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“What did you want?” Fadon asked, sitting down on a cushion of cloaks, wary. He didn’t care for Phobius. Something about him had always rubbed Fadon the wrong way, but he figured it was the crow part of him that mostly was the cause. He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that shifters existed, nor that the man had been his father’s advisor. Had Phobius truly married Fadon’s parents?
Phobius crossed his arms, seeming both young and old at the same time. “Since Demos and I are the only ones who know the Basilica so well, we’ve been mapping things out, getting the logistics down in case things go… awry.”
“Awry.”
“Awry,” Phobius repeated. “There’s no doubt in my mind that Servant Sarbo escaped back to the Owl, and who knows what he told them. We need to be prepared. Therefore, we need your army, Captain.”
Fadon could appreciate a man who didn’t beat around the bush, but the man in front of him had balls.
“You do know,” Fadon reminded him, “that Goth Mor Helle is on top of a very high mountain? In this weather? Unless they are waiting at the foot of it right now, the logistics alone, of my men making it down in time, are slim to none, and I won’t risk their lives, Phobius.”
Phobius only looked at him, his smug handsome face impassive. “They could take the Glasius river down to the harbor, as many men as they can at a time, and sail to the Basilica’s port.”
It was a thought, but… “Lucius burned down our ship and our boats. I assume you were there, Phobius. I remember that stupid crow.”
“I had forgotten about the fire,” Demos said, finally joining in the conversation. “I was the one who saw it go down in flames.” He meaningfully looked at Fadon. “I was in my owl, searching for her that night. I was the one who had let you know.”
“Yes, I remember.” The mention of being “in” his owl brought so many things to light now. “So who was responsible, Phobius?” Fadon still was fuming over that.
“I was there, none of that happened, I assure you,” Phobius said.
“Then, again, who was it?”
Dark blue eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t us.”
“Fadon,” Demos said, leaning forward. “Is it possible the culprit you and your queen were looking for, the one who aided Servant Sarbo… perhaps they were responsible?”
Fadon rubbed his prickly chin. He missed his clean-shaven face.
“You can ask Lucius,” Phobius offered. “He will tell you the same. It was not us, Captain.”
Sighing, Fadon dropped his shoulders, feeling tired. “Fine. The point I was trying to make is that there are no vessels to use. Winter is always harsh on Great Mountain, and considering what we’ve seen so far in the lower lands? It will be impossible for my men to come.”
The three men sat defeated.
Fadon picked up the scent of a True Alpha.
“What is it?” Lucius asked, having come in to join them. “Where’s Sierra?” Fadon could smell the change in the House Dega leader’s scent as his territorial instinct went on high alert.
“She’s sleeping. Ander is with her,” Fadon replied. “She’s safe.”
Lucius looked relieved. “Then what is it?”
“Due to the winter that won’t stop giving,” Phobius provided, “we are on our own once we get to the Basilica. No Trajan army. It will be just our party here.”
Lucius didn’t seem alarmed by those odds. “We’ll be fine. More will join up, remember. I will give them a week to make an appearance, and if they haven’t shown up by then, we’ll make do. These are Servants we’re talking about facing, not a warrior encampment, Phobius.”
“Who do you think created that weapon, Chieftain?” Phobius lowered his chin. “Don’t underestimate them.”
“I have faith,” was all Lucius said.
Fadon scoffed at him. “Well, pass some along to us.”
They made it to Syrus Crossing a week and two days later. The Crossing was a fork: the right would lead north, home, to Goth Mor Helle; The left, west, would lead to the Journeymen’s Path, the path that would take them to The Owl Order. Fadon wanted more than anything to choose north, but even from this distance, the road was blocked by snow several feet high, unblemished, with neither animal nor man leaving a trace. The snow was packed seamlessly from the frigid dry air—impenetrable, dangerous. Hard as granite.
Even if he did want to go home, it was impossible.
Their party had grown somber a few days ago, Fadon and his inner circle especially. They had passed the cave where so much loss had occurred during Sierra’s first heat. Sierra had borne the grief well, though, sticking with her mates, who were always at her side no matter which male she rode with that day. Fadon had shown her the grave site where he had buried her watcher, though he was only able to point out the general area, not the specific place due to the snow. Later on that same day, Lucius, Demos, and Fadon had made it a goal to come back at a warmer time and build some kind of memorial to the young Lucinda, as well as the Ongahri men Fadon had lost that day back in autumn.
