Rashana stood watch over her companions all night, staring out into a bleak hellscape. Dark, rocky projections jutted up from the earth every few dozen feet. They looked like pillars from an ancient temple, but too haphazard for human construction. Fog wended through the slight valley they’d chosen for their campsite, hanging heavy in cold, dull-gray clouds that looked like apathy incarnate. Even in her metal body, Rashana didn’t dare touch them.

In the morning, when the others woke, they had encouraged her to rest, but she waved them off. Once they realized she had no need of sleep, unlike other creatures, they’d relented, although Rashana suspected that may have had to do with the rations she’d laid out for them to eat. What would they think of her bloodlust now? Would they bury the corpses?

“I don’t know much about rustbucket emotions,” Gruvrik said, crunching on a condensed bar of oats and dried fruit, “but you look miserable for such a fine morning.”

“I must bear witness to my crimes,” Rashana said softly.

Gruvrik shrugged. “Us or them. I’ve been there plenty of times, Rashana. Turns out, I still prefer us.”

Maeda coughed—a weak, wet sound—and tried to laugh. “Well said, dwarf. Remorse is only for the living. Funny twist of fate there, huh?”

“There are times when we must oppose evil,” Jarkoda said. He stopped packing up and clasped his muscular, scaled arms in front of him, as though preparing for a lecture. “Master always said that we pray those times are few and far between. But there is never a time when we do not oppose the evil within. Perhaps you can visit my monastery one day. We will help you tame the cravings.”

“You would help me?” Rashana asked. Hope flashed in her mind.

A snort of flames met her question, but the spark of golden light in Jarkoda’s eyes flared into a dance. “I’ve given my word.”

Rashana took that to mean yes. But she had bigger problems, if they survived the Bridge and returned to the mainland. “When we leave this place, it’s not likely that Indara will allow me to persist. She provided the seed for the bond, so in her eyes I am an extension of her, a plant growing into something useful to be harvested.”

“What kind of fruit are you?” Gruvrik asked, combing out his beard with a knife he’d lifted from one of the Bridge bandits.

“Something rotten,” Rashana said, a good deal more bitterness in her voice than she’d intended.

Maeda eyed her from beneath the layers of blankets they’d piled up to keep her warm. If the poison didn’t kill her, the shakes just might as the drug wore off. “You don’t have to be there when we present the Stormorb to the Chancellor. We’ll say you say you didn’t make it—maybe you met some heroic end—and you can slip off to the docks and join the Sharks. I’ll be happy to put in a good word for you. Errol will do the same, if he’s still alive.”

“But I’ve . . . consumed more soul fragments than I should have. Taras will never allow a creature like me to go free. You know that he called me an abomination against the light. No use denying what I am.”

Jarkoda’s nostrils dilated. “You are what you choose to be, Rashana.”

“And what if I choose wrong?”

The halfdragon narrowed his eyes. His nostrils closed back into slits, leaking smoke. His face took on the appearance of armor, of something hard and unyielding and built for violence. “Then I will personally dismantle you, blood debt or no.”

Rashana scooted over to sit next to him. “Did you really mean it that you’ll take me with you? Taras will allow that, perhaps, as a compromise. I could train at your monastery.”

“And how would you sustain yourself? What if the urge to feed became too great?”

“I do not know,” Rashana admitted.

The ghost of a smile appeared on his lips. “Good answer. Perhaps there is hope for you, Rashana. If you had told me that you were confident you had it all planned out, all under control, then I may have taken you apart piece by piece right now.”

She grinned. “I’ll have to find some seaweed to defend myself. I’ve heard you struggle with magical nets.”

Gruvrik cackled and slapped her shoulder. “Ain’t gonna let him live that down, eh? Good! A mighty dragon, tangled up in a net of weeds.”

Smoke curled out of Jarkoda’s nostrils, carrying a strong, oily stench. “That net was enchanted!”

“All the more reason to tread lightly next time,” Maeda said. She coughed again, pulled the blanket tight, and fell silent for a long moment, an ashen tint to her face. When she stirred, a bone necklace emerged from beneath the covers. “I have a ward that can protect you. Didn’t do Telyim much good against a punch, but sorcery dies a hissing death when it touches this bone ward. Useful item.”

Next to her, Telyim strained against her bonds, shouting muffled curses into her gag. Her eyes grew wild as she thrashed, fighting against the restraints with savage abandon. Her head caught the edge of a rock, spraying blood, but she still sawed her teeth into the gag.

“Might as well hear what she has to say,” Gruvrik grunted. “Maybe then she’ll stop trying to streak the sand with her lifeblood.”

