And yet.
The Shaira had been seen in both east and west. They moved through the mountains as though the guild did not exist. As far as Yu knew, they were never seen crossing the guild, nor lingering on the Snowtrail for long. They appeared, descended into the settlements, and vanished again, slipping through their own network of passages. It was proof – not hope, but proof – that there was at least one way past the guild. If you were a witch. And if they let you. And led you.
If the witch and the ker intended to reach the Barnstreams, they would have to do as the Shaira did, or abandon the Snowtrail entirely and throw themselves into the wilderness of the Albweiss. They would have to carve their own path, and survive it. Countless people had died or disappeared on the Snowtrail alone, and that was deemed the safest route. Everything beyond was absence; no maps, no markers, no shelter, just a white void of endless, unseen mountain faces, each one as indifferent as the last.
If anyone other than the witches knew a way around the guild, it would be the orks. They had made the Albweiss their home. And yet, they were never seen in the west. Harrow had said so, that one night when they had fought the five females. If even the orks had found no passage beyond the guild, then no ordinary traveller ever would. Perhaps a wizard could force one open. Someone like Imbiad, who could shape ice into bridges, stairs, and holds where none should exist — if he dared. Magic leaves scars in the world, he had said. And in the Albweiss, scars do not fade. They call to things. Among them, witches.
So then, would the ker and the witch go west?
If they did, the Snowtrail would eventually descend into the Moors at the western coast. For an experienced party like Harrow’s, the journey would take ten to twelve weeks. The thought alone made Yu’s stomach twist. Twice as long as the path from the Barnstreams, which had already been forever.
Yu lifted his head and glanced at the clock.
Quarter to one.
Less than one hour until the Witching Hour.
Forty minutes until he was expected back downstairs.
He rested his wings on his legs and stared at his backpack. It looked smaller than it had any right to be; a poor container for decisions of this scale.
West or east?
He needed to decide.
He needed to choose an exit before he ran.
And yet.
The Shaira had been seen in both east and west. They moved through the mountains as though the guild did not exist. As far as Yu knew, they were never seen crossing the guild, nor lingering on the Snowtrail for long. They appeared, descended into the settlements, and vanished again, slipping through their own network of passages. It was proof – not hope, but proof – that there was at least one way past the guild. If you were a witch. And if they let you. And led you.
If the witch and the ker intended to reach the Barnstreams, they would have to do as the Shaira did, or abandon the Snowtrail entirely and throw themselves into the wilderness of the Albweiss. They would have to carve their own path, and survive it. Countless people had died or disappeared on the Snowtrail alone, and that was deemed the safest route. Everything beyond was absence; no maps, no markers, no shelter, just a white void of endless, unseen mountain faces, each one as indifferent as the last.
If anyone other than the witches knew a way around the guild, it would be the orks. They had made the Albweiss their home. And yet, they were never seen in the west. Harrow had said so, that one night when they had fought the five females. If even the orks had found no passage beyond the guild, then no ordinary traveller ever would. Perhaps a wizard could force one open. Someone like Imbiad, who could shape ice into bridges, stairs, and holds where none should exist — if he dared.
Magic leaves scars in the world, he had said. And in the Albweiss, scars do not fade. They call to things. Among them, witches.
So then, would the ker
and the witch go west?
If they did, the Snowtrail would eventually descend into the Moors at the western coast. For an experienced party like Harrow’s, the journey would take ten to twelve weeks. The thought alone made Yu’s stomach twist. Twice as long as the path from the Barnstreams, which had already been forever.
Yu lifted his head and glanced at the clock.
Quarter to one.
Less than one hour
until the Witching Hour.
Forty minutes until he was expected back downstairs.
He rested his wings on his legs and stared at his backpack. It looked smaller than it had any right to be; a poor container for decisions of this scale.
West or east?
He needed to decide.
He needed to choose an exit before he ran.
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