Katsa didn't look back as they rode away. But she gripped Bitterblue tightly; and she called out to him, his name bursting inside her so painfully that for a long while, she could feel nothing else.
Chapter Twenty-nine
THEY FOLLOWED the edges of the Monsean mountains and pushed the poor horse south. They ran occasionally over open land, but more often than not their progress was slowed by cliffs, crevices, and waterfalls—places where there was no footing whatsoever for the horse. There, Katsa needed to dismount, backtrack, and lead the beast to lower ground. And then the hair would stand on the back of her neck and every sound would stop her breath; she couldn't breathe freely until they'd climbed again. For the lower land gave way to the forest, and Katsa knew the forest must be swarming with Leck's army.
The army would comb the forest, the Port Road, and the land between. They would comb the mountain pass at the border of Sunder and Estill. They would make camp in Monport and watch the ships that came and went, searching any ship likely to be hiding the kidnapped daughter of the king.
No. As the day turned to evening, Katsa knew she was fooling herself. They would search every ship, suspicious or not. They would search every building in the port city. They would comb the coastline east of Monport, and west to the mountains, and search every ship that chanced to approach the Monsean shore. They would tear the Lienid ships apart. And within a day or two, Katsa and Bitterblue would be sharing the base of the Monsean peaks with hordes of Leck's soldiers. For there were only two paths out of Monsea: the sea, and the mountain pass on the Sunderan-Estillan border. If the fugitives weren't found on the Port Road or in the forest, if the fugitives had not appeared on the mountain pass, in Monport, or aboard a ship, then Leck would know they were in the mountains, trapped by forest and sea, with the peaks that formed the border of Monsea and Sunder at their back.
When night fell, Katsa built a small fire against a wall of rock. "Are you tired?" she asked Bitterblue.
"Yes, but not terribly," the child said. "I'm learning to sleep on the horse."
"You'll have to sleep on the horse again tonight," Katsa said, "for we must keep moving. Tell me, Princess. What do you know of this mountain range?"
"The range that divides us from Sunder? Very little. I don't think anyone knows much about these mountains. Not many people have gone into them, except up north, of course, at the pass."
"Hmm." Katsa dug through her bags and unearthed the roll of maps. She flattened them in her lap and flipped through them. Clearly, Raffin had taken Po at his word when Po said he wasn't sure where they were going. She thumbed past maps of Nander and Wester, maps of Drowden City and Birn City. A map of Sunder, and another of Murgon City. Numerous maps of various parts of Monsea. She pulled a curling page out of the pile, laid it on the ground beside the fire, and dropped stones onto its edges to hold it flat. Then she sat back on her heels and studied the princess, who stood guard over the roasting quail.
There were people in all seven kingdoms with gray eyes and dark hair; Bitterblue's coloring was not unusual. But even in the dim glow of the fire, she stood out. Her straight nose, and the quiet line of her mouth. Or was it the thickness of her hair, or the way the hair swept itself back from her forehead? Katsa couldn't quite decide what it was, but she knew that even without hoops in her ears or rings on her fingers, the child had something of the Lienid in her appearance. Something that went beyond her dark hair and light eyes.
In a kingdom searching desperately for the ten-year-old child of a Lienid mother, Bitterblue would be very difficult to disguise. Even once they did the obvious: Cut her hair, change her clothes, and turn her into a boy.
And the child's companion was no less of a problem. Katsa didn't make as convincing a boy in daylight as she did in the dark. And she would have to cover her green eye somehow. A feminine boy with one very bright blue eye, an eyepatch, and a Lienidish child charge would attract more attention in daylight than they could possibly weather. And they couldn't afford to travel only at night. And even if they made it as far as Monport without being seen, once they were seen they would be recognized instantly. They would be apprehended, and she would have to kill people. She would have to commandeer a boat, or steal one, she who didn't know the first thing about boats. Leck would hear of it and know exactly where to find them.