“Give it back, invaders! You’re not fit to touch such holy gifts. Only a Seer of the Eastern crèche may possess the key. The Storm take you all—”

Gruvrik shoved the rag back down her throat, tossing the crazed Bridge woman against a rock with more force than Rashana thought necessary. “Heard plenty of talk like that in my day from more intimidating folk than you. Wanna know where they are now, lass?” Gruvrik made a chopping motion across his neck.

“We should gut this one,” Maeda croaked.

Rashana stepped between the two women. “No. Enough blood on our hands already.”

“She’ll only slow us down.”

“So will you,” Rashana snapped, gesturing toward the blankets wrapped around Maeda. “You’re welcome to share a grave together.”

Jarkoda waved a hand. “No more bickering. Better we learn more about what she knows of this accursed place. She mentioned a key. Maybe that unlocks something important—a clue to where we can find the Stormorb once we reach the target location.”

Gruvrik stuck out his tongue and blew. “Or maybe it’s just a key to their outhouse.”

Telyim stiffened at his insult, turning her head as far as she could while bound up to glare at the dwarf. No one needed to remove the gag to hear the threat her muffled, indistinct words implied.

“We’ve farther to go if we want to make it to our destination before we run out of supplies for the return trip,” Jarkoda said. He hefted his pack, frowning. “Rations are already almost half gone, and who knows what we’ll find here that’s edible.”

Maeda shook her head. “Shouldn’t be a problem. Lots of birds and fish. And obviously a tribe of bandits manages to survive here, which implies both sources of food, and the presence of other people. Cowards like her need others to prey upon.”

“Clever,” Gruvrik said. He stamped out the dying embers of the fire where they’d roasted the last of the birds Maeda had caught a few days ago. “She did mention an Eastern crèche; we came from the west, so perhaps we went right past the Western crèche?”

At that name, Telyim started thrashing again, eyes wild with hatred.

Jarkoda slung Maeda over his shoulder, holding her in a makeshift sling they’d made for her until she could walk again. Rashana took the prisoner, content to let her twist and scream. Telyim tried to gouge her with fingernails filed into points, but Rashana just laughed when one snapped against her metal skin.

The pushed forward against a headwind, tracking cautiously around razor-edged shale and shattered debris from the Bridge. Chunks of stone and twisted lengths of steel littered the beach, many embedded deep in the sand. Short scrub brush grew through the cracks, pushing its way toward the meager light. Decades of scouring winds left most surfaces smooth and regular, except for the keen edge of rocks. The others complained when the wind whipped up fine granules of sand, stinging their eyes, but Rashana pushed onward, unaffected.

Still, she shivered internally, in the human fashion, when she considered the awesome force required to rip sections of the Bridge into broken pieces as large as the Imperial palace. One gnarled obstruction took nearly twenty minutes to circumvent. Indara’s entire chambers could have fit inside three times over, with space to spare.

Jarkoda settled into an easy lope next to her. “I’ve been thinking about the possibility of a Western crèche. There’s a chance we could barter with them for supplies on the way back. That would give us breathing room, since we’re eating into our margin for rations.”

“Or they could tear us all into pieces.”

‘They could try,” Jarkoda said, shrugging.

Rashana laughed, short and uneasy. “At least that would save you the trouble of doing it yourself if I go rogue.”

Telyim’s eyes darted back and forth between them as they spoke. Her struggles seemed to take on a cursory nature, her focus shifting from escape to interest in the foreigner’s presence on her lands. Perhaps she had something worth hearing to add to the conversation.

Rashana sharpened a finger and slit the gag. “Don’t make me regret that.”

Telyim spat. “The Western crèche is weak. They will not fight.”

“Why should we believe you? Only a few moments ago you were cursing us to die. How can we trust anything you say?”

Telyim’s shrugged, as much as she could with the ropes binding her in place. Her anger had diminished some, but Rashana could still see evidence of her mood in the creases around the mouth. She would not hesitate to kill them all if she could get free.

And unlike Rashana, Telyim would feel no remorse. No seconds thoughts with that one.

Rashana leaned closer, examining her captive. “Tell me, Telyim, would you rid this world of the storm, if you could?”

A hiss escaped Telyim’s jaws before she clamped down. “Without the storm, what would keep us strong? Even the Westerners know this truth. I’ve heard their elders claim that we could live happy and free in a paradise without the storms, everyone at peace and unafraid to walk up topside at night. We could see the stars, they say! But do they act on that dream? No.”

A moment of longing seemed to tug at Telyim’s soul when she mentioned the stars, but she hardened herself against it and glared up at Rashana. “Is that why you are here? To make us weak so that you’re able to conquer us?”

Gruvrik elbowed her as he trotted by. “Riddle me this, lass. If you’re so strong, how come you’re all tied up?”

