Ikelos (The Ephemeral: Book 2)

Chapter 10

We ventured into the great mountains of the Rim, determined to put as much distance between us and the portal as possible. I'd never been west of Belgate, and the steep, snowy ridge above me filled my bones with fearful anticipation. It looked like a jagged, plated spine of a dragon—never to be mounted, never to be tamed.

By the time we set up camp, I sat by the fire half asleep, my head throbbing with foreign memories and my ankles sore to the touch. Snow fell down around me, and I tucked my hands under my armpits, cursing Will for leaving at the cusp of winter.

I had a few choice words for the Rhean prince when we found him.

If we found him.

I shook away thoughts of the royal heir and tried to focus on the present moment: the sting of December, the smell of campfire smoke—anything but the past.

I'd had several hours now to expunge today's events from my mind. I'd already blocked out the river of death, my brother's wickedness, and the harsh crack of his skeleton beneath my fist. I'd mourned my home, my family, the innocent Pans, and I'd set that grief aside. I had to compartmentalize if I planned on surviving the mental exertion of this quest. 

A heartsick soldier was a distracted soldier. And a distracted soldier was a corpse.

Branches snapped behind me, and Mason and Harmon strode into camp, carrying more crow meat than I expected.  After restocking in Belgate, we had enough rations to last us for several days, but Harmon insisted we hold off on the nonperishables for as long as possible.  Once we began our ascent, the wildlife would grow sparse, and our foraging efficiency would decrease.  

"That was quick," I praised.

Mason huffed as he flumped down next to me. "Harmon has some...effective hunting methods."

"Is that so?"

He gave a noncommittal grunt, and Harmon winked at me. 

"How'd you even learn to hunt in the first place, Mason?" I asked. The skill was uncommon in a city barred from the outdoors. 

He stretched his legs so his frosted boots were exposed to the flames. "My father took me hunting a lot, back when the Gates were open. After they shut off access to the Range, I practiced trapping rats and birds within the walls."

I wanted to ask him more about his father, if he missed him as much as I missed mine.  But I didn't feel like getting sentimental right now. Not after Belgate.

"I wish I would have learned those skills growing up," I grumbled. My father taught me to fish, and he'd shown me how to ward off the pests in the garden, but that had been the extent of my wilderness training.

"Had you grown up in Rhea, you would have," Harmon said, sitting down on a fallen log with his kill. Snow flurries salted his graying beard and sideburns, the furry hood of his coat, and I couldn't help thinking he looked at home here in the Rim's rugged terrain.

"Really?"

"We don't base merit on the flesh between one's legs. It's why our clans are so resilient. Why our civilization is so advanced—we welcome innovation from all walks of life."

Mason's face screwed up at that. "Advanced? You worship a tyrant. Even the Ancients abandoned autocracy once they recognized the danger of absolutism."

"The Ancients brought about their own destruction," Harmon pointed out. 

"That's because they depleted their own resources and waited too long to extinguish a rebellion. It had nothing to do with our government system."

"It had everything to do with it," Harmon objected.