Page 136 of On Brutal Thrones

I’m not letting any of them step onto this ground again, so I close my eyes and place both palms against the wiry branches beneath me. My magic answers sluggishly, and reaching for it sends an ache through my temples. Everything inside me feels wrung dry after the last few days, but below the plant, I can feel its roots.

Thin. Tough. Alive.

I follow them down into the dry soil. They don’t reach far. There isn’t enough moisture here for that, and the earth is hard and unforgiving.

For once, that works in my favor.

“Come on,” I whisper.

Golden light flickers over my fingers.

The roots loosen, and the shrub shudders beneath me.

Up on the ledge, Talon leans forward. “Is the bush moving?”

“Yes,” Fenric says.

“I thought I was hallucinating.”

I almost smile.

Carefully, I pull the roots free without tearing them and guide them across the ground. The bush lurches several inches, dragging me with it.

It’s not graceful or remotely dignified, but it works.

I keep one hand pressed to the branches and coax the roots onward, letting them curl and push against the soil like dozens of tiny legs. Slowly, painfully, my ridiculous little island of greenery carries me across the red slope.

By the time I reach the rocky outcropping, sweat is running down my temples and my head is pounding. Thorian and Fenric are already lying flat at the edge, reaching for me.

“Give me your hand,” Thorian orders.

I reach up with my good arm. He catches my wrist while Fenric braces a hand beneath my boot, giving me the push I need to scramble over the edge.

The instant my boots hit safe ground, Talon grabs me around the waist. Fenric joins him, and then Thorian wraps himself around all of us.

For a few seconds, I’m buried between them, breathing hard against leather and warm skin while the storm rages around us. My entire body trembles with exhaustion, but all three of them are here.

“We survived,” I whisper.

Talon lets out a breath against my hair. “You say that like you didn’t just ride a shrub across a death field.”

“I thought it was impressive,” Fenric says.

“It was horrifying,” Thorian mutters.

I smile against his chest before remembering the plant.

“Wait.”

All three groan when I pull away, but I ignore them. The uprooted shrub sits below the ledge, its roots exposed against the red earth. I reach for the last scraps of my magic and guide it toward a patch of safer soil along the rocks.

The roots dig in. I feel them catch before I let the magic go, and the golden light around my fingers fades. Only then do I let my hand drop.

My knees feel weak. My body aches. We’ve only just begun the actual climb, and I already feel as though I’ve lived an entire day since reaching the mountain. But when I lift my head, the Spire is still there, looming through the storm. Closer than it was this morning. Closer than it was an hour ago. And somewhere above us, the Vultures are still climbing.

Fenric follows my gaze. “We should move.”

Talon sighs. “I was afraid someone would say that.”