“We are hardened by the storm, not trained to fight demons and machines,” Telyim said. She twisted her neck to stare down at Gruvrik. “What’s wrong with your legs, anyway? Why are you so short? You don’t seem to fit with the mighty warriors of your clan.”

Gruvrik ducked and ran under Rashana’s legs. “Can you do that?”

Telyim pursed her lips. “I have my dignity, short man.”

“Ever considered that your elongated limbs are the real problem? I’m stronger than two of ya, and I fit into little places you can’t reach,” Gruvrik replied, undeterred.

Telyim weighed the statement, then gave a curt nod. “The last Seer before me went blind toward the end of his life. Afterward, he claimed he could hear the rustle of an ant’s antennae at a dozen paces. I didn’t know him to be the lying sort, although I think he exaggerated a few details. Perhaps you are right, short man. You lose one thing, but you gain another. The weak die, but the strong adapt.”

“I guess she’s all right,” Gruvrik said, scampering up ahead to perch on a gnarled tree no taller than he was. “As she says, we’ve all got our ways to balance out the hand life dealt. I’ll let her live.”

“Tell me more about the storm. Don’t you feel its malevolence?” Jarkoda prompted. “We have forbidden travel to the Bridge for generations due to this evil presence. You’re living in only a tiny slice of a vast world, cut off from the rest of your kind. In my experience, that doesn’t make you strong; it just makes you lonely.”

The wind picked up again, drowning out conversation. They trudged on in silence for a while, leaning into the biting teeth of the upcoming tempest to keep their footing against the powerful headwinds. Up ahead, Rashana could finally make out the faint outline of another support pillar. This one seemed twice as wide as the usual pillar, and square instead of round. It was blackened in irregular streaks, like a pan left over a fire too long, or perhaps a tree struck by lightning. She didn’t have to consult the map. Instinctively, she sensed that they would find their prize inside.

Thunder cracked overhead, followed an instant later by a freezing rain so violent that it seemed to carry the signature of sentience, as though the torrent was an intentional attack against all living things in the Bridge’s domain. They ran for cover in a shallow cave in the rock, where they huddled against each other for warmth. Despite high summer’s heat in Laurentum, the storm cut like a blade of ice.

Each breath from her companion’s lips formed puffs of fog in the frigid air. They shivered and swore at the cold. She wondered again if she seemed strange to them with her metallic body and lack of need for air or warmth. Sometimes it was a boon to be untouched by the fickle elements..

Frost soon formed on the ground. Hail pounded from the heavens, mixed in with the rain, ricocheting off the stony ground. At first the random ping of ice on her body made her smile, but the others covered their faces and grunted at each impact. As the pieces grew bigger and more jagged, the others covered their faces, protecting their eyes and mouths against the blunt, heavy trauma.

Rashana motioned them to press back against the rock wall. She flattened her frame to create a thin dome to cover the entrance of the cave, blocking off the spray of hail. Her new form plunged them into darkness, but no one complained. They huddled together, shaking and shivering in the cold, waiting out the violence of the storm.

=+=

Thenxi grabbed Rhae’s cloak at the shoulder and dragged her faster. “Storm’s coming, as bad as I’ve ever seen. We need shelter before we’re shredded—I can feel it in my bones that hail is on its way. The cold doesn’t bode well for our survival.”

Rhae panted, running as quickly as she could. Sprinting had never been her strong suit. She tripped on a root and fell into Thenxi, knocking them both down in a tangle of legs. Thenxi snarled in frustration and hauled Rhae to her feet. “We’re running too slowly! Keep up, or I go on alone. I believe in you, but I’ll not die for nothing.”

They staggered onward, slipping on the icy rocks and treacherous sand. Rhae gauged the time required to make it to the dark tower far in the distance. She gulped, forcing herself to run faster, despite the pain in her sides. Ice-infused wind bit into her, tearing through her narrow tunic and slicing her face, swirling along her arms and chest with debilitating cold. She gasped as the frost hit her lungs, burning her from the inside out. Flecks of blood traced into eyes. She blinked, dashing the back of her hand across her eyes to clear her vision, and stumbled again. She had to keep going.

Rhae tripped. She let go of Thenxi’s hand and slammed into the sharp shale, rolling on the loose scree until she collided with a rock. The crèche mother hunched against the wind and kept running. She did not look back.

Rhae cried out, covering her arms and huddling into a ball. Numbness entered into her bones. Even her horns felt the chill, though they sputtered like a lamp almost out of oil. Normally they were the warmest part of her, pulsing with light and heat. Shivering, she reached into her pack and pulled out her harp. Maybe she could use firesong to warm herself up before she froze to death. Her fingers fumbled, too cold to pluck the strings.

