Even so, he kept his eyes off the body. Despite what he’d been told as a child, there was nothing to celebrate here.
Another flash of gold light, this time sweeping in a horizontal arc, and Elder Whitehall shouted, “Stop her! Hold her down!” A black-and-red blur flashed over the chasm as Yerin leaped past.
Lindon snapped himself back to reality, rushing to collect his formation banners. He didn’t look forward to killing anyone else, but leaving an ally to fight alone was the act of a coward. He had to at least try something, even if he was too weak to contribute much.
Once he’d gathered up all the banners, he slipped them inside his outer robe and steadied his grip on the jagged stone wall. His vision was swimming; the day of cycling, the night without sleep, the strain on his madra, and the burden of his emotions were all getting to be too much for him.
One more stretch, he said, focusing on the climb in front of him. He forced himself to forget the march out of Sacred Valley. Just this one last thing, and then I can sleep.
Inch by inch, he hauled himself up.
At the top, the patchy snow had been sprayed pink. Heaven’s Glory disciples lay here and there, mostly wounded, a few probably dead. One held pressure on a deep gash in his arm, his face pale. He stared straight at Lindon, but seemed to see nothing, only rocking back and forth.
Elder Whitehall landed in a crouch at the bottom of a tree, snow flying away from him in a ring. He whipped a line of golden light forward, and the beam slashed through a tree in front of him, dividing it into two charred and smoking halves. It creaked as it toppled, sending splinters spraying into the air. The attack left deep, blackened gouges in the other trees nearby, but none of them collapsed.
Yerin slipped out from behind one of those trunks, her sword flashing. A thin wave of distortion blew outward from her weapon, like the edge of a gleaming sickle. Elder Whitehall ducked, and the sword-madra sliced deep into a boulder behind him. He gathered light to a point in his hand, but she had already disappeared.
Lindon prepared to jump back into the chasm. He’d only ever had personal experience with one Path, and while the elders of his clan could do some astonishing things with illusions, they’d never displayed anything like this. This was a true battle between Jades, and he would be safer if he hid until it was over.
…then again, Suriel had suggested that by leaving the valley, he could gain power even beyond Gold. The very idea beggared his imagination, but that only meant his imagination was too limited. He hadn’t seen enough, hadn’t experienced enough. If he wanted to travel his own path to its end, he had to do so with eyes wide open.
At that moment, Elder Whitehall spotted him.
The elder snarled, whipping a scorching stream of light Lindon’s way. Lindon released the stone, letting himself fall, hoping it would be fast enough…and as he did, he glimpsed a slender figure in black robes leaping up behind the childlike elder, sword bared.
He landed heavily on his back, wind knocked from his lungs. Even as he gasped for breath, he was grateful for the snow and his pack cushioning his fall, but he hoped he hadn’t broken anything. Especially his ribs. Even the thorngrass pill had started acting up, tingling in the most unpleasant way around his injuries.
When he finally caught his breath again, the world outside the chasm was silent. Samara’s ring had all but vanished, and the sun had slipped a peek over the mountain. Only the wind continued, an unending and invisible stream.
With agonizing care, Lindon prodded his flagging body into yet another climb.
Yerin stood at the top of the chasm, loose hair flying in her face, panting heavily and leaning on her sheathed sword as a walking stick. Lindon glanced hurriedly around for Elder Whitehall.
“Where did he go?”
She evened her breathing before responding. “Deeper in. Other side of the mountain. He’s bleeding like a butchered hog, but he’ll be coming back.”
Lindon hauled himself out of the chasm, hoping he didn’t look as bad as she did, but knowing that he was probably worse. “You really drove off an elder and six Iron disciples? By yourself?”
She shot a sidelong glance at him. “Five, I did.”
Deret was still lying in the bottom of the chasm, body littering the ground far from his home. Lindon cleared his throat. “You’re incredible. Your master must have been an expert without peer.”
“He was,” Yerin said, her voice distant. She stared into the dawn in silence.
But Lindon was in no mood to wait around. He slipped the extra disciple robes out of his pack, holding them out to her. He was glad he’d brought them; there were plenty of other sets nearby, but the bloodstains would make them somewhat obvious.
“You should put these on,” he said. “If the heavens are kind, there won’t be any other disciples in the woods, but let’s assume there are. Unless they’ve seen your face before, they won’t recognize you in these. I don’t have a badge for you, but…” He looked around at the bleeding disciples. Only one of them was dead, he realized, though the others weren’t far away. The dead boy’s Remnant peeled itself away from his corpse, like a yellow sketch of a skeleton. It glanced back in Lindon’s direction only once before scampering off into the woods.
“I’m sure you can find one,” he finished.
Without a word of protest, Yerin took the clothes and wrapped them around her tattered black robes. His clothes were large enough that she still had room to spare. Once again, his attention was drawn to the thick red coil wrapped around her waist; she didn’t untie it, but it still ended up outside the clothes of the Heaven’s Glory disciple. As though the belt had melted through her clothes.
She slipped an Iron Striker badge over her neck and gestured to herself. “Anything missing?”
Her clothes were too big, she was carrying a sword, and she looked like she’d been living in the woods for two weeks. But from a distance, she’d pass.
“As long as we don’t run into Elder Whitehall on the way out, you’ll make it.” He was more worried about the elder than anything else, as Whitehall had fled in the opposite direction of the valley. If their luck was bad, they might run into him on the road out.
He reached into his big, brown pack, checking that he had everything important: his boundary flags, Suriel’s warm marble, a few other bits and pieces. He wasn’t bringing much, but nothing else would help him on his journey beyond the valley. He was ready. It was time to go.
Lindon’s heart actually lifted at the thought. He was absolutely exhausted, every resource in his body and spirit expended, but he’d made it. He’d won. On the other side of this snow-capped mountain waited a dangerous and infinite world.
Yerin took a deep breath and straightened. “All right,” she said. “Lead the way.”
Lindon had already turned to face the range of mountains past Samara, but he stopped. Turned back. “I know it’s this way, but beyond that, you’ll have to lead us out.”
“Out? I’ve still got a bone to grind with the Heaven’s Glory School.” She gave him a grim smile. “They took my master’s body, and his sword, and his Remnant. If I was soft enough to leave him here, I’d have walked away from this viper’s nest weeks ago. No, I’ve got a few chores left here, and the chief one is you leading me back.”
It was like a bag had tightened over Lindon’s head. Compared to the freedom he’d tasted just a second before, he felt like choking. Like the prison door had been slowly creaking open, only to slam shut. He couldn’t accept it.
“No. No! You swore.” He didn’t know how punishing the oath would be to him, but for someone of Yerin’s power, it would weigh heavily. She might even cripple her future potential by breaking a vow like this.