Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193124 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
I remember Merc saying that any mountain can be traveled in the rain, but these things couldn’t be scaled in any kind of weather.
The trail takes a sharp jab to the right. Doubles back on itself. Makes another hook. Narrows down tightly. As the rock walls close in, Lavante’s hoof strikes start to echo—and gone goes the sun. Though there’s plenty of light to see by, none of the rays reach down here, and the warmth fades quickly. I think of the water rushing through the other section of the mountain range. With these vertical rises, and the narrow passages between them? Assuming the other way is similar, the storm runoff would be deadly in these snaky canyons, and likely to come up quickly—
A sound vibrates through the tight trailway, bouncing off the planes of rock and amplifying with every angle. The stallion hears it, too, and comes to a stop even as I’m about to pull back on the reins.
It’s a rhythmic strike … that has an odd resonance. Like someone—or something—is repeatedly hitting a surface that has some metal in it—or maybe that’s just the acoustics of the passageway?
Urging Lavante forward, the stallion treads even more lightly than usual, as if sneak attacks are a trained skill for him. I become prepared, too, for all the good it will do, by putting my hand in my pocket, finding Thale’s gift and recalling how he told me to use it—
Without warning, I come out of a turn into a clearing that’s broad and deep enough to allow the sun to penetrate down to the packed ground. But the slanting rays and return to warmth are not what I notice.
It’s not even the bizarre, towering barrier I’m confronted with.
All I see is the raven-haired man in black leather who has his boots braced and is hauling a broadsword over his shoulder again and again …
At a milky pane of glass as tall as the sky itself.
Sixty-Four
The Crystal Gate.
Merc halts the momentum of the sword in mid-backswing and wheels around, putting the weapon out in front of him. The tip lowers and he straightens. He’s breathing hard, and behind him there are chips out of the extraordinary barrier—
Lavante jumps in place and then starts to mince around, pawing at the dirt and tossing his head. I have to sink into the saddle and gather his mouth, and even so, he refuses to settle. Then again, there’s a disquieting gleam to whatever Merc is battling.
“Nice horse,” he says between inhales. “You decide to go for a ride?”
I soak in the presence of him, all of his weapons and his black surcoat, his long, black hair and his beautiful black and white eyes. And as he speaks, the sound of his voice goes into my body, not just my ears—
I tighten myself up, just as I would my pack. This is not a reunion. This is an intersection.
“Our gelding died,” I hear myself say.
I don’t expect him to have any reaction, but his brows lift. “I didn’t know.”
I want him to be sorry. To feel what I did.
“The stabler’s girl felt responsible even though it wasn’t her fault.” I stroke Lavante’s neck and resent my emotions. As well as Merc’s lack of them. “I see you got yourself a mount.”
A dark-colored, stout-rumped horse is standing off to the side, one of his back feet cocked at the tip as if he’s taking a nap in spite of the noise and the new arrivals.
“His name is Snooze. I believe that started out as a descriptor.”
Merc turns back to the barrier, putting his hands on his hips such that the broadsword is pointed at what he was trying to strike down.
My eyes drift away from him and up the expanse of the anomaly. Never have I seen anything come close. The translucent, smooth plane extends up from the ground to the height of four or five houses stacked foundation-to-roof, and given its reflection, I can make out Merc’s face, his horse, my horse, me—but it’s not a mirror. And though it can’t be man-made, I can’t see nature creating this, either. It’s too precise: Incredibly, the seal against the cliffs and across the ground is tight and total, without gaps, and there are piles of crystal shards at the intersections of the mountainsides. It’s as if the topography has closed in over time, and the shift has shaved parts of the thing.
“So this is the Crystal Gate,” I murmur.
Then my eyes return to Merc as if he’s the dominant fixture in the landscape. And I resent the weakness. “Do you know what it’s made out of?”
“No.” He reaches up and runs his palm across the place he’s been driving at. “It’s most … extraordinary. Nothing seems to weaken it, and I’m not the first who has tried.”