In desperation, she grabbed her horns, hoping they still had enough warmth to thaw out her hands. Heat flowed into her fingers, stinging like a swarm of bees. The agony in her horns was excruciating where her cold fingers touched, like her life-force was draining out. She held on as long as she could, then tried the harp again.

A chord rang out, pure and true.

Flames ringed the air above her, weaving into a small barrier of fire that extinguished the hail and sleet. Every time she stopped playing, the wreath of flames died down and let through a gust of bitter cold and ice. Arms shaking, she played as often as she could in between the pain. Numbness crept up her limbs. She fumbled at the strings, losing all feeling in her hands, but the song still came out strong now that she’d found the melody.

The longer she played, the warmer she became. She was accustomed to playing all day for practice at the bard college, but hunger became a factor after a few hours. They had almost been ready for breakfast when the storm broke. No time to snack now, so that meant she hadn’t eaten since the night before. How long could she hold out?

A wry smile split her face. At least the gnawing pain in her tummy kept her from thinking too much about her raw fingers and the endless hunger of arctic blasts that stalked her above the shield of fire.

After another hour of playing, the water she’d gulped down the night before started made its demands on her system. She stopped playing for a moment to make preparations to relieve herself, but as the fire faded, hailstones the size of her thumb pelted her face, bruising the skin and cutting her cheek.

Better alive and embarrassed than dead with her dignity intact. She let nature take its course, trying not to think about it.

The ache in her hands grew worse and worse. She shook, her fingers stiff and wooden, like tiny sticks for kindling. The flesh shredded and peeled away at her fingertips, raw and tender from sustained contact with the harp strings, but at least she couldn’t feel them anymore. The frigid air chilled her bone-deep. She cried then, struggling to keep playing, soaked from the rain and her own waste.

Rhae dropped the harp, whimpering. Exhaustion sapped the strength from every limb. The fire shield above her diminished, misting away in a hiss of steam. Rhae covered her eyes and face with her forearms to protect herself from the pain. Maybe she could still survive. She curled into a ball, sobbing.

Abruptly, the hail stopped. Rhae turned over, opening her eyes. Only a steady drizzle drenched the land, but a little water didn’t deter her. The unnatural, biting cold had lessened as well, although the wind still carried a slight chill. Rhae pulled herself over to a small stump near where she’d fallen, sagging back against the wood. She rested her head on the tangled roots and wiped her nose with her sleeve.. As far as pillows went, it wasn’t her favorite, but right now she didn’t care. The fell storm had tried to kill her, but she still drew breath.

The rain faded, replaced by a heavy fog. Rhae squinted. She couldn’t see the command tower anymore, but knew the general direction. Thenxi had led her Eastward. Maybe she could still catch up if she walked all day and night. She trudged along the small footpath, dragging her feet through the mud. The crèche mother would have food in her pack, and a change of clothes. They wouldn’t be helpless or stranded, although the rest of the climb looked difficult.

The thought of Thenxi hit her like a punch to the gut. How could the woman just abandon her to the storm? She’d warned Rhae once, then just left her on the ground, pelted by hail and screaming in pain. Rhae had trusted Thenxi. She’d believed her that together they would defeat the storm and restore the Bridge to its glorious past. Rhae had dared to dream that this must be what it was like to have a mother.

She sank to her knees, hugging herself to stay warm. What if the woman had lied to her about needing her? She fumbled at her neck, feeling for the leather thong. Where was the key? It had either gone missing in the storm, or else Thenxi had taken it. Maybe she didn’t need Rhae at all, anymore—maybe it was all a lie, just like the deception of the albatross skull. Maybe she had only wanted the key; Rhae was only useful until she wasn’t.

I’m such a fool, she berated herself bitterly. No would wants me just for me.

Her natural optimism kicked in a moment later. Why would Thenxi have left her alive, not to mention spend all that time practicing with her, if she didn’t want Rhae’s help? Maybe running was the only way to ensure that she could defeat the storm. It wasn’t personal. They could still be reunited soon.

Rhae sniffed and put her forehead down on her knees. It wasn’t personal, she kept telling herself, but the problem was that she wanted it to be personal, just in the other direction. She wanted Thenxi to adopt her into the crèche. Even though she knew it was selfish, when the storm hit, she’d wanted Thenxi to cover her with her own body, protecting her from the rain and hail, to tell her that it was all going to be okay. She had wanted to feel like part of a family again.

Still sniffling, she stood up. Rashana or Errol or Jarkoda—the others wouldn’t have left her. She didn’t know Thenxi, not really, and she might never get the chance to reconcile. But the others were still out there. She’d keep going, for their sake. Forget Thenxi. Forget the quest. They were her family now.