Wilmot’s eyes warm in a fond smile. “Jannah always joked that after that, her trials did indeed seem easy.”
“So it wasn’t like this fifteen years ago,” I say. “But we don’t know whether it’s been like this since the river went dry.”
“There was no reason to investigate. It’s certainly not what we encountered that summer.”
“Can we get closer to the mountain?” I say. “Is that safe?”
Wilmot just keeps walking, and I think maybe that is my answer, but after a half mile he speaks again.
“I believe we can press on a little,” he says. “It isn’t even midday yet. At worst, we could retreat here before dark and consider a new and safer path.”
Trysten clears his throat. “At the risk of asking a very foolish question, a new path where? I know you’re here to investigate the monster migrations, but where exactly are you heading?”
Silence. Wilmot seems to be considering again, in his slow and careful way, so I decide to begin.
“We aren’t heading any specific place except closer to the mountains,” I say. “To see if we can figure out what’s happening. Maybe a forest fire or other natural disaster sent the monsters fleeing. It could be connected to the river drying up, or it might have nothing to do with that. If we can get this close, yes, I’d like to continue on and see what we find at the mouth of the river.”
I look at Wilmot, who nods. Then I glance at Trysten.
“Is that all right?” I ask. “You joined us to get to safety, not to head deeper into the mountains.”
He assures me it’s fine, and we quicken our pace to see how close we can get to the mountain before nightfall.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
I’ve never been this close to mountains. Even when we took Tiera to live with the other gryphons, their aerie had been at the edge of the mountain range, in the foothills. From there, Mount Gaetal had been only a shadowy peak against the horizon. It’s bigger than anything I could have imagined, and it just keeps growing as we walk.
When Wilmot said we’d see how close we could get before sunset, I thought he was…well, being Wilmot. Clearly, we’d reach the base by early afternoon, with plenty of time to retreat before the sun dropped.
Yet after an entire afternoon walking along the Michty River corridor, we still don’t reach it. The mountain just gets bigger and bigger, until I cannot help being just a little bit frightened by the sheer size of it. Frightened and awestruck.
By late afternoon, Wilmot figures we’re still a quarter day’s walk away. He decides we’ll camp here, in the emptiness of the former riverbed, along the banks of the new river.
Doscach doesn’t want to stop. He even tries to get me to ride on his back, as if I’m just too tired to continue.
As the young stallion paces, I watch him while the others prepare for our evening meal.
“Something’s wrong with him,” I say to Wilmot, keeping my voice low so I don’t alarm the others.
“I don’t think wrong is the word. It’s good that you’re learning to pay attention to your monsters. Especially him and Sunniva. She’s a prey animal, and he may be a predator, but he’ll be mistaken for prey. Big prey that could feed anything in the forest for days. They’ll both be on guard even more than Malric.”
Wilmot nods at Sunniva, who’s trying to entice Doscach into a game of chase. “She’s comfortable here.”
“But he’s not.”
“Is that because he senses a problem with our campsite?” Wilmot asks. “Or because he wants to keep going? That’s the question you need to answer.”
“How?” I look around at the others already setting up camp. “You think it’s safe, obviously, or you wouldn’t let us stay.”
He nods at Sunniva. Then he nods at Jacko and Dez, both darting around her hooves, saying they’re ready to play if Doscach isn’t. Finally, he hooks his thumb at Malric, dozing in a patch of late-day sun while occasionally opening one eye to glare at the younger monsters, as if their commotion is keeping him awake.
“They can all tell Doscach is out of sorts,” Wilmot says. “But none of them are concerned. They seem to have decided he just wanted to stop someplace else, maybe with a better pool for bathing.”
I study Doscach and the others.
“Do you sense anything wrong here?” Wilmot asks.
I shake my head. “I think he just wants to press on. I don’t know why, but I don’t see any problem with where we are.”
“If that changes, let me know. Otherwise, let’s try fishing for our dinner. I’m very tired of dry meat.”
I dream of shadows come to life. Shadows that creep through the camp and snuff out the fire, and no one notices, because whoever was supposed to stand guard is asleep. Everyone’s deeply asleep, because of the darkness and a fog that wends through the camp, a fog that seeps into the lungs and sends us to dreamland.
Sends everyone else to dreamland, that is. I am awake. At least, I am in the dream. Something’s woken me, and I stare up at a sky covered with shadow. That shadow seems to hover right above me. Tendrils of fog still float about, whispering that I should sleep. Yet something deep inside whispers that this is too important to sleep through.
The fire is out, but I’m not cold. My blood scorches through my veins. My clan blood, whispering that this is so important. Then Jannah’s voice at my ear, telling me to get up. Just as I begin to rise, a cold nose presses against the back of my neck.
I give a stifled yelp, and Doscach appears, his damp mane tickling my forehead. The gills on his neck move, as if he’s breathing through them, which he never does outside the
