Eratosthenes travels through the gray space between universes following Hallon’s scent, her particular mixture of fire, curiosity, perseverance, and regret; her flashing eyes and hair the color of summer wheat. He knows she’s safe through the connection they share, but the journey is taking longer than expected. In his claws, he holds a branch of laurel, and the Green Witch’s consciousness rests inside.

He continues his seeking, and the universes pass like waves across his fur. Time doesn’t exist in this timeless space, and yet somehow it passes and passes, threatening Eratosthenes with impatience. As if aware of his thoughts, the gray tinges gold, and—like a fisherman’s boat passing over a whale—he senses a great being’s approach. Mary’s thoughts quicken in alarm, uncertain of what’s happening.

“Shush now,” he says. “All is well.”

Eratosthenes calms his own heart and humbles his thoughts as the Goddess of Mercy rises like a mountain out of the now-golden mists. Her hair is long and black, smooth as the calm sea. Her eyes are blue or silver as whim and wind demand. She wears gold robes threaded with topaz over a pure white gown. Her smile is warm like the sun on his face.

“Greetings, my Lady.”

The Goddess’s voice shimmers the light around him. “I greet you, dragon. It is rare for you to travel so long. Are you uncertain of where you go?”

“I am not, my Lady. It is the journey that is long and the way uncertain.”

The Goddess opens her hands. “Then come, for you tarry too long.”

“My Lady, there are questions in need of answers.”

“Questions are good. They lead to interesting places, and I know how much you enjoy interesting places.” So saying, the Goddess cups Eratosthenes in her hands. The warm light surrounds him, protecting him, as she sinks through the mists. The universes flash past, like a dive from the high air to catch prey on the ground. They break through to a world he’s never visited before.

The moon shines over an icy landscape of broken glass. The air—there’s something terribly wrong with the air in this place.

The Goddess of Mercy withdraws her presence. “Good luck, hunter. I think you shall need it.”

###

Further down the mountain, the last half-track stops at each of its disabled siblings to rescue stranded soldiers.

“They’re coming,” Hallon says over her shoulder.

Milo scoots out from under the truck. “The axle’s shot. I’d need time and tools to repair it.”

“Neither of which we have,” Hallon says.

“Then we have to abandon the truck,” Milo says.

Hallon nods to show that she’d heard him. At the rate the half-track is moving, it’ll reach them in ten minutes. Milo could surely give her a more accurate estimate, but ten minutes is about right. Another ten to fifteen minutes for the soldiers to get organized and move the truck out of the way. Less, if the person in charge has half a brain. That means Hallon and Milo have between fifteen and twenty-five minutes to get to the mountain pass and find a place to hide.

“We need to run,” Hallon says. “Let’s go.”

Milo doesn’t argue, and at first, he’s able to keep up. His long legs cover a lot of ground and he’s well acclimated to the mountain air, but it’s not long before his breathing turns ragged and he clutches his side.

Well, the boy’s only mortal, Hallon thinks, and these are unusual circumstances. He’s done well just to make it this far, but he’ll need her support if he’s going to survive.

The mountain is quiet except for the sound of their feet on the road, the in and out of their breathing, and the beating of their hearts. They are all ancient rhythms, humanity’s earliest drums, and Hallon gathers the energy of that music. She mingles it with her will to weave a spirit bridge between her Place of Power and Milo’s. The Green Witch would probably have a fit—spell casting on the run isn’t for the faint of heart.

The spirit bridge is temporary though, which lessens the burden. It’s nothing like the one connecting Hallon to Eratosthenes. That had taken years of purification, incantations, and partnered spell casting. And they’d done it together—made room for each other in their respective souls to create a relationship transcending traditional ideas of love and marriage. He’s a part of her and she’s a part of him, quite literally, and yet they are still each their own persons. That had been the true magic and the most difficult part of the process.

Thinking of Eratosthenes, Hallon gets carried away—just a little—and invests more into the spirit bridge to Milo than she first intended. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. If you’re going to work, then work well. That’s something she’d learned from her first teacher—the Ghost Burner.

Hallon lets a touch of fire into the bridge to Milo. His eyes shine and his steps firm.

“We can do this,” he says between breaths.

“Yes, we can,” she says, grinning.

Just then, Hallon’s nose fills with the scent of iron and stars. Almost as if her thoughts had conjured him, the empty place inside comes alive with Eratosthenes’s presence. You’re here!

I am, he says, and I have the Green Witch with me.

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Where have you been? I’ve missed you.

The journey took longer than expected. If it wasn’t for the Lady, I’d still be traveling.

Mercy?

Who else?

Hallon squashes the feeling of jealousy rising within her. Well, I’m glad you’re here now.

She feels him reading her. What’s this? You’re injured.

Just some bruising. We were attacked.

And now?

We’re escaping pursuit.

Ah, I see you now. There’s a group running after you. I count seventeen. Another six are further down the road working at moving a large truck out of the way for their vehicle. They’re being careful not to lose the cargo.

And the road ahead?

Flattens into a pass between the mountains. On the other side of the pass though—Hallon, I’ve never seen anything like it. There’s a barrier, and inside is such a fury of wind and lightning and thunder as I’ve ever seen. The wall stretches across the land like a line on a map.

