DARKHAVEN | "Three Sisters" Book One

Chapter Forty

Gia

Two mountain peaks stood side by side just as they had for aeons. The Sunset Peaks, they were called, for when the sun set, it did so perfectly between the mountains' silhouettes.

One of them was climbable. That was the peak with the little town with the name forgotten to time. The second was not climbable, all ice shelves and sheer rock and vertical inclines.

The second one was, of course, the party's destination.

When morning came and they set out—well bundled and still frozen to the core—they ascended the last bit of the mountain in apprehensive silence. Their horses were safely sheltered at the stable, unable to be left out in the elements for an undetermined amount of time, so the party had to make the last and final leg of their journey on foot. Within an hour, the snow had seeped through their boots and cloaks and coats. The unnatural cold bit at them through and through, and the closer they got, the harder that wind blew and the harder the snow fell, numbing their fingers, reddening their noses, and settling wet and heavy on their eyelashes.

Go away, the world itself was saying as if trying to drive them backward. Turn back. There is nothing for you here.

Then came the bridge.

Lothor took one look at it, and even over the roar of the wind and the muffling of his scarf, he could be heard saying, "Eleven hells, no."

Between the Sunset peaks hung a bridge that had to be surely as old as the tome they sought itself, its timbers weathered and worn by the relentless assault of wind, snow, and time. The bridge, which was missing several slats, swayed precariously in the relentless wind that whipped through the chasm, creaking and groaning as if it, too, wanted to tell them go back, go back. Thick layers of permafrost clung to its ropes and railings. Not a one of them wanted to step foot on it.

It was the bridge or it was nothing. There would be no circumventing it, no going around, and no going back. Not after how far they'd come.

No going back.

It was Gia who stepped forward first; then, without even needing to exchange glances, her sisters followed. It was them together, and it always would be.

Gia looked over her shoulder at Aleksander, who didn't stop her. The fear was in his eyes, though, and she felt it in the way his heat faltered and guttered with every step she took nearer to the bridge through the ever-strengthening bond that they shared.

The commanders were already coming forward. "Let us," they were saying all at once, "it's treacherous," "it's too high a fall," "we don't know if it'll hold."

The love of mortal men. They who understood death and life and its brevity and severity.

The sisters said nothing but their eyes were soft. Blodwyn nodded to Daeron. Roslin, not caring who saw, took Jon's hand and squeezed before turning her back to him. Gia stole one last look at Edric, at those brown eyes. Silent goodbyes, all of them.

And then they crossed.

Gia led. Each step forward was met with the ominous creaking and groaning; the wind roared from below in terrible, monstrous updrafts. She gripped the frigid ropes tightly, her knuckles turning white beneath her gloves as she steadied herself against the gusts of wind that threatened to knock her off balance.

Don't look down, she told herself, but also, don't look left or right, either. Don't look ahead at the missing rungs, don't look at the frayed ropes. Don't look, don't look.

Gia pressed on; the three of them pressed on. In spite of the swaying, the rocking, the dizziness and sheer, unadulterated terror, they pressed on. Grey above, grey below, grey all around. Don't look, don't stop, don't go back. You can never go back.