deep anger, like everything and anything could bring death to his lips.
Hour after hour, I waited for him to bring about my death.
He had tried to dominate me, and he had almost succeeded. I had been concealing my strength, pretending to have a weaker hold on Yethyr’s mind than I truly did.
It seemed Yethyr had been concealing his true strength, too.
He had vowed to use Wesed to control me. With them working together, I did not think I had any chance of holding out against them. I had no additional defense, no secret way to combat them. I just had to hang from Yethyr’s hip and wait for them to try.
And the dread was killing me. I almost wished they would just get it over with.
No.
I didn’t wish that. I could never wish that. I had to fight and struggle to the last moment. There had to be a way to stop the inevitable—some way for me to fight.
Perhaps a preemptive attack on his mind before he could get Wes to assist him? That felt futile. Even if I could overpower him briefly, he had only taken three lives with me. My hold over him was weak. I would never be able to contain him for long, and then, once he was free, I would have given my intention away, and for what?
No. Force was not the way. Perhaps I could talk to him, really talk to him, with my true voice and convince him to delay his assault upon my will.
But what would I say? Yethyr was a single-minded zealot who would have every reason to expedite his complete dominion over me. Speaking to him, admitting my deception would not endear me and certainly not save me.
So what could I do?
Was there some way of convincing Wes not to help Yethyr? Unlikely, seeing as destroying me was the only reason he was an animated skeleton trudging along behind us.
So on I plotted and on I dreaded.
The harsh weather made the path before us treacherous. Falling snow battered the senses and slowed each step. The weight of snow of ages past had eroded the mountain itself, creating dangerous ravines in the way ahead. Again and again, Wes had to coax Frida’s chain rope to bridge the various gaps and help everyone across.
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The chain could not hear his deathsong voice, of course, but now that it wasn’t actively attacking him, he could tap soothing steelsong rhythms along its surface. It was a rudimentary form of communication at best, but Wes was delighted every time the chain so much as twitched in response.
He was only going to get better, I thought glumly. Wes was my father’s apprentice through and through. Soon, he would figure out how to turn his power upon me, and I would be helpless. That just made me think about Yethyr’s imminent assault again, and I went back to brooding.
My self-pity was rudely interrupted by a sound of faraway footsteps. I perked up, listening. After a moment, I was sure of it.
We were being followed.
It did not sound like the footsteps of the rest of the party. It didn’t even sound human. There was a quiet grace to the fast-approaching figure that was at odds with the loud stomping that characterized the day’s progress.
Carefully, I let Yethyr hear it.
“Everyone! Halt!”
The party froze. It was the most words Yethyr had said all day. Their prince stared back the way they had come. “Someone approaches,” he hissed.
Jaetheiri, Kettir, and Nisari unsheathed their warfangs. Wes and Mandorias hid behind them. Yethyr remained where he was, squinting against the flurry of snow.
After a gray shape emerged from the blur, not a person, but a beast. A wolf, Yethyr’s mind provided the term. It was a hulking mass of silver fur. Its blue eyes flashed dangerously, and a ripple of awe spread through the Brinn.
“Holy servant of Maethe,” Nisari breathed.
Yethyr’s voice was just as reverent. “Heaven sent omen.”
“Should we challenge it to a duel?” Jaetheiri asked. “That’s what we’re supposed to do, right?”
“Perhaps,” Kettir said uncertainly, “but I would wait.”
The wolf yipped at them. Clear windsong drifted through the sound to form an unmistakable word.
“Who?”
Nisari windsinger ears understood. “We are the Brinn,” she told it proudly. “We devote ourselves to the same angel.”
The wolf cocked its head at her. It was hard to say if it understood her or not.
Nisari frowned. She slowly sheathed her warfang, careful not to make any sudden motions. She withdrew her new bone flute, and everyone cringed at the sight of it.
“Nisari,” Yethyr said bluntly. “If you play that, the wolf will attack us on principle.”
Nisari scoffed. “I don’t advise you in your necromancy. Don’t advise me in this.” She put the flute to her lips. “I know what I’m doing,”
She blew her flute carefully, and everyone winced at the high-pitched squeal that she produced, just as terrible as it had always been.
The wolf’s ears flicked thoughtfully. It stepped closer, and Nisari kept playing.
Yethyr tensed as the wolf neared, but it ignored him, passing him by to stand before Nisari, listening intently. Terrible as the sound was, there was windsong underpinning every note. The meaning was hesitant and unpracticed, but clear.
“Friend. Friend. Friend.”
The wolf cocked its head at her for a long time. Minutes seemed to pass, and then it moved on, passing the whole group with long, easy strides. Nisari kept on playing, and everyone else stood frozen, holding their breaths. When no one followed, the wolf paused and looked back.
And howled. It was beautiful. Resonant. A voice as deep and rich as the most celebrated spellsinger in Datrea filled the cold air with a windsong composition of calling.
Nisari stopped playing. She had to. Her instrument was laughable beside such majesty. “She wants us to follow.”
They all looked to Yethyr, and he squared his shoulders. “Then we will follow.”
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Follow the wolf?