Hallon looks up. The sky is clear for miles, and she doesn’t hear any thunder. Nothing appears amiss.

You can’t see it from where you are, but you will once you arrive at the pass. As for the thunder—the wall absorbs it all.

What’s causing it? Do you know?

It’s up here, in the sky.

Hallon looks up with her sight and immediately shuts herself away, cringing. She’d felt like she was looking at a great, bloody battlefield.

Here, I can help, Eratosthenes says, sharing his eyes.

Lines of power tangle and twist through the sky, an incomprehensible amount of energy bound tight. The pool under the Rabbit house is a drop in the ocean in comparison. The feeling is overwhelming, even to Eratosthenes, and he shields her from the bulk of it. Where the constricted energy touches the ground is where the storm walls form.

Hallon’s mind balks. “Is that natural?”

Milo looks at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says. “Thinking aloud.”

I’ve never seen anything like it. Eratosthenes shudders. I wouldn’t want to fly through it, that’s for sure.

I don’t blame you. Hallon nods to herself. This explains why there’s been no wind all day. I don’t think we can expect any kind of change in the weather.

Trouble.

What now?

Eratosthenes turns their attention back down the mountain. The soldiers have cleared enough space for their half-track to slip past the truck. It won’t be long now before they catch up. Understanding the world’s weather patterns will have to wait. For now, Hallon and Milo have to—

“Run!”

Milo startles. “Huh?”

Hallon grabs his hand and pulls him along. “I said, run!”

###

They crest the pass, and the road ahead zigzags between mountain peaks. In the distance, the storm wall becomes visible to Hallon’s naked eyes. Lightning flashes near constantly, casting strange, wavering shadows across the snow.

Milo skids to a halt. “Tha—”

Hallon drags him along. “No time. Just run.”

“But—”

The rumble of the half-track’s engine isn’t far behind. Milo nods and keeps running.

The vehicle was delayed picking up the runners, but they’re catching up, Eratosthenes says.

I know! Find us another route. Something that’ll give the half-track problems. We can outrun the soldiers if we remove the half-track from play.

A minute later, the half-track comes into view behind them and launches a red flare into the air. Bullets ping on the road. Hallon speeds up, demanding a brutal pace from Milo.

“Go,” he says, gasping for breath. “I’m slowing you down.”

“Doesn’t work that way.”

“I don’t think. I can run. Anymore.”

“Then don’t think!”

Eratosthenes shows her a rocky ridge they can use to thwart the half-track. The problem is that it’s still another half a mile away. Milo’s doing his best, but he doesn’t have Hallon’s training—the centuries of refining her spirit lines. Decision made, Hallon weaves more strands of energy into the bridge between them. Milo’s breath catches and then smooths out. A boundless energy spreads through him as fire pours into his system.

They sprint down the road, but a glance tells her that it’s still not enough. They must go at least as fast as the half-track if they’re going to escape.

You may damage him.

Can’t be helped. Hallon strengthens the bridge once again and lets the fire flow like a torrent. Their feet fly, barely touching the ground, but at a cost. Milo’s eyes turn wild. He sees nothing but the need to run and run and run. The spirit lines in his body overheat. The pathways around his heart and lungs, extending down his spine to his hips and legs, all burn an angry red.

The ridge is a collection of jagged rocks jutting from the snow like old bones. Hallon steers them off the road and upslope. Milo slips at the change of footing and falls face first into the snow.

“Go,” he says, his lips trembling. His face is splotchy, and then there’s a thin line of blood running from his left eye down his cheek.

“No. We keep running.”

“I don’t. Think. I can. So hot. Cold.”

“Silly. Told you not to think. Now here we go. One, two, three.” Hallon helps him stand and pulls him forward. She pours the fire into him and wills him to keep going.

The snow spatters with gun fire. Bullets buzz like mosquitoes, their stings deadly. Milo yelps and stumbles. A bright red spot appears on his shoulder, but he runs. Even though the spirit lines in his body flicker, on the verge of collapse, he puts one foot in front of the other, pulled along by Hallon’s will.

There’s an overhang they can use to block the soldiers’ view. Hallon changes direction for it. More shots echo. Then a great crack sounds across the pass. The mountain breaks in two. Thunder rumbles back and forth, in the air and under their feet. Hallon recognizes the sound and fear shoots through her as the mountainside jerks. A wide swathe of snow shifts and slides.

Avalanche!

Slowly at first, but then with impossible speed, the snow rushes down. The soldiers yell and flee. One keeps shooting, and lone bullets ping at the snow. He stops to reload.

The only shelter is the overhang.

Eratosthenes yells, Faster!

Hallon throws open the connection to the Sun Horse, and for a moment everything is shining. They fly across the snow, upwards and upwards, towards the avalanche and the shelter of the cave Eratosthenes sees hidden in the shadow of the overhang. The snow rolls towards them, but too slowly for Hallon and Milo. They make the cave with three endless seconds to spare. Enough time to fall to the ground gasping for breath. Milo’s lungs are unable to catch enough air. His spirit stutters and comes loose. The roar of the avalanche fills the cave, stealing all light as it passes.

Milo’s heart stops.