Her eyes dropped from the princess to the map on the ground before her. It was a map of the Sunderan-Monsean border, the impassable Monsean peaks. If Po were here he would suspect what she was thinking. She could imagine the monstrous argument they would be having.
She imagined the argument, because it helped her to come to her decision.
When they'd eaten their dinner she rolled up the maps and fastened their belongings to the saddle. "Up you go, Bitterblue. We can't waste this night. We must move on."
"Po warned you not to run the horse ragged," Bitterblue said.
"The horse is about to enjoy a very thorough rest. We're heading into the mountains, and once we get a bit higher we'll be setting him free."
"Into the mountains," Bitterblue said. "What do you mean, into the mountains?"
Katsa scattered the remains of their fire. She dug a hole with her dagger to hide the bones of their dinner. "There's no safety for us in Monsea. We're going to cross the mountains into Sunder."
Bitterblue stood still beside the horse and stared at her. "Cross the mountains? These mountains, here?"
"Yes. The mountain pass at the northern border will be guarded. We must find our own passageway, here."
"Even in summer, no one crosses these mountains," the girl said. "It's almost winter. We have no warmer clothes. We have no tools, only your dagger and my knife. It's not possible. We'll never survive."
Katsa had a response to that, though she knew none of the particulars. She lifted the girl into the saddle and swung onto the horse behind her. She turned the animal west.
She said, "I will keep you alive."
THEY DIDN'T really have only one dagger and one knife to bring them over the Monsean peaks into Sunder. They had the dagger and the knife; a length of rope; a needle and some cord; the maps; a fraction of the medicines; most of the gold; a small amount of extra clothing; the ratty blanket Bitterblue wore; two saddlebags; one saddle; and one bridle. And they had anything that Katsa could capture, kill, or construct with her own two hands as they climbed. This, first and foremost, should include the fur of some beast, to protect the child from the nagging cold they encountered here and the dangerous cold that awaited them—and that Katsa wouldn't dwell on, because when she dwelled she began to doubt herself.
She would make a bow, and possibly snowshoes—like the ones she'd worn once or twice in the winter forests outside Randa City. She thought she remembered how the snowshoes looked, and how they worked.
When the sky behind them began to lighten and color, Katsa pulled the child down from the horse. They slept for an hour or so, huddled together in a mossy crevice of rock. The sun rose around them. Katsa woke to the sound of the girl's teeth chattering. She must wake Bitterblue, and they must get moving; and before the day was out, she must have a solution to the cold that gave this girl no rest.
BITTERBLUE BLINKED at the light.
"We're higher," she said. "We've climbed in the night."
Katsa handed the child what was left of yesterday's dinner. "Yes."
"You still have it in your head for us to cross the mountains."
"It's the only place in Monsea Leck won't search for us."
"Because he knows we'd be mad to try it."
There was something petulant in the child's tone, the first hint of complaint from the girl since Katsa and Po had found her in the forest. Well, she had a right. She was tired and cold; her mother was dead. Katsa spread the map of the Monsean peaks across her lap and said nothing.
"There are bears in the mountains," Bitterblue said.
"The bears are asleep until spring," Katsa said.
"There are other animals. Wolves. M
ountain lions. Animals you've not seen in the Middluns. And snow you've not seen. You don't know what these mountains are like."
Between two mountain peaks on Katsa's map was a path that seemed likely to be the least complicated route into Sunder. Grella's Pass, according to the scrawled words, and presumably the only route through the peaks that had been traveled by another.
Katsa rolled up her maps and slipped them into a saddlebag. She hoisted the girl back up into the saddle. "Who is Grella?" she asked.
Bitterblue snorted and said nothing. Katsa swung onto the horse behind the child. They rode for a number of minutes before Bitterblue spoke.
"Grella was a famous Monsean mountain explorer," she said. "He died in the pass that bears his name."
"Was he Graced?"
"No. He wasn't Graced like you. But he was mad like you."
