The mountains rose steeply, and she paused to drink from her flask of water. Jon Tayt did not look winded at all, and he stopped to wait for her, hooking his thumb in his broad belt. Argus sniffed at the dirt and stone of the trail thoroughly. She looked back and saw the kishion, his eyes fixed on her, as they always were. She wondered again what, specifically, her father had hired him to do. Would he be honest if she asked him?
She fixed the flask to her pack again and nodded for the hunter to continue. The path was narrow and rugged, meandering through broken rocks and sparse vegetation. There were no trees at this height, and the rock fragments were so sharp they could slice through skin. She smelled mule’s ear on the wind, just the essence of it, but she could not find any of the plant with her eyes.
As they continued their journey, she began to tease out the root of the reason she had not told Collier the truth. She did not trust the King of Dahomey. He was her husband, legally, but he had used artifice to win her. He did not have a history of being a trustworthy man, and if she were going to bare her soul to someone and confess her shame and her troubles, there needed to be some degree of mutual trust. Perhaps she would tell him, but not until he had proved himself a faithful confidant. But then, why would she want a husband who had deliberately sought to marry a hetaera?
The sun began to set before they had even crossed the top of the pass. Their boots crunched in snow and ice, against which they stood out in stark contrast—an easy target. Her nose was cold and pink, and she felt the air growing thinner, making each step a trial of energy. There was no denying that her physical strength was ebbing.
“How much farther?” she asked Jon Tayt after catching up with him.
He glanced down at her, his eyes dark. “I warned you before we started that we were fools to cross the mountain so late in the day.” She saw the nervousness in his eyes. The normal jovial smile was gone.
“I can keep going,” she said. “We are not discovered yet.”
“We have no choice but to keep going, Lady Maia. If that thing catches us in the mountains, we are all dead unless you can banish it.”
“Have we crossed into Mon yet? Or are we still in Dahomey?”
“Dahomey,” he replied. He wiped his dripping nose on the edge of his gloved hand. “These mountains are vast, running north to south. Mon is still a way to the east, over a few more ranges. Cruix farther north. We will join a mountain trail that runs along the ridges. It is the one we were warned not to take. All the lower passes will be guarded on Dahomey’s side of the mountain.”
He focused on the ground ahead and fell silent. Maia struggled to match his relentless pace, but she managed it.
“Why are we seeking an Aldermaston?” he asked her softly. “Why this one?”
She did not like his question.
“I have my reasons, Jon Tayt.”
“I know. You said you wished to be taken to the land of the Naestors. Now we are going to an abbey.”
“Trust me that I have said all I can say,” she replied.
He sighed and then asked her no more questions.
The moon was silver in the sky, fringed with hoarfrost and gleaming like a cold jewel. The temperature had fallen rapidly, and each breath brought a fog of mist from their mouths as they huffed their way down the far slope of the pass. They had crossed it at midnight, knee-deep in snow. Her feet ached with cold, her toes feeling more like stones than flesh. She hugged herself and plunged on. The stars twinkled in the sky—mysterious and fraught with meaning.
“Ach,” Jon Tayt swore, coming to a halt and holding out his arm to keep her from stumbling.
“What is it?” the kishion asked.
Tayt pointed down the trail where a thick bank of fog had appeared, drowning out the moonlight.
The hackles rose on Argus’s neck, and a low growl sounded in his throat.
“We are above the clouds,” the kishion said. “That is all.”
Jon Tayt shook his head. “No, I have not seen the like of this before in these mountains. The clouds do not settle midmountain like this. Only the ones high enough to cross can make it over, and they usually dump snow. This is unnatural.”
Argus barked sharply and Tayt cuffed him. “Chut! Quiet, dog!”
Maia could feel tendrils of fear creep into her bones, wilting her courage. “It was not behind us after all,” she said dully, feeling a fool. She had thought they would be safe after crossing the pass.
“Aye,” Jon Tayt said, drawing one of his axes. He sniffed. “Well, if a Fear Liath wants to pick at my bones, it will have to murder me first. No sense going back up the mountain. These mists can move quickly, I have heard, when the beasts are hunting prey.”