The way up was slippery, the snow no longer fluffy but wet and heavy as it clung to rock and skin. Serakha provided point, her senses strained and acute. The onyx stone throbbed once in her pocket, then muted again, as if answering the horn's summons.
Next was Lucian, whose eyes, never still. He looked back every couple of steps to check Kael's progress. The injured man fell in step beside them, jaw set, unwilling to slow them down more. But the wound pulled at him like a buried hook, stealing in every step a little more strength.
They climbed, farther up, toward the ridge with the horn. Whatever calmness had once surrounded was gone now, as the snow up on the mountain had been replaced by a nervous energy in the wind, a holding of breath.
"Serakha," Lucian said, "why blow a horn if not to mean to be heard?"
She didn't turn around. "Because we needed to hear it."
Kael frowned. "A warning?"
"No," Serakha said. "An invitation."
There was no sign of any enemy at the summit.