The sting of the remark didn't touch Katsa. There was no reason for Bitterblue to believe that a Graceling who'd only recently seen her first mountain could guide them through Grella's Pass. Katsa herself wasn't sure of it. She knew only that when she weighed the danger of the King of Monsea against the danger of bears, wolves, blizzards, and ice, she found with utter certainty her Grace to be better equipped to face the mountains.
So Katsa said nothing, and she didn't change her mind. When the wind picked up and Katsa felt Bitterblue shivering, she drew the child close, and covered her hands with her own. The horse stumbled its way upward, and Katsa thought about their saddle. If she took it apart and soaked it and beat it, its leather would soften. It would make a rough coat for Bitterblue, or perhaps trousers. There was no reason to waste it, if it could be made to provide warmth; and very soon the horse would need it no longer.
***
THEY CLIMBED blindly, even during the day, never knowing what they might encounter next, for the hills and trees rose before them and hid the higher terrain from their view. Katsa caught squirrels and fish and mice for their meals, and rabbits, if they were lucky. Beside their fire every night, she stretched and dried the pelts of their dinners. She rubbed fish oils and fat into the hides. She pieced together the pelts, experimenting with them and persisting until she'd made the child a rough fur hood, with ends that wrapped around her neck like a scarf. "It looks a bit odd," Katsa said when it was done and the child tried it on. "But vanity doesn't strike me as one of your qualities, Princess."
"It smells funny," Bitterblue said, "but it's warm."
That was all Katsa needed to hear.
The terrain grew rougher, and the brush wilder and more desperate looking. At night as the fire burned and Bitterblue slept, Katsa heard rustles around their camp that she hadn't heard before. Rustles that made the horse nervous; and howls sometimes, not so far away, that woke the child and brought her, shivering, to Katsa's side, admitting to nightmares. About strange howling monsters and sometimes her mother, she said, not seeming to want to elaborate. Katsa didn't prod.
It was on one of these nights when the sound of the wolves drove the child to Katsa that Katsa set down the stick she was whittling into an arrow and put her arm around the girl. She rubbed warmth into Bitterblue's chapped hands. And then she told the child, because it was on her own mind, about Katsa's cousin Raffin, who loved the art of medicine and would be ten times the king his father was; and about Helda, who had befriended Katsa when no one else would and thought of nothing but marrying her off to some lord; and about the Council, and the night Katsa and Oll and Giddon had rescued Bitterblue's grandfather and Katsa had scuffled with a stranger in Murgon's gardens and left him lying unconscious on the ground—a stranger who'd turned out to be Po.
Bitterblue laughed at that, and Katsa told her how she and Po had become friends, and how Raffin had nursed Bitterblue's grandfather back to health; and how Katsa and Po had gone to Sunder to unravel the truth behind the kidnapping and followed the clues into Monsea and to the mountains, the forest, and the girl.
"You aren't really like the person in the stories," Bitterblue said. "The stories I heard before I met you."
Katsa braced herself against the flood of memories that never seemed to lose their freshness and always made her ashamed. "The stories are true," she said. "I am that person."
"But how can you be? You wouldn't break an innocent man's arm, or cut off his fingers."
"I did those things for my uncle," Katsa said, "at a time when he had power over me."
And Katsa felt certain again that they were doing the right thing, to climb toward Grella's Pass, to the only place Leck wouldn't follow. Because Katsa couldn't protect Bitterblue unless her power remained her own. Her arm tightened around the girl. "You should know that my Grace isn't just fighting, child. My Grace is survival. I'll bring you through these mountains."
The child didn't answer, but she put her head on Katsa's lap, curled her arm onto Katsa's leg, and burrowed against her. She fell asleep like that, to the howl of the wolves, and Katsa decided not to pick up her whittling again. They dozed together before the fire; and then Katsa woke and lifted the girl onto the horse. She took the reins and led the beast upward through the Monsean night.
THE DAY came when the terrain grew impossible for the horse. Katsa didn't want to kill the animal, but she forced herself to consider it. There was leather to be gotten from him. And if he were left alive, he would wander the hills and give the soldiers who found him a clue to the fugitives' location. On the other hand, if Katsa killed the horse, she couldn't possibly dispose of his entire body. They would have to leave the carcass on the mountainside for the scavengers; and if soldiers found it, its bones picked clean, it would serve as a much more definite marker of their location and direction than a horse wandering free. Katsa decided with some relief that the horse must live. They removed his bags, his saddle, and his bridle. They wished him well and sent him on his way.
They climbed with their own hands and feet, Katsa helping Bitterblue up the steepest slopes, and lifting her onto rocks too big for her to climb. Thankfully, on the day she'd slid down the walls of her castle clinging to knotted sheets, Bitterblue had worn good boots. But she tripped now over her ratty dress. Finally, Katsa cut the skirts away and fashioned them into a crude pair of trousers. The girl's passage after that was faster and less frustrating.
The saddle leather was stiffer than Katsa had anticipated. She fought with it at night while Bitterblue slept, and finally decided to cut the girl four makeshift leggings, one for each lower leg and one for each upper leg, with straps to tie them in place over the trousers. They looked rather comical, but they gave her some protection from the cold and the damp. For more and more often now, as they trudged upward, snow drifted from the sky.
FOOD BECAME SCARCE. Katsa let no animal go to waste; if something moved, she brought it down. She ate little and gave most of their food to Bitterblue, who gobbled down whatever she was given.
In the light of each morning, Katsa removed the girl's boots and checked her feet for blisters. She inspected the girl's hands to make sure that her fingers weren't frostbitten. She rubbed ointment into Bitterblue's cracked skin. She handed Bitterblue the water flask every time they stopped to rest. And Katsa stopped them often for these rests, for she began to suspect that this child would collapse before admitting she was tired.
Katsa was not tired. She felt the strength of her arms and legs and the quickness of her blade. She felt most acutely the slowness of their pace. At times she wanted to hoist the child over her shoulder and run up the mountainside at full tilt. But Katsa suspected that eventually on this mountain she would need every bit of her Graceling strength; and so she must not exhaust herself now. She curbed her impatience as best she could, and focused her energies on providing for the child.
THE MOUNTAIN LION was a gift, really, coming as it did at the beginning of the first true snowstorm they encountered.
The storm had been building all afternoon. The clouds knitted together. The snowflakes swelled and sharpened. Katsa made camp at the first possible place, a deep crevic
e in the mountain sheltered by a rocky overhang. Bitterblue went off to collect kindling, and Katsa set out, her dagger in her belt, to find them some dinner.
She struck a path upward, over the sheet of rock that formed the roof of their shelter. She headed into one of the clumps of trees that grew skyward on this mountain, roots clinging more to rock than to soil. Her senses were alert for any movement.
What she saw first was the slightest flicker, in the corner of her eye. A brown flicker up high in a tree, a flicker that curled and lifted, different somehow from the way a tree branch moved; and the limb of a tree that swung in an odd way—bounced, really, not as a wind would move it, but as if something heavy weighed it down.
Her body moved faster than her mind, recognizing predator and comprehending itself as prey. Instantly her dagger was in her hand. The great cat plunged, screeching, and she hurled the blade into its stomach. As she dropped and rolled away, its claws tore into her shoulder. Then the cat was upon her, great heavy paws slamming her shoulders against the ground and pinning her to her back. It came snarling at her, claws swiping and teeth bared, so fast that it was all she could do to keep her chest and neck from being ripped apart. She wrestled with its hopelessly strong forearms and swung her head away as its teeth came crashing together right where her face had just been. It slashed her breast savagely. When its teeth lunged for her throat Katsa grabbed its neck and screamed, pushed its snapping jaws away from her face. The animal reared above her and raked her arms with its claws. She saw a flash of something in its stomach, and remembered the dagger. Its teeth descended again and Katsa swung out, smashing its nose with her fist. It recoiled for the merest second, stunned, and in that second she reached desperately for the dagger. The cat lunged again, and Katsa thrust the dagger into its